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The scariest word used in my family was ‘capitalism.’ I still remembered why that word terrified me so. Walking on eggshells with no way to keep from breaking them, the best way for me to avoid the poisoning collision of reaching for my own stars and making my dreams come true was to avoid the fragile egotism of control the culture and my parents imposed on me to fulfill the pace in their footsteps. Seized by their concept of ‘capitalism’ and how it segued through the family business, I tried my best to follow their rules but I did not like it.

My silence indicated how much venom I had for their definition of ‘capitalism.’ The silence tells my story and the hatred I had for my father's greed. He did not need the money but from the status of people knowing he had the money.

My mother also bears fault for what I became. She nurtured me on the basics of her work ethic. With callused hands and bruised ego, I blindly obeyed her tutelage, therefore I worked and then I worked some more. From birth and inevitably to death, that was all she did. It was that ethic she used for herself and the philosophy she forced upon me. Without the balancing between the act of learning and acceptance in individuality, I could not find an identity. I worked to live and lived to work. My mother did not know how to relax and she did not know how to let me relax.

Almost every morning, a war was fought in my house. Causalities suffered damages in many different form of verbal abuse. I was shouted at, insulted, shunned, and mocked. Her tirades were so loud; I tried to be deaf to it by avoidance. It was a temporary fix but eventually the noise was forced into my ears one way or another.

The constant nagging, badgering, and the worse were the way my parents treated each other. Their marriage was a mistake and a break down in the infrastructure of family.

Maybe I am a son full of spite and I want to make excuses for my failures. Perhaps it kept me sane to tell everybody how I suffered. Maybe, it was because every morning they reminded me that I was a failure. I was 32 and have not accomplished anything. Some say I like to bitch, but since I do it so well, I will describe my life as well as the lives of my siblings. Maybe in the future, we will grow wiser and each one of us will understand the motives behind their actions.

‘Useless’ was the word I was labeled with. That one fucking word, described my identity, worth, contribution, and sacrifices. It stung me throughout my life. It still hurts today. Nevertheless, I am only one person, in a family of fourteen. Ten of us are alive, consisting of six boys and four girls. Four died at birth.

Here is the story from the oldest to the youngest and spoken from their mouths. Every memories and experiences were interwoven into one story of a family and their trivial lives. Blood being thicker than water, I will begin. Maybe in the end, somehow and somewhere, we could assume that after this telling we will be there for each other. The yelling will stop and we will grow old and reflect upon the progress we have made as human beings.

Before the reader continues, I would like to express that the names of the characters in this story are hard for the English-speaking people to pronounce. I hope that people appreciate the pragmatism of giving an individual his or her birth name because it defined who they are. If their names changed, the characters are less credible and the reader cannot explore the exotic nature and beauty of another time and culture. The names are left the same so open-minded readers can learn, appreciate, and experience the magic of being different. This will start a cycle of perpetual motion of acknowledgment, that this world is a mixture of different races with different lifestyles and culture. The reader can understand and learn if he/she chooses to do so.

When I often face an unreachable goal, as I do now, I turned to the person I respected most, and that person was my oldest brother, Phi-Hung Tran. Almost nothing ever flabbergasted him because he exemplified the image of a prodigal son. The first-born's responsibilities were to carry on the family's name. He carried that crucifix proudly and with conviction. He did what my father asked of him. He was the first to escape from my father's financial legacy. By establishing wealth and prestige of his own, Phi-Hung found a life in Hawaii and started a family.

However, to avoid the perception of the maxim that wealth was equated with happiness was false I had to unraveled the underlying theme when it was first introduced, recorded and delivered by its founding philosopher. ‘The more money a man holds the happier he will be’ must be revised by another conception and replaced with love or honor. With any luck at my search of wisdom to my father's favorite anecdote that he infused into Phi-Hung’s soul, I could discovered the answer and tell my big brother the anecdote needed to be redefine. I hope he found the happiness he seek traveling through an alternate course.

