And 16 years later, the same Dat Nguyen with the same drive, at a much greater level of achievements. Check out our event in Houston on October 4, 2013 for his newest album. datguitar/concert-with-dat-nguyen-and-adam-ho-2013.html MUSIC WAS HIS PASSPORT by Anita Bartholomew David Grimes, the sandy-haired professor who heads California State University Fullerton’s classical guitar program, anticipated the day’s auditions with the eagerness of a child. The new guitar students would be playing for the first time. He’d learn if he had any real talents among the new-comers that fall semester, 1993. There was only one potential problem. A young Vietnamese man in the class was blind, and there was very little classical guitar music in Braille. How could he keep up if he didn’t have access to the material? One by one the students sat down and played. Then the blind student’s turn came. At five-foot-one and 95 pounds, 22-year-old Dat Nguyen looked like a child. “What will you be playing today?” Grimes asked. “ ‘Capricho Arabe,’ ” Dat replied, “by Tarrega.” A lovely piece, Grimes thought. I wonder if he can do it justice. Dat sat down to play, caressing his cheap guitar while coaxing extraordinary beauty from it. Grimes was astounded. Dat’s technique was a bit raw, but his phrasing showed an intimate understanding of the material. What grabbed Grimes most was the power, the emotion. What could this young man have gone through that would elicit such passion? Grimes wondered. “Fresh beans here!” the vendor called to the crowd from her stall in the Saigon marketplace. “Come buy my delicious beans, just picked this morning.” As a small, blank-eyed boy turned in the direction of her voice, the woman spat, “Go away. I have nothing for you.” The boy was Dat, who patted his little sister’s hand. “Don’t worry, Dung,” he said. “We will meet some kind people today who will help us.” Dat, 11, was used to comforting his sister—his half sister, really—when someone treated them harshly. But today the boy could find no comfort. The vendor saw Dat as he saw himself, a triple outcast: blind, Amerasian and a beggar. Dat and Dung (pronounced Yung) were living by themselves in Saigon. At the time small wayfarers like them were not unusual in Vietnam. The war had left many children orphaned or abandoned, particularly Amerasians. Dat’s father, an American serviceman, had gone back to the United States in 1973. Dung’s father, a Vietnamese, had disappeared in 1975. When their Vietnamese mother died that same year, they were placed in an orphanage, but it closed after the Communists swept through. The two were taken in by an abusive woman who worked them like slaves, and they ran away in 1977. Dat and Dung wandered across the countryside for two years before reaching Saigon. Eventually they met a man in Saigon who gave them lottery tickets to sell for a small commission. There was little left after they paid for food, however, so they slept on lawns or in alleys. Dat’s favorite place to sell tickets was the local barbershop. One of the things he liked best about the store was that its radio blared American songs. “Got a black magic woman…” The English lyrics Dat belted out held no meaning for him, but that didn’t dampen his enthusiasm. As he sang, he pounded the back of a barber chair. “Hey, boy,” Dat heard through his reverie. “I want to buy a ticket.” Then the man asked, “You like music?” Dat nodded. “It is my favorite thing,” he said. “You’ve got that drum riff down like a pro,” the man said. “Too bad you’re just banging on a chair.” He told Dat and Dung he had his own rock band. “How’d you like to try a real set of drums?” he asked Dat. “Yes, sir!” he almost shouted. “I would like that very much.” “Good,” the man said. “Come with me.” The man led them to his house and ushered them up to a loft filled with musical instruments. He brought Dat to the drums and put a brush in his hand. Dat had never been near a real drum before. He brushed at it and pulled back, surprised at how the sound resonated. The band leader handed Dat a drumstick. “Now hit the drum,” he said. As Dat did, it was as if a clap of thunder shot up his arm. His heart banged against his chest. Dat took the other drumstick and listened to a few instructions. “Go ahead,” the man encouraged. Dat hammered away, amazed at the sounds booming through the room. The rhythms thrilled him as nothing had before. Soon he was wildly drumming on cymbals, and the snare and bass drums. He played for hours. It wasn’t until it was getting dark that he realized he might have overstayed his welcome. But as he apologized the man said, “Overstayed? You were just getting started. Come back tomorrow.” So he returned the following day, and almost every day after that. Within a few months he was playing with the rock band. One day when Dat was about 12, another lottery customer suggested he meet Mr. Truong, one of Saigon’s finest classical music teachers. “He loves to nurture young musicians,” the customer explained. “And he is also blind.” Surrounded by musical instruments, Truong, a portly man with wispy gray hair, listened to Dat play the drums. “You have talent,” Truong said as Dat finished. “You will be my student.” “You know I can’t pay you?” Dat said. Truong explained that he never took money from a blind student. What’s more, he would give Dat and his sister the money they needed to live. In the months that followed he introduced Dat to the piano and several stringed instruments, and taught him to read Braille. As the instruments resonated under the boy’s sensitive fingers, the old man beamed like a proud father. Over the years Dat became more confident and more accomplished as a musician. When he was about 16, he and some of Truong’s other blind students formed their own band and began playing at parties. One Sunday morning in 1989, Dat, now 18, tuned Truong’s radio to the classical music hour. The announcer spoke about the morning’s featured recording, a concert by the Spanish guitarist Segovia. Dat was intrigued. Classical guitar? He had always associated the instrument with rock tunes. Then the recording came on. Dat had never heard anything so beautiful and complex, alternately lulling and surprising him. In an instant he knew he had to learn to play guitar like that. He poured out his excitement to his teacher. “Can I learn classical guitar?” he asked. Truong chuckled. “Of course,” he replied. “I will help you.” Dat bought a used guitar, and Truong found a music book in his Braille library. Dat played for hours at a time, the guitar freeing him to express himself as never before. Then one day an Amerasian girl told Dat she was going to the United States under a new program that brought Amerasian children to America. “Why don’t you apply?” she suggested. America! Home of the father he never knew. Dat was excited. He qualified, but what about Dung? Her father had been Vietnamese. Eventually, the United States agreed to accept both applications. First, however, Dat and Dung would have to spend time in a refugee camp in the Philippines, learning about their new country. Then an American would have to agree to sponsor them. Dat and Dung were flown to the Philippines, where for six months they lived in a refugee camp in Bataan. In July 1990 Thanh Vu arrived to help the refugees. Vu had fled Vietnam in 1975 and made a good life in California, where he owned several stores, a spacious home, and had two children. When he met Dung, who worked at the camp’s general store, he immediately volunteered to sponsor her and Dat. In January 1991 Dat and Dung, who had now taken the name Diane, arrived at their new home in Orange County. They had always dreamed of being part of a real family. Now, at last, they were. Dat attended Anaheim High School for two years. He learned so quickly his teachers encouraged him to enroll at Cal State Fullerton. And there he met David Grimes. Grimes soon learned that he had to make only minimal accommodations for Dat, who had a most extraordinary ear for music. Dat could play almost anything, note for note after hearing it once. One day in October 1994 Grimes told his students he had some applications for the Southern California American String Teachers Association competition. Taking a form, Dat felt both exhilarated and frightened. Now in his second year at Fullerton, he had been practicing up to eight hours a day, often getting up before dawn to play, muffling his guitar with a towel so as not to disturb the neighbors. But, he wondered, just how good am I? The competition would give his answer. As the class ended, Grimes cautioned his students against setting their goals on winning. There would be strong competitors from other top music schools in California. On the day of the competition in November 1994, Dat practiced in a small room in the basement of a church at the University of Southern California. A voice broke his concentration: “You’re next, Dat.” As he climbed the stairs, lilting guitar arpeggios of a competitor travelled down. Why did I get myself into this? Dat wondered. Diane was waiting backstage and helped calm him as he listened to the rest of another competitor’s almost perfect performance. Dat walked out on the stage, sat down, then played the first notes of “Nocturno” by Federico Moreno Torroba. The acoustics in the chapel were outstanding, but there was a slight echo. He immediately compensated by playing more slowly. The instrument rewarded him with such lovely tones, he no longer worried about the judges. Alone with his music, he elicited sounds so connected to his soul that there seemed to be no separation between man and guitar. He finished playing, and the audience applauded enthusiastically. He thought his heart would burst. That, he thought, is the only prize I need. Three more guitarists played after him, but the rest of the competition was a blur. The judges would soon be announcing the names of the winners. After everyone had played, the judges had all the guitarists form a line on the stage. I did well, Dat thought, but others did better. The first names were announced, and the guitarists went to get their certificates. More names were called, until there were only three names to go. Suddenly Dat realized the next would be the third-prize winner. He listened, but did not recognize the name. Then the second-prize winner was called. It wasn’t him. Why hadn’t they called him? Then he realized what had happened. “The winner is Dat Nguyen.” He walked across the stage to accept his award, feeling gratitude to all who had helped him reach this moment—and to the music itself. In Vietnam, music had given him the strength to survive. In America, it had brought him an acceptance he might never have known. He was, it seemed at that moment, a very lucky young man. ************************************* Dat went on to win the statewide American String Teachers Association competition. Now a senior at Cal State Fullerton, he has written songs to raise money for Vietnamese refugees in the Philippines. (Readers’ Digest – March 1997).
Posted on: Fri, 26 Jul 2013 17:20:37 +0000
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