This space is a collection of fragments: photographs, passing thoughts, unfamiliar places.
What does it mean to sit across from a man who once fought in your country? A man whose life was shaped by war, just as my family’s life was. A man who lost people, just as my family lost people. Yet there we were, in a small bar in western North Carolina, talking about fathers and mothers, racism and work, grief and growing old.
What does it mean that, more than 50 years later, I wasn’t looking at a veteran? I found myself wondering who he was before the war. Before he became a mechanic. A DJ. Before life settled into the lines on his face. And what does it mean that he looked at me. A Vietnamese born decades after the war? “I still don’t understand,” he told me. “If you want to go back to Vietnam tomorrow, can you still do that?”
I watched people stop at our table all night. A kiss on the head. A hug. A beer bought without asking. People calling his name. People remembering him. I watched a community love someone in real time. Earlier that evening, I bought a Diana Ross record from a stranger in a parking lot. Jam’s house is filled with records and turntables. When it was time to leave, I gave him the record. He held it and asked, “You’ll come back?”
I though about everything that had brought us to that table: war, history, distance, generation. “I owe you one,” Jam said, holding the Diana Ross record as I turned the wheel and pull away from his house.
The dashboard clock read 1:20 a.m.
Me, Lavanya, and Jam at Shiloh & Gaines, June 20, 2026. Photo by Derrick Lee Johnson.
Philadelphia in passing
May 2026