To keep from losing the strong bond of brotherly love, I religiously believed that Phi-Hung would help me in my most troubled times. I believed money had changed him. When he was poor and desperate for help, I gave him my life savings to start anew. Now he casts down condescending eyes during my struggling years. Nevertheless, the thing that brought me the most discontent was the weakening of our brotherly intimacy. It was torn apart by his refusal to save me from the nightmare he once endured. Now I must face it alone with eyes opened. I forgave him for his treachery. I was happy someone escaped the trap of running another family owned business.

Still nervous and distraught, over the culture's representation of a Vietnamese woman, my sister Thien-Thanh Tran ran off with a guy and started a family. She called home sometimes. Nobody blamed her for running into the arms of someone that should have loved her and cherished her. In karma, she found a user and a Romeo. Her naiveties cause her to run into the same predicament she tried to flee from. Nonetheless, she too escaped.

Next in line to the Tran’s pedigree was my brother, Quyet Thang Tran. Under psychological care for schizophrenia and paranoia, he sees the world in a different reality from that of a normal person but I saw the intelligence in his cognition. I was the only one who considered he was a misunderstood genius in hiding. With my rationale justified, I see the Einstein in his invention. It was not merely for conversational sake that I considered Quyet a genius, but I said it subjectively. Without scientific validation, people say I had given him too much credit. Nonetheless, my brother was unfairly critiqued. The philosophies he sport were scrutinized with controverted concession. Quyet’s trusting nature made him accept their judgment. Too sick to defend himself or to know any better, he spoke to everyone with honest sincerity. Therefore, I was spirited in writing his story because Quyet was the one that was documented to be crazy, but I was the one everyone says had a few loose screws.

Taking a deep breath, I will begin. It will be told through my mother's mouth as she reminisced about Quyet. As a young boy, he had the smile of genuine innocence and the cogent belief in the sainthood of his acquaintances. His misfortune started out one day at the tender age of 6 while flying a paper kite outside our house in Long Khanh, a small province in Vietnam. Randomly tugging the string in the direction of the wind, the kite flew into the circle of electrical wires that were perched on the roof of the house. The string tangled, knotting complicatedly around the electrical wire even more, as Quyet tried to force its escape. He climbed up to the roof to unscramble the string of the kite. As the kite shudder in the freedom of the breeze, he touched the live wires and got electrocuted. His fried body forcefully slammed down to the ground from the roof and mother rushed him to the hospital. Luckily, he survived the ordeal. It was the primary reason he became sick and was still sick today.

When we first immigrated to America, my parents worked many jobs below minimum wage. After saving up enough money, they invested in a new business.

My father quelled his anger for not reaching a rich man's status by placing everyone to work, including Quyet, at his new venture. Even after taking his prescribed medication, which made him drowsy and sapping him of all of his strength, Quyet was a willing participant. He worked in order to earn daddy's approval. He drove the truck to deliver, load, and unload the Oriental groceries to businesses from state to state.

My father thought if he made slave labor out of his children the business would be more profitable.

Deep in my heart, I knew Quyet was incapable of handling his obligations but he continued to do as he was ordered. The common tapestries to my father’s business acumen were to work until your hands bled and your spine humped over. Duty bound to honor his ascension to success; we did not complain and performed our duties admirably.

As his health declined, Quyet's performance became unsatisfactory to my dad. To keep from working, Quyet formulated excuses of being sick he cultivated in the figment of his own insanity. It did not bar him from working. When his eyes grew weary from the interstate deliveries, he would crawl and squeeze his big body into the smallest enclosed compartment under the passenger seat of the truck, close by the humming engine, to sleep. At 5'7", he had to bend his knees up to his chest, fold his arms strategically across his shoulder, and contort his body sideway to fit in the tight enclosed space. It was a daunting task but not impossible. At least, he was comfortable enough to rest.

I do not know if he ever slept the good sleep. Parking in rest area or on the shoulder of the road, the truck became his motel. My dad was too cheap to spring for a fucking motel. Places made for weary travelers, for his children, to rest and relax and replenish before the next delivery. It was beyond my wildest comprehension, but my dad did it for profit. The old man's greed and frugality did this to my big brother. His health was on the bottom of my dad's list of priority.

Laying blame to my father was the least of my sin. For Quyet, I wanted to bury my father beside his fortunes and I thought of killing him. My dad made no attempt for me, or us, to love him as a father. He replaced that love with our contempt and hatred for the making of money. It became an obsession, a satanic fascination, for my father as he adjudicated tasks to us for the accruement of more and more money. I hated him. I hated working for him. I hated money.

During one trip to Houston, Texas Quyet's condition got worse. This was how it happened. After finishing the final pick-ups early, he parked on the shoulder of the interstate. Death silence with cars zooming all night and with anxieties of the work done, Quyet slept. As dawn approached, a semi rammed into the truck. Quyet’s head slammed against the glove compartment from underneath when the bang happened. From his original sleeping position, he was savagely thrown from one confined area to the other. The impact ricochet his body in nearly lethal bounces slamming and landing him back in the original fetal position he fell asleep in. Broken and defeated like a toy left in the ground that people continually stomped on until it no longer function, Quyet lost consciousness.

The prognosis at the hospital said the collision was not fatal. Healed from his catatonic state, Quyet never acted the same. The neurons firing in his brain were damaged beyond repair.

I saw the ways he suffered and I felt his suffering. My parents still pressured him to work. May God have mercy for their souls and for their lack of understanding! As for me, my hatred for my parents stem from this moment and onward.

I am the 4th oldest out of their 10 children. I shared a mutual love and respect for my heritage. However, if their love and sacrifices were true, it portended a change for the better, but for now, it was for the worse. I hated them. I would never write these hateful things if I did not experienced it to a certain extent. It would not be fair to the readers to hear me whine only about myself but this is my story. I can only tell the readers how I suffered because I lived it. Besides, I am ignorant and nonchalant of how others feel and I personally do not give a damn. I am a selfish human being.

I will waste too much time telling them the readers about my curtailed persona and this story would become too long and boring. I would never discern my own shortcomings to anyone, especially to loved ones, and infrequently to the ears of strangers. But do not worry; I am quick to point everybody else's flaws out. I hope that the readers could see this story was from my point of view and perception and not meet it with their opposing objection according to their own life experiences. This is a small reminder to the readers that my decisions were made subjectively without rhyme or reason. The rationalization on the choices was made in the course of my viewpoint. I base my actions on every pain and joy I received to every pain and joy I reciprocated back. It entailed from years passed until right now as to the how and where my ideologies originated.

If hell was in family business, this was my private hell, which had vivified my struggles. It was in these sentences that I aired out my frustrations and tried to find the inner peace and the happiness to start my life again. Maybe somehow, somewhere, forgiveness will find its rightful place in my heart, nourishing me like a thirst of water in the desert, and I give something back to my family. I condemned them for their failure in not recognizing my individuality and all that I had sacrificed. Again, if I had a voice I would tell my family they should be touched by the sacrifices I have made for them.

I remembered working at my father's import and export company in Wichita, Kansas. The name of the family business was ‘N.G.A Incorporated' - (National Grocery Association Incorporated) - spelled the long way. Actually, it was named after my little sister and the accolades should be credited to me. I came up with the acronyms and the name of the business stuck because it was I who jostled my suggestion along.

The duties of ‘N.G.A. Incorporated’ demanded a lot of lifting, stacking, writing up invoices, receiving, and the delivering of goods from me and my siblings. Whoever was unfortunate enough to be available was the one working. We strategize out activities accordingly.

The job landed on the weekend during my 9th grade year. When I saw the trailer of the semi-truck parked at the warehouse's dock, I knew I would be put to work. The trailer took the entire length of the parking lot and half of the lane of outside traffic. The truck came at 10 in the morning. Infinitely improbable to be finished until the following morning, I made an exasperated yawn.

