The sun never rose at my house in Cho Lon. For us to see the sun's first rays as it peeked over the horizon, we had to go to Vũng Tàu, a beach that was several miles away and much different from where I lived. Here, a honeycomb maze of walls, streets, and alleys with houses almost touching each other, stood just tall enough to keep the sun from making its formal appearance until mid-morning. Suddenly, its rays would explode onto the concrete and asphalt walkways of my hamlet - my neighborhood. Its harsh white brilliance often forced us to turn our heads or cover our eyes. Sometimes, we would rush into the shade formed by the surrounding walls for a small respite. Of course, by that time, our day would be half-done.

A typical day found me getting up with the chickens. Many families in the hamlet raised them for food, and, as a result, we never needed an alarm clock. A solitary rooster started his crowing while darkness still filled the alleys, and the only hint of the day to come was the thin streak one could see by looking straight up. Another rooster soon joined in the serenade. Then another, and so on until their sharp "cock-a-doodle-doos" ricocheted off the concrete canyons of the neighborhood so loudly that only the genuinely deaf could feign sleep.

My name was Muoi Quan. The day was October 20, 1974, 9-6-4672 on the Lunar calendar, the year of Jia Yin, the Tiger, and the month of Jia-Xu, the dog, and I was eight years old today. Although our country was currently at peace, the war remained fresh in our minds. It had not affected us here in Cho Lon in almost six years. That time, over the TET holiday, mortar rounds had taken the top two floors of our house and turned them to rubble. I was only two at the time, so I don't remember anything, only what my parents have shared with me. On this day, my city was relatively quiet. Only the military's presence on the streets accompanied by the strange-looking American GIs trolling through the shops indicated how fragile our peace was.

The home I shared with my parents, five siblings, and assorted relatives was at our hamlet's far end. The house was made from concrete blocks and stood five levels high, the tallest one around, very impressive until you realized it was also very narrow. Homes in Cho Lon were typically one room per floor, and my immediate family shared the room on the third one. In Cho Lon, houses grew up, not out. Eight of us currently shared a twenty by twenty foot room. Our limited available space demanded that we respect each other's privacy and compromise for the family's good.

There were only two beds in the room, my parents' bed in the corner and the bunk bed. My parents’ bed was a wooden panel held up by a headboard and footboard. A plastic curtain and a few inches of space were all that separated my parents from the rest of us. My sister, San, and I slept on the top of the bunk bed nose to feet to allow enough room for both of us. We felt lucky to have the bunk bed even if it was not a bed in the traditional sense.

Our bunk bed had no mattress. Where it would have been was a sheet of steel with exposed holes perforating the surface. At night when we slept, the holes allowed the air to circulate around our bodies. Unfortunately, this same surface resulted in red "checkerboard" marks all over us when we peeled ourselves off it in the morning. Since we were in the tropics, we didn't require any covers on the bed other than a thin mosquito netting. It never got cold this far south. The bottom bunk didn't have a permanent occupant. My father reserved it for guests. Of course, if no guests were around, my older brother, Hung, would snag it so that he didn't have to sleep on the floor with my other brothers over in one of the corners. I always checked below before jumping out of the top bunk. It was better to be safe than jump on one of the boys. The baby, Le, slept with my parents. Privacy was a word alien to us.

Today, I allowed myself the luxury of being the last one up. Occasionally, I liked to stay in the bunk staring at the ceiling for a short time while my older siblings got ready to go and cleared the room. On her way out, San would take my brother, Phuc, and my baby sister, Le, to the second floor where Grandmother Quan would take care of them. Hung would sprint for the door and bounce down the ladder-like steps so he could join his friends on their way to school, while my four-year-old brother, Nguu, begrudgingly slinked upstairs, complaining all the way. His place was with Mother and Father. He stayed out of the way while they worked in our family business, making Chinese medicines for the doctors and apothecaries in Cho Lon. The job was a vital one and one that our family took great pride in doing.

As the chaos of the morning gradually lessened, I groaned and flopped myself out of bed and onto the concrete floor. Being last would mean that I would have to walk by myself to school. I didn't mind. It wasn't unusual for me to go alone; after all, it was only a mile away. While I washed my face in the basin, I heard my father and mother talking as they began their workday. Their work filled the house with the glorious aroma of the herbs used in medicine making.

Only a matter of seconds later, I heard Father explode angrily at Nguu. I smiled. Nguu was a magnet for trouble. He learned his name at an early age for no other reason than everyone used it so much to yell at him. The boy just could not behave. Dad's outburst of temper was quickly followed by Mother's quiet, calm, soothing response. Mom was the peacemaker of our family.

I quickly finished combing my hair and dressed in my white shirt and blue skirt that made up my school uniform. I checked my appearance in the lone mirror located at the end of the cabinet attached to my parents' bed. My mother's appearance was somehow always perfect, and I longed to be like her in all ways, especially in how I presented myself at school. I would not want to embarrass her.

