Draw Me A Map
2026
Digital pigment print on
self-adhesive terylene fabric,
digital pigment prints on archival
cotton paper, posca marker
8.75 X 12 ft
Years ago, my father drew for me a map of what he remembered from his childhood village. After he passed in 2019, my wife and I traveled to Vietnam in search of the places he had drawn. This is the foundation for my mural, Draw Me A Map—part travelogue, part meditation on grief. Dad never returned to his homeland, but I think of this project as a way for us to go back together.
Draw Me A Map was created as part of my solo exhibition, Sacred Animal Sing-Along, at Stevenson University’s School of Design, Arts, and Communication, where I was the Artist-in-Residence in Spring 2026.
Detail view
(Wall text/poem-left side)
One of my earliest memories is of the trip
we took to Florida when I was four years old.
We rode for two days on a Greyhound bus
and then entered a noisy house full of aunts.
That night, you leave me with them
while you go out with old friends.
Hours pass, night falls.
I cry inconsolably until finally, you return.
***
Once, I asked you to draw where you grew up.
From memory, you sketched a map
of your village in Bạc Liêu, Vietnam.
Near the bottom, left corner
is the electric plant, where Ông Cố,
Great-grandfather, was the chief mechanic.
The family lived there too,
right next to the engine room.
Somehow, you got used to the noise.
***
After we lost you,
in those early days of grief,
a panic overtakes me.
In that moment, I am a boy again,
waiting for you, and realizing
that you’re not coming back.
You never returned to
Bạc Liêu or Vietnam.
But Thaỏ and I hop on a plane,
and we bring along your map.
Detail, left side
Right side view
(Wall text/poem-right side)
During your last days,
you tell me you dreamed of your father,
who you saw for the last time when
we left Vietnam in 1983.
In the dream, he gives you a toy.
I ask if this ever happened.
You say, “Never.”
Now I understand.
Sensing the end,
you longed to be reunited.
My father, a son again.