Work in the family depended on lady-luck to who was the ill-fated one with nothing to do. I wish that these deliveries somehow landed on a school day so I would exercise my right for the pursuit of academic excellence. My father scheduled it during the time when Phi-Hung and I were available. He always yelled for me to wake up because I was always the willing one. 15 hours of nonstop lifting and stacking without food or even a word of gratitude until the job was done. We finished the job at 3 the next morning.

I hated my father every moment of my life because he made me worked so hard. My dad did not understand I was a child and needed to be treated as a child. However, he made me a laborer, reprimanded me with guilt, and paralyzed me with the cultural stigma of being the black sheep of the family if I did not work.

It was not that I hated working, but what I hated most was the way he treated me once I finished the backbreaking labor. I remembered tearing the plastic wrappings around the boxes on the pallets, sorting, and stacking the boxes on the two-wheeler.

The edge of the dock and the truck's trailer was always uneven. Before the job ever started, Phi-Hung had to pave the space by tying boards together to have a leveled decline downward.

Bracing myself on the handle of the two-wheeler as the boxes came out with an explosive thud; I took the maximum load allowed. The tied boards clapped against the cement of the dock and the steel skeleton of the trailer as if applauding my displayed of strength and agility. Sometimes I lose control and the two-wheeler tipped precariously over. I fought to rebalance the heavy boxes but was defeated by its rapidly falling momentum. In my frequent attempts to rescue the boxes from crashing to the ground, my fingers would be crushed by its weight. Always in my father's watchful eyes, I had no choice but to save his precious cargos.

The more I looked at the endless pallets of goods in the truck the longer the job seems to take. Psychological quandary I must muddled through I guessed. I saw no way to soothe the aching muscles until we finish breaking the pallets apart and storing the inventory inside the warehouse. Even when my hands bled and my fingers were too weary from lifting my father did not let us have our break. I mean my break. Phi-Hung always leave early to go to class at a local university 5 miles away. The illegal and I were the only one left.

When my father saw the Mexicans breathing exhaustively, he gave them a camaraderie tug on the shoulders. They were cheap laborers; ignorant of their rights as illegal immigrants in America, and any reprisals they raise they fear would lead into their deportation so they kept their mouth shut. My father exploited their enthusiasms. He offered the Mexicans food, water, and a goddamn paycheck. In addition, the most meaningful of all those kindness to me were his words of encouragement to them, even when it came with my father's broken English. The illegal were better off than me. I needed those encouraging words, dammit.

The family called me the black sheep because I wanted to do my own things. Let them labeled me as such. I tried to do all the responsible things but a lack of appreciation steered me out into the streets. The troubles started at the family business but their slanders followed me through a lifetime of misery and I used avoidance as my weapons against its damaging effect. Nevertheless, the influence of that slander made me surrendered my courage and it crashed into me like a tsunami. It made a foundation in my innermost being. I found ways of lying and conning myself out from their admonition but I craved their approval more.

15 years ago, I remembered hiding in a hole under the ground across from this apartment complex as the police chased after me. By the way, my name is Phi-Long Tran. Deeply plunging into a hole, dug by a large animal or by environmental corrosion, listening to the police officers footsteps closing in on me. How did I come into this situation? My friend Huy Nguyen and I broke into this car, a Thunderbird I think, and someone called the police.

In the darkness, our bones shook and our nerves were scorched with adrenaline. The police helicopter circled the heaven and probed our whereabouts with their searchlight. The needed luminosity provided the police with an arc of visibility, dissecting them a perimeter, aiding in their search for us. It gave them time to blueprint a strategy to take us down.

We made mistakes.

I made mistakes. I was angry because we were in this predicament.

We have done this before. Only slipshod thieves would have the police chasing them. The diligent planning from experts had operated this felonious act and we were experts in all nefarious acts. We should have had the car started and stripped already. This performance in the art of grand theft larceny would place us in the position of ridicule by our fellow thieves. We would be the neighborhood’s joke no matter how we embellished this. Our pride would be wounded for a long fucking time.

I did not like that at all.

“Did you hear that?” Huy called out.

If there was a chance we could escape from the police, we took it.

