Same Same

Same Same

iUniverse, Inc.

Chapter One

* * *

Where my mother calls home, one can hear the children laughing in a distant schoolyard, scooters honking on bumpy roads, and cicadas chirping at dawn. Bamboo grows freely, next to swaying palm trees and grazing water buffalo. The air feels pure in her ancient town tucked between Hue and Hanoi. The houses are aged by the unforgiving heat and monsoon rain. Bundles of incense burn from altars that dominate family rooms, and portraits of the dead watch over those still living.

During my son's first trip to Hoi An in the summer of 2005, Thien covered his eyes while meeting his great-grandfather.

"Scary, scary, I want to go home," he said. My grandfather, Ong Ngoai, laughed and went to another room. Ong Ngoai peeked out slowly. He didn't want to scare Thien but wanted to watch his great-grandson play with the water in the well.

Ong Ngoai was recovering from a stroke. I looked at his dark face with lines drawn deep underneath his cheeks—his eyes sunken, his hands frail, his hair white. Ong Ngoai ate very little during our stay and rarely got up from the wooden bed in he living room. When Ong Ngoai did get up, Thien raced to the bed to hide underneath the mosquito net, trying to avoid having to speak to his great-grandfather. Thien was scared of Ong Ngoai's skinny and aging face. In that moment, Thien looked like a native Vietnamese boy with freshly tanned skin and peasant pajamas.

The first night's dinner was festive with all of Mom's five siblings and their children sharing a feast of fried fish, water spinach soup, caramelized prawns, and big bottles of beer. We sat on a bamboo floor mat, either kneeling or squatting, with our porcelain bowls and chopsticks. The cups and bowls were aged and chipped, but no one seemed to mind. Ba Ngoai, my grandmother, didn't believe in throwing anything away and refused Mom's offer to buy a new set of dinnerware. I noticed that Ong Ngoai didn't speak much during dinner and instead smiled while watching Mom catch up with everyone.

After all the siblings left, the house was quiet again. Ong Ngoai's voice softened, and his face lit up as he watched Mom unpack for the three-week stay. Mom began to divide up the handbags, American cheese, and beef jerky to give out to extended family.

"Why did you bring so much stuff?" he mumbled while stretched out. Out of habit, Ong Ngoai always gives Mom a hard time for bringing too many gifts.

Years had gone by since Mom's last trip to Hoi An. Whenever I sat on the pink plastic stool and stared out at the dirt path, Ong Ngoai liked to point out the ficus tree next to the gate. Thirty-five years ago, he planted that tree as a symbol for Mom. She had left their home near the end of the Vietnam War and didn't return for twenty years. The tree was older than me, and the leaves were overgrown and dipped into a fishpond. At certain angles, the tree seemed to weep.

Their house was emptier than the last time we visited. Two uncles and an aunt had died within three years of each other. My favorite uncle, only forty at the time of his death, left behind three teenagers, who lived with their mother down the street from Ong Ngoai's house. When my cousins came by on our second day, we smiled and gestured to one another. In my limited Vietnamese, I could only ask how they were doing and not much else. My grandparents' home was simple, with a makeshift kitchen, a drinking well, and an open terrace. Pebbles, dust, and mud puddles lined the street outside their house. Privacy was a foreign idea. All the neighbors could see into each other's homes, and conversations were easily overheard. There was no Western toilet, only a hole in the ground that we tried to make the best of. In the afternoon heat, we liked to duck into the washroom and throw a bucket of cold water over ourselves. The sound of the water hitting the floor is constant in my mind.

My husband, Peter, and I chose not to sleep in their house because I couldn't bear the dry heat that was trapped in the house or the mosquitoes that dined on my skin. Instead, we soaked up the air conditioning at the budget hotel on the same block. We let Thien run around naked and eat ice cream to cool off. I showed my affection by going to Ong Ngoai and Ba Ngoai's house for every meal and in the evening for storytelling.

The refrigerator, flat-screen TV, scooters, and vitamins locked in the cabinet were all made possible by Mom. It's true. As my cousins and my youngest aunt enjoyed a modern Vietnam, earning college degrees and getting corporate jobs, Mom worked six days a week at the nail salon in San Francisco. For more than thirty years, she sent any extra money back to Vietnam to help pay for weddings, school uniforms, medicine, and little extras for my grandparents.

* * *

For decades, Ong Ngoai woke up at four in the morning to bike to the beach and enjoy a morning swim. Like other Vietnamese, he came early to Cu Dai Beach to relax in the still water and cool air. Since his last stroke, Ong Ngoai didn't go to the beach anymore.

Ba Ngoai woke up at the same time to walk to the bakery and buy fifty mini baguettes. Even at age seventy, there was nothing that held her back from working in the heat. The French baguette provided income for Ba Ngoai, as she stuffed them with jambon, pickled carrots, and jicama to make the famous banh mi thit that Vietnam is known for.

"For locals, I sell banh mi for 20 dong and 50 dong to foreigners." Ba Ngoai smiled as she told me about the pricing. Her teeth were stained red from the betel nuts she chewed twice a day.

She never dressed up; instead, she wore a cotton tank top and matching pants with brown plastic slippers that were faded and cracked. At the marketplace, Ba Ngoai hid her old age with a conical hat, making her blend in with all the other marketplace women. I distinguished Ba Ngoai by her smile, fat cigarette, and squat.

"Those foreign photographers take my picture all the time," Ba Ngoai told me as I sat with her at the riverside market.

"Do they give you money or buy a sandwich at least?" I asked.

"No, they hardly ever say anything to me." She shrugged, still not understanding why photographers were fascinated with her.

Tuan, my brother who lives in Vietnam, found a postcard of Ba Ngoai in a gift shop in Ho Chi Minh City. He bought the whole stack and brought them to the family. Mom and Ba Ngoai were embarrassed and hid them all away.

"Ba Ngoai works hard, and she looks sad in this picture. Don't show it to anyone," Mom warned me while rolling her eyes.

* * *

The women in the Hoi An marketplace are tough. Many of them are over the age of sixty but handle boats and scooters with ease. They can take the heat as they drag loads of mangoes and dragonfruit on their backs. Ba Ngoai and her marketplace friends have endured times of famine and floods but still smile even though they work harder than the people I know back home.

I watched Mom prepare blue crabs, steamed pork belly, and grilled catfish for my grandparents. The smile on Mom's face never disappeared while she was home.

The drunk who lives across the street sang loudly every evening: "We're poor; we eat vegetables. They're rich; they eat meat." During our dinners, he purposely screamed profanities while drinking cheap beer on the steps. This neighbor had no relatives in the United States to bring him gifts.

Each morning, Mom woke up early to walk to the riverside market to pick out fish, water spinach, and pomelos. Despite the simplicity of the town, Mom insisted on wearing her diamond ring to the market.

"Mom, how can you bargain at the marketplace? It seems silly to haggle for fifty cents when you're wearing fancy jewelry," I said.

"What are you talking about? Why can't I haggle? I know they're charging me more."

"But, Mom, they can see your jewelry. How can you expect them to go down on their price?

"There's nothing wrong with me wearing my jewelry."

"I'm just saying, you should just pay what they ask. It's so cheap already."

* * *

There are little things that bother me when I'm with Mom in Vietnam. