Quang X. Nguyen

Quang is survived by his daughters: Dang Nguyen; Annie Stadig and her husband, Jeff; Kira Nguyen and her husband, Steven; Lisa Nguyen and her husband, Touch; his sons: Vinh Nguyen and his wife, Saengkham; Jimmy Nguyen and his wife, Van; Scott Nguyen and his partner Philip; nine grandchildren: Christina, Christopher, Brian, Lena, Katherine, Paul, Kristin and Kevin and one great-granddaughter,

Willow. Daughter in law, Minh Chau; granddaughter in laws, Dan Thanh and Bailee.

He was preceded in death by his wife, Lich and sons, Tony and Steven Nguyen.

Fond memories and expressions of sympathy may be shared at www.CrownHillFuneral.com for the Nguyen family.

Eulogy for Quang X. Nguyen

I am deeply saddened by the loss of my father, but have the privilege from my family to

spend a little time talking, reflecting and honoring the life of Quang Nguyen with you

today. When people learn I come from a family of 9 kids, they often say “You come from

a big family”. Well….my father was the 2nd oldest of 11 children. My father was born in

the small Northern town of Ninh Binh, just south of Hanoi, in 1935. But he didn’t live

there long, as they would migrate to Laos when he was still a child—with memories of

being carried by his mother in a basket to make the arduous journey.

Growing up in Laos, my father took care of his younger siblings and began learning

trade skills from his father in making and selling furniture, through contracts with the

military. Over time, he helped manage the small shop my grandparents ran, which

allowed him to make many connections over the years.

He met my mother who had also emigrated to Laos with her mother for the possibility of

a better future in 1953. They quickly married and within a year, their first child, my sister

Dang, was born. In rapid succession, my older brothers and sisters followed suite.

Almost another child each year for the next 7 years. During this time, my father went out

and applied the trade and skills he learned working from his father’s shop to running his

own. My parents ran their business in the Dongpalan neighborhood of Vientiane for

several years. Through the lens of my siblings, it was a vibrant childhood. Our house

was across the street from a movie theater and near the market where my mother often

went to sell their products. My father rose to prominence in the community and was

voted mayor of Dongpalan.

In 1975, the tide shifted in Vietnam and by extension, Laos. Given my father’s position

and his connections—many of whom were high ranking officers in the military that were

taken in the middle of the night and never heard from again—it became apparent to my

parents we would not be safe for much longer. My father was faced with a dilemma:

stay to take care of his parents or flee the home he had built for himself and his family.

My mother helped convince my father to leave for the sake of his children.

Starting at the end fo April, steps were taken to secure protection with the US

government through my sister Dang. We would be provided US protection once we

were in Thailand, but the trip there would have to be on our own. On the morning of

June 7, after destroying many of their belongings over the previous month, and with

nothing but a small satchel of extra clothing and money, my parents went about their

day to not arouse suspicion while instructing my sister to take me and my siblings to a

safe house where they would reunite with us later that night. Whether by divine

intervention or sheer luck, we made it to Thailand intact, all 11 of us, where we would

board planes that took us first to the Philippines and then to Guam.

There we stayed for several years. Both my parents enjoyed the weather on Guam-it

reminded them of the home they had to leave. But another decision would arise by the

end of that decade. My sister Kira went to study in the US in 1979, and strengthened

the pull of America—and its opportunities. The dilemma this time was whether my father

should consider emigrating to France, where all of his siblings were, or to the United

States. The US was daunting since he didn’t speak the language and was unsure what

skills he could offer at that time to the US labor market. He had a large family and

finding sponsorship would be challenging. He would have to offer up money to aid the

sponsors to keep our family together. In the end, the promise of a better future for his

children convinced my father to emigrate to the US in 1980, where we landed in

Lakewood, Colorado.

Through Human Services, my father secured a job at a local civil engineering company

as a soil technician. And thus his journey in the US began. Each of his children were

able to forge their own paths in this new country and create their own families,

something that may not have been possible to the same extent elsewhere.

Looking back on my father’s life, I have learned so much more about him. My father was

determined, strong willed, stubborn by definition, and often stoic. But this was all in

service to those he cared so much about.

Long, heart felt conversations was not something you could expect from my father;

instead, he showed how much he cared about you through his actions. When my

nephew Paul was sick and couldn’t breathe, my father would clear Paul’s nose with his

mouth. Another time, he shielded my brother from a punch by an angry motorist that

forced us off the road. Perhaps less dramatic but more constant, was my father’s

willingness to pick up the grandkids from school. He would light up around his

grandchildren and would do anything for them.

I want to leave you with an image of how I remember my father. My earliest memories of

my parents are like silent pictures. My mother would be up at 5 AM cooking over the left

front burner of the electric stove, prepping food for my father. First, breakfast to start his

day and then, lunch that she would pack in these round metal, stackable containers.

The most spoken words I ever uttered to my father was ăn cơm. Loosely translated, it

meant “it’s time to eat”. It felt like such a chore when I said it growing up, but every

time…my dad would dutifully come to eat the meal my mother would prepare (and later

my various siblings, including my late brother Tony). This 2 word interaction was always

based on a sense of home, love, nourishment, and loyalty. We didn’t need to speak any

additional words to express this.