“What?”

“I think we've been seen. The helicopter is throwing that searchlight around looking for us.”

“You think if we stay quiet and keep out of sight they'll go away.”

“I can't get caught.” Huy hyperventilated out his concern.

“Damn, I told you about parking right there.”

“There were no cars parked there, people are going to be suspicious.” On the verge of panicking, I snarled. “I told you. We're gonna run but we've got to stay together just in case the other one needs help. Numbers makes a difference.”

“This happens all the time." With irritation, Huy retorted. "Don't blame me?"

"I'm not." I calmly replied.

Still angry, "this is not our first time thieving.”

Before Huy could say anything else, he flew out of the car as the beam of the light chased after him. He left our tools of the trade behind. He kicked the black leather pouch that the tools were kept in, spilling the hammer and a standard flathead screwdriver out on the asphalt.

“Fucking shit.” I sighed.

I tried to open the passenger door, jiggling the handle like a bird flapping its wings to take flight. In my haste the action felt like an eternity. It lasted only a second. Adrenaline flooded my veins. Muscles and nerves came alive.

My friend's lightning strides cast a light shadow as his escape disappeared from my view. The faint tapping of his footsteps was the only thing I saw before Huy vanished into the abyss ahead. I suspected the police were gaining on him. Huy ran on the clear, convenient trail. A path of smooth dirt road made by man and traveled by innocents, not criminals like us. Later on, I found out that the police apprehended him by tackling and cuffing him while they plowed his face into the unforgiving ground.

I had to get away so I ran toward the lake. The rougher the terrain the tougher the pursuit will be for my adversary, I thought. In retrospect, my hunch was on target. The good guys liked safe and predictability. I was, I am, the most dangerous and baddest guy to cross the police.

“Freeze! Stop! I'm going to shoot.” One of the two police officers warned.

There were four police officers, two for each fugitive.

I knew they would never shoot me in the back. Would they?

“Go ahead, mother fuckers. Shoot me in the back.”

Tucking their guns away, the police officers gave chase.

I saw the beam of light glaring on the ground. I ran. I stopped at the edge of the rocky embankment and balanced myself trying not to tip over. My feet were caught from under me and I barreled down from the embankment. The jeans ripped open at the knees causing blood to spray out from my wound as I tumbled down to the bottom. The pain was minor. Fear and adrenaline numbed any pain I had.

With careful strides, the police officers could not keep up. I suspected that they did not want to bring harm or dirt to their uniforms. I scrambled out into the lake as fast as I can. My feet slipped in the wet mud and my white tennis shoes blackened. Unable to regain control of my balance, I fell backwards into the water. I came up wet, cold, and shivering. I delve deeper into the water. I wanted to swim across. Dammit, the lake was shallow. It was probably a creek. Knee high in water, I waddled around to the other end. I could not spot the beam of the flashlight but I felt its presence nearing.

All those war movies I had seen gave me an idea. I hid under the water with a piece of weed in my mouth near the other side of the embankment. The weed acted as a breathing apparatus to me. It did not work. The water went through my nose, drowning me. Gurgling in the polluted water, I coughed and coughed, squeezing it out of my system.

I crawled up by digging my fingers into the mud of the embankment. With my grip embedded into the soil, I clawed hand over hand until I ascended up from the muddy wall.

The mud dried all over me and became a dressing for my bloody knees. Exposed skin was caked with mud, where the blood did not stain the mud superimposed it. I looked like a human canvass created by a crazy artist with splashes of crimson black color spread randomly over my body.

I did not realize how persistent the police were until I looked out in the distance. The shadows I concentrated on to the left highlighted the presence of the police still staking me out. I had to go to plan B. The police cannot be everywhere at once. I will find a way to elude them. Scouting out a point, somewhere safe, to run to I surveyed the ground. To find an alternative escape route, a way out I must risk the safety of my hiding space.