As I headed for the steps, our neighbors' radio duel started up just outside my window. Our windows contained no glass. We did not need it. Instead, they were metal grates that kept out the larger bugs but allowed the air to enter freely. Despite the heat, there was no air conditioning in the Quan house or, for that matter, any other place in the hamlet. The open grates allowed the sounds to come in loud and clear. One neighbor played Vietnamese music, the other Chinese. Each of them battled for speaker superiority as they ratcheted the volume louder and louder. Soon, the melee of noise would progress to the point where even the roosters would surrender to its unrelenting audio attack. Despite the volume, the rest of our neighbors seemed to love the music. Most of them did not own a record player or radio of their own. They found this barrage of sound a delightful, if not soothing, way to start their day.

The last thing I did every morning was to grab my daily allowance of coins from the cabinet. Mother made sure that each of us had his or her allocation placed here every day. This money had to purchase everything I needed for that day, including breakfast, which I would grab from a street vendor on my way to school. I was free to spend it as I chose, but when it was gone, it was gone. There was no point in going back and asking for more. Father would refuse any such request. He and Mother expected their children to be responsible with our belongings, and that included money. On the small landing outside our room, I carefully stepped over the well-used "necessary pot" blocking my way. Our only bathroom was on the first floor. The pot allowed us to relieve ourselves without having to negotiate the steep stairs in the dark.

I flew down the staircase past the second floor where my Grandmother, Aunt, and Cousin Tran lived. They shared their space with some of our semi-permanent visitors who stayed with us. Some of them might remain for months at a time while they completed school or looked for work. I stopped abruptly on the landing outside their room and gave a short bow of respect to my grandmother. I couldn't see her inside, but I bowed every time regardless. I don't know how, but she would know if I didn't. Grandmother Quan was a force to be reckoned with, and I did not want to incur her wrath.

As I started down to the first floor, the clock began tolling the half-hour. I loved that clock. The gentle chimes often reassured me during the night. Now, however, the old wall clock reminded me that my time was indeed short. I needed to move faster, or I would be late for school. Our kitchen and living area on the first floor were empty of people at this hour. The only occupants being my father's moped and assorted bicycles that the family stored there overnight.

With speed and agility, I snaked my skinny body through them, trying not to knock any of them over in my escape. I bowed in the direction of my ancestor's altar as I raced through the sliding grate into the alley.

Calling the walk space an alley was an exaggeration. In truth, it was barely more than a footpath, so narrow that Hung could stretch out his arms and almost touch both walls at once. Of course, he was fourteen and a lot bigger than me. I imagined myself doing it when I was his age as I swayed back and forth, bouncing off the walls of the homes on either side.

A few doors down, I made a right turn into a slightly larger alley. Here two mopeds could pass side by side if they were cautious, and the drivers weren't very fat. This path dead-ended at an even larger alley, almost a road that formed the entryway to my neighborhood. It was almost big enough for a small car. This road opened onto Hoc Lac, one of the main streets in Cho Lon. Its traffic, and its associated noise, were the heartbeat of our community in that it connected us with the capital city of Saigon via Hong Bang road.

On Hoc Lac, I spied a food vendor standing at his cart. I hardly slowed as I dropped some of my precious coins into a cardboard box and grabbed a sweet potato with the other hand. Then, I raced toward my school - munching away.

The Chinese School was a private school that catered to us of Chinese descent in the area. There I studied the Chinese language and customs as well as mathematics and science. Classes began promptly at nine in the morning and ran until noon. After a two-hour break for lunch and rest, classes continued from two to four in the afternoon.

I ran swiftly, artfully dodging foot traffic on the sidewalk. When I saw the large iron gate that marked the entrance to my school grounds looming ahead, I accelerated so that I was moving at full speed when I sprinted around it. I secretly prayed that there would be no teachers in the open courtyard. If there were, they would command me to stop, present myself, and bow. All of that would take precious seconds away from my on-time arrival for class.

Just as I turned the corner, my gaze suddenly snapped into focus. I saw something much worse than one of the teachers. My blood ran cold. There stood the headmaster not twenty feet away, and I appeared to have his complete and undivided attention. I was late. Much worse than being tardy, it was the headmaster who caught me.

Behind him stood some of my fellow students, other offenders I guessed, all standing at attention, none daring to breathe, let alone move. The look of fear on their faces told me volumes. After he determined that I was the last one, the headmaster scolded us for our tardiness. He stressed the importance of managing our time better, that we could not expect to succeed in life if we were slackers who showed up late. His steely, authoritative voice then ordered us to report to this same gate at the end of the class day. At that time, he would supervise the administration of the punishment. He did not have to say what our sentence was, nor did he have to stress being timely for our arrival. I knew what my penance would be, and the thought of it caused my heart to sink.

