I am a moment moving in a continuum. My parents fled Vietnam after a long war ended, arriving in the United States as teens, where each slept beside their many siblings in one bedroom. It took resilience for them to earn degrees, meet for the first time beneath an avocado tree in California, marry, and start their own family in place so far from where they were born. Neither could have imagined that their youngest child would take his own life at the age of 24, that they would leave three meals a day at his small altar in their kitchen. Displacement, like death, "is not the end" but is a stage where "one life transform[s] into another" (Phạm 1996). My refugee parents survived a war, continue to survive the swerves of time. Their grit resides in their labor—professionally or at home; they are constantly in motion, at work. The journey of my parents is part of my journey, and my work is the delving of language, memory, and history—entities that shift and move in, around, and through bodies. Each of us are tributaries flowing into larger waters, waters which in turn, flow into rivers and creeks.
In this life, I cannot engage in language and action without acknowledging the currents of time. In the creative realm of composition, I'm able to work through the past, future, and present—histories both collective and individual. This fellowship gifts me access to components vital to my excavation and assemblage: equipment, translators, travel and research for interviews and other source materials. I will continue to witness, document, and trace human journeys, grateful to be seen, grateful for this support and community.