Beyond the bridge, the shack was guarded by barbwires like a sentry to royalty looked like a welcomed sanctuary for me. If I could get there, I might be able to escape without detection. I prepared and focused myself mentally for the shack. I studied my surrounding as the searchlight assaulted my whereabouts, circling around repeatedly. I ran without stopping. Too scared to stop, my feet would have carried me to hell and back.

The clouds of dirt thrown up by my strides determined the speed and the recklessness for freedom. Fast. Faster. I winded through the shrubberies, bushes, broken branches, and weeds with honed agilities and skills of a seasoned athlete. I did not know where it came from. Determination geared toward danger must be genetic, a primitive talent harnessed from my ancestors. Who knows? I do not give a fuck.

The lecture, or the anticipation of the lecture, and the onslaught of a facilitating headache to come from my parents were scarier than being locked up in a padded cell with violent felons. The immediate danger of being caught and being hauled to jail did not faze me at all. Getting preached by my parents terrified me, so I ran. I ran. I could not stop.

Luckily, my feet tripped into this hole. I caught my breath. I fell. Suddenly my fingers gripped to something solid. My eyes focus on the trunk of a tree or a root hanging inside the hole. It kept me from plunging down any further as I clutched tentatively on to it. Suspended near the top of the hole, the hours were torturously swallowed in slow motion as I lay patiently waiting for the disorders to fall back into the dark silence.

Close by the surface of the ground, I heard footsteps trampling above.

The police did not notice a hole beneath them. Long overgrown grass and the swathe of darkness camouflaged the hole from their discovery.

I stayed under the hole and tried to remain calm. My heartbeats and pulse slow down to a manageability rhythm. My breathing habits slowly returned to normal. I waited until it was safe. I climbed up to the surface.

An hour passed by. Maybe, it was longer. Maybe, it was sooner. I do not know. I waited. I listened.

The pain started to explode into my joints. I winched at the injuries. Muscle tightening up, the exertion of sudden stops and start-ups began to strain and the agony screeched out from my lungs. I fought off the pain with a macho grunt.

Another concern cornered me, knocking me out like a wasp sting. The chill invaded and trounced my immune system quickly as a gust of wind raked my hair and blew at my face reminding me it was one of those Kansas night. The damp clothing clung on to my wet body causing me to cough. The conditioning and dynamic of youth could not hinder the flu-like symptoms from taking shape. I could not fight the assault of the flu off. I could not dry the wet clothes, which clung to my bloody and dirt-stained body, nor could I journey home naked. The pain and the chill came at full force. Once primitive survival mode kicked in from lying dormant, I knew I would make it out of there. Once the excitement was gone and the anxiety escalated, my immune system would weaken and I would have to rest.

A suppressed cough heaved out from my throat. It felt heavy. I was sick.

I pulled my penis out. I needed to pee. It had shrunk. Cold weather was a curse for a man's pride, my pride. The chills have brought another casualty with it. The shrinkage was really bad for my self-esteem. Even now, in time of danger or the anticipation of danger I acknowledged this triviality and for that I chided myself.

A steam of heat floated in the air as the warmth of my urine streamed out into the dirt. Feeling a little relief, I zipped up and waited.

The searchlight circled around me again. Have 2 hours really passed? Excessively long for the police to not cease their search for a suspect of such a minor crime as grand theft larceny. Maybe the solitude and the fear made the time felt like it was a little bit longer. Maybe I have stolen from the wealthy and the powerful. Different laws governed the rich.

I was impatient. I got to get home. I climbed up from the hole, turned, investigated the surrounding, and then ran. Torrents of mud masked my clothes in an Earth brown color. The stain made me clandestine in the dark.

I broke away from the arc of the helicopter's searchlight but it covered too much ground and the searchlight spotted me. Hiding behind a tree and hunching over, I retrieved a deep needed breath. I noticed that my white pair of sneakers was translucent, so I coated them with the surrounding dirt. Darkened the shoes, it would somehow camouflage me from being discovered. An idea, a good one, I thought.

