For My Friends in Wilmington, With Love

Eight years in the Port City changed me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. While I say goodbye (but not farewell), I want to share a little of my journey and what I’ve learned along the way.

It’s hard saying goodbye to places. I learned this as a child, when I was taken away from Saigon, the city of my birth, and brought to Oak Hill, West Virginia. My mother and I were, literally, strangers in a strange land. According to the census of that time, West Virginia was 95.1% white and 4.8% Negro (the government’s term, not mine). By my math that means 99.9% of the population was not like us. If not for a cheaply framed photograph of several black-haired, tawny-skinned people hanging in our hallway, I would not have known that any other Vietnamese existed. Except for the horrifying images that later appeared on the TV. But that’s a story for another time. 

No one attempted to teach me how to handle a loss like that. Loss of homeland, culture, kin. And so that first experience of leaving a place set the tone for a lifetime of relocations. After my siblings were born, we moved to Florida, where I was baptized and where the neighborhood kids and I swashbuckled using the stiff spikes of yucca leaves as our swords. 

There was no goodbye and no looking back when we left the Sunshine State for Tennessee. If my godparents—two smiling white blonds in cheerful 1970s clothing—ever tried to reach me, I never knew it. 

From Tennessee my barely adult self moved to Rhode Island, then back to Tennessee, and eventually, in my forties, to Massachusetts. I made lovely and important friendships in every state, but I didn’t know how to retain them when I left. I was neglectful. I was awkward. I received heartfelt, generous correspondence that I failed to answer. Tongue-tied. Brain-tied. I disappointed myself and no doubt disappointed people I’d come to love. 

Like the narrator in Elvis Costello’s “Mystery Dance,” I’d tried and I'd tried and was still mystified. Other people had figured out how to relocate without losing, so what was wrong with me? I suppose, in my heart of hearts, I didn’t believe bonds lasted. When you feel like you don’t belong anywhere, when you feel untethered, you don’t lose hope. You simply don’t have hope to begin with. I grew up with the certainty that half my family would never know me and the other half would never understand me. My only lasting bond, really, was to myself and my marrow-deep sense of isolation. 

I started visiting Wilmington, North Carolina shortly after my sister and brother-in-law moved there in 2013. I loved it immediately: the historic district’s graceful architecture, the compact downtown with its riverwalk and local eateries, the camellias blooming in December when everything back in New England was drear and cold. And especially Greenfield Lake. I was a neophyte birder then, and I literally gasped the first time I saw a towering bald cypress filled with white egrets, their painterly reflection in the smooth water below. 

Over the next couple of years, I visited again and again. The Massachusetts winters weren’t getting any easier, and I was tired of my job. Parenthood, both biologic and adoptive, hadn’t worked out. (Also a story for another time). You could say I was ripe for colossal change.

Everything about Wilmington beckoned, including 2016's modest housing prices. I began to envision spending winters there, escaping the bleak and bitter months up north. My husband and I didn’t have much saved—poets and painters rarely do—but we had enough for a down payment on a pint-sized cottage on a humble block. Due to its lively downtown and its proximity to beaches, Wilmington attracted tourists. Still does. My plan was to use that little house as a winter writing retreat for myself and rent it out the rest of the year as an Airbnb. It would pay for itself, I reasoned. No hit to our finances. Heck, the mortgage was so low, we might even turn a small profit. 

Of course, things didn’t work out that way. I loved the house, and I loved writing in it. Ideas blossomed, pages filled. And when I wasn’t writing, I was discovering the community. I enjoyed wonderful neighbors. I upgraded my camera and walked the lake path daily, taking photos of spectacular birds and impressive alligators. I reveled in the city’s arts scene. Which is why, when the spring of 2017 rolled around, I knew I wasn’t going back. Other spouses managed to live apart—hadn’t everyone heard of bicoastal marriages? And Massachusetts wasn’t really that far from North Carolina, was it? 

Which brings me finally to you, Port City. My eight years there were among the richest and most productive of my life. I was inspired not only by the natural beauty of the surrounding area but also by the many people I was lucky enough to befriend. My existence was buoyed by two important groups—theatre folks and vegan folks. 

I first got to know Wilmington Vegan by attending one of its monthly potlucks. Oh my god, the food! Plentiful and delectable, as was the energy and passion of its mission to show the community that it’s not only possible but satisfying and joyful to live without harming other animals. And it was in the vegan community that I met other caring activists—people willing to speak up against the cruelty of carriage horse rides; the sad, continued presence of our city's roadside zoo; and other forms of abuse most accept or turn a blind eye to. 

My entree into the theatre world was through Port City Playwrights’ Project (now simply Port City Playwrights). PCP brought me in touch with a slew of talented, dedicated individuals—writers, actors, directors, filmmakers, tech artists, creative leaders, and more—whose friendship and generosity made me a better writer and a better person. Together, we supported each other through the rollercoaster of creating filmed productions and live shows, weathering storms (both literal and figurative), and adapting as needed to changing times and circumstances. And when each production was over, we looked at one another, fully exhausted, and say, "Let's do it again!" 

There’s no way to list all the people who’ve meant so much to me over these past eight years. Sure, it’s a cliché, but you know who you are. And here’s the thing I realize, finally, as a late-middle aged woman: Connections can be sustained. Distance does not inevitably sever ties. 

I’ve learned that in my marriage, which is closer than ever. (When my husband announced earlier this year that he wanted to retire, we knew that our tiny cottage could not serve as our forever home. He needed an art studio, I needed a writing space, and a 600-square foot one-bedroom—no matter how beloved—would not suffice). 

Which is why this past summer we sold the cottage and moved to a roomier home in Columbia, South Carolina. Wilmington is just three hours east, and my sister and brother-in-law live there still. And to all the friends I made in the Cape Fear area, please know: I’m a changed person. If you write or text or call, I will write or text or call back. When I come to visit and see a play or join a vegan event, I look forward to seeing you and catching up. 

The person who taught me the most about retaining relationships across time and distance is my oldest friend, Penney. We met in 10th grade, remained close through high school and a bit past college, and then faded away. Just as I’d always assumed relations eventually do. But then something unexpected happened. Four summers ago, after thirty years of zero contact, Penney reached out. We picked up our friendship as if no time had passed, shattering my lifetime habit of permanent goodbyes. We now talk every week, have visited each others’ homes (hers is in faraway Texas), and are as close as we’ve ever been. 

So thank you, Penney, for showing me the possibility of sustained friendship. And thank you, Wilmington, for bringing incredible people into my life. You all mean more to me than you know. Let’s not lose each other.