On Immigrants and the impermanence of objects.

Agatha is a first-generation immigrant from Kenya who is my own age. She is working two jobs to pay off her student loans.

Phien Ngo is a first-generation immigrant who left Viet Nam in the late 70s or early 80s with his small son Hoanh. He left in the middle of the night without even being able to tell his family goodbye. At one point, he was robbed by pirates. Our church in Nebraska sponsored Phien and Hoanh, who moved in across the street from us when I was about 10. My brother Pat and Hoanh were the same age, and became best friends. Our family gave them things to get started, none of which we ever missed. One of the things we donated was my old alarm clock. It was a cheap analog electric clock radio from Penney's, which I replaced with a digital clock fairly early on. We left Nebraska in 1983, and I have probably had five other clock radios since then.

When I again caught up with Phien and Hoanh, it had been a good twelve or thirteen years since we'd first met them. They had by then managed to get their entire family over here, and they were all living in a trailer. Hoanh was a very serious 20-year-old; a far cry from the goofy kid I remembered. His mother automatically started cooking for me every time I visited, and it was always delicious. I wish I could remember what it was called.

I happened to go into a bedroom one time, where I was startled to find that my old clock was still being used every day. It even still had stickers on it that said 'property of Allen.' I hadn't even taken my name off the clock before giving it away.

This example of quiet immigrant thrift contrasted so sharply with my own impermanent attitude toward possessions, I had to take a picture of it.