The rest of the day was tortuous. Seconds dragged on for an eternity as I awaited the end of the day. I was usually a good student, but now I had a hard time concentrating on even the simplest things. Just thinking about what waited for me later made me forget everything I knew. We had a two-hour lunch break where we would go home, eat, and play. Typically, I was excited about this time. I would eat quickly and then play with my friends while the adults napped during the heat of the day. Today though, I was pretending to play, not really getting into it at all. My friends from the Catholic school wondered what was wrong with me, but my Chinese school friends advised them to leave me alone.

After lunch, I arrived back to school early, walking as one of the dead. The anticipation of what was to come even spoiled my writing lesson, my favorite class. When the end of the day finally came, my fellow truants and I marched toward the iron entry gate. We seemed like prisoners going to our execution - not a bad comparison, actually. Once there, we stood in a straight line. Without waiting for instructions, we squatted down, hips to heels, and held our fully-loaded book satchels out in front of us at arms' length. Then we waited, frozen in place, as every single student in the school slowly paraded past us. I was so humiliated! I was positive that the happy laughing of the passing students targeted me and me alone. I couldn't wait for the time to end. My bag only weighed about twelve pounds when I started, but it seemed to add five pounds for every minute that I held it out in front of me. When we finally watched the last student pass by, my arms nearing the breaking point, the headmaster slowly approached and had us lower our bags. Before he dismissed us, he said that he hoped we had learned our lesson and would not be in this situation again. I could not speak for the others, but I knew that the punishment had made its point with me. I, for one, would never be tardy again!

That afternoon, with my book satchel safely on my back where it belonged, I made my way home. My friends, now all aware of what had happened, played with marbles in the alley and told me to hurry up and join them. I went into the house, said hello to San and Mom as they prepared food for our dinner, ran upstairs, and changed into my rags that passed as play clothes. The day's pain was ebbing away with each step I took. Now was not the time to painfully dwell on past offenses. Now was the time to enjoy life, and I intended to do just that!

Playtime was my time. San claimed I was a tomboy, and I guess that was true. I loved adventurous things much more than she did, and when I tried a new game or activity, the riskier, the better. I always gave one hundred percent. Because of my love for adventure, I enjoyed playing the more competitive boys' games. They were a better fit for my active lifestyle, especially when it involved throwing, hitting, or being hit. Anything the boys would try, I would be there right there by their side.

I quickly snagged my collection of marbles from my cubby on the third floor. I was then prepared to engage the enemy when I launched myself into the alley. The game was in full swing when I joined them, a perfect thing to take my mind off the events at school today. I had almost convinced myself that nothing could ruin this moment when I heard my father's moped as it entered the main gate off Hoc Lac.

There weren't many mopeds in our neighborhood, and his bike made a unique sound. I could easily recognize it, even while it was still far away. Today, the sound reminded me that I had not done my afternoon chores yet. I shouted hasty goodbyes to my friends and hurried back inside the house. Mom and San, still in the kitchen, gave each other looks, obviously knowing what was going on. They laughed at me and rolled their eyes as I flew up the steps to our sleeping room, dropped off my stuff, and then shot up to the fifth floor, the roof, to retrieve the day's laundry. That was where Father found me, folding and stacking the day's wash. He seemed pleased that I was busy at work – a dutiful daughter. I was happy that he was pleased because if he found out about what happened at school, I would need all the positive thoughts I could get.

Thankfully, after chores and dinner with no one telling of the day's "adventure," it was time again for play—no running and shooting this time. I was in the mood for something a bit more sedate. I went next door to Nhi's house. Nhi was my best friend in the whole world, and together we had a lot of games that we both enjoyed. Of course, the boys called them all "girls' games," but, after all, I am a girl, and I certainly didn't want people to think I was a boy!

Nhi was already in the alley with our other friends, Yenlinh and Hue Hinh, engaged in a hopscotch game, which I happily joined. Yenlinh and Hue Hinh attended Sunday School with Nhi at the Catholic Church located just around the corner, on Hoc Lac. That was where I met them while accompanying my cousin, Tran, to Mass.

After a bit, we switched over to Chopsticks. Chopsticks is a little like the American game, jacks, only with a tennis ball and, well, chopsticks. I ran into our kitchen and grabbed some for the game, at which my mother shouted that "they [chopsticks] are made for eating, not for playing!" She laughed after saying it, though, so I figured it was OK to go ahead.

In the afternoon, the sun disappeared in the hamlet as suddenly as it rose that morning. With school tomorrow and the alleyways growing darker by the second, I said goodbye to my friends and went home. San was in the common room on the first floor with my parents as I entered. Hung was not around, probably running around with his friends. He was able to go about pretty much as he pleased. I climbed the steps until, once again, I found myself in our sleeping room. I glanced over at my little brother and sister, already asleep and quietly prepared to join them. All in all, it hadn't been too terrible a day. As I drifted off, my dreams looked forward to great days ahead.