I heard noises. My mind was foggy so I figured the noises probably arose from my own mind. I ran to the fence toward the shack. Clumsily hurdling over the barbed wire fence with the aid of my hands, the sharp pointed edges cut into my flesh. Landing on my feet, I covertly twisted my silhouetted form back into the darkness, avoiding the searchlight, and waited until I felt safe.

The police were nowhere to be seen.

Sick and out of danger, I prodded back to my car and then onward. With long gait and swift strides, I sprinted. I wanted to be in my bed, be at home, sleeping off the danger and crashing off the adrenaline high.

Discovering that my car was towed away, I slowed down and contemplated on calling for transportation. That idea was bad and it vanished as soon as I thought it through.

Weakened from the flu, I winched at the ache. With my skin feeling so hot and every little twitch I made screaming into my marrows, muscles, and nerve endings inside my body I grinded my teeth to numb off the pain. Nothing helped.

Wearily, I made the zombie trek home. I quickly fell asleep as soon as I saw the vista of the bed.

The following morning the police came. Since it was my car they found at the crime scene, I was their most likely suspect. They placed surveillance on the house. They knocked and inquired about my whereabouts.

My family provided and protected me with a credible and convenience alibi. At home and asleep, matching exactly with my own assessment. The police knew the exact details of my sleep patterns, the description of the wet dream I have during that sleep, and the physical make-up of my fantasy girl, which they did not like.

From that day forward, my reputation grew and the legend of my exploits emanated in every thug and thug wannabe's imagination. My friendship with Huy was a temporary reprieve for loneliness. After that felonious act, it slowly declined like a biker climbing uphill until exhausted feet stop pedaling. I did not need him. I need not act out my plan of vengeance because Huy understood the code and stayed silent about my involvement.

I could not get over the irony. How often have I set my mind against starting a family because of the abuse I endured? How often have I vowed to never make any children suffer as I have? I thought it would never happen to me but it did. I vowed never to neglect or abuse the members of my new family as I have been abused. I ran my family my way by giving them love, understanding, and allowing their individuality to shine.

My family composed of and started with 3 members, along with myself. The name that the public and you, the reader, will recognize was the name the NAISA Mafia.

Let me finish telling the readers about my immediate family. The next member is my younger brother Phu Tran also known as 'Sean' to his friends. At the very least, he thought they were his friends. They spoke well in front of him and eventually they backstabbed him when he was out of hearing distance. He accumulated his friends through gang fights and grand theft auto bravados. His friends were agog to be around him, socializing with him, because he was the center of attention, well respected, and popular. They wanted to be in proximity of that status and they were hortatory to his desire because of that status. It warranted reasons for them to use him and they played it to the hilt. People treated them with respect only when Sean was around. Easily accommodating to his friends, Sean was easily manipulated him. They understood his turgid need to have respect and his need for popularity.

I will continue on with my little sister, My-Nga Tran. She was selfish. I did not get along with her. After achieving higher education because of her aggressive nature - she started to accrue material things, cars, business opportunities, and often cash. These luxuries were brummagem bargaining chips and the promises of a master degree granted her my father's attention and generosity. The criteria of being abuse by the family did not happen to her because my father felt she has potential. My-Nga was daddy's successor, daddy's little princess. He broke the taboo of making her work hard and I guess I resented it. I wish to stop it here because she has been a disappointment to me and it would only remind me how much I hate her.

The next in line was the first to be born in the United States. My little brother was also the first to have an American name, Tyler Phong Tran. He quickly got into the newest and toughest crew in the west side of Wichita doing the same shit. He fought, stole, and did whatever had to be done for the almighty dollar. His crews were tough because they had numbers on their side and they took care of one another.

If paradise was based on reputation as street thugs and playboys, we all lived up to that reputation. We followed our own rules. Not only did we make up the rules as we went along but we also set the standard for the thug life.

The last three children were still quite young and the hopes for them were not to go by the examples we left behind. They were smart and have a future, so we will let them believe we were righteous people with normal lives. The oldest to the youngest one is my sister 'Thuy-Nghi Thi', then my brother 'Hung Dung', and then my sister 'Ly-Lan Tran.

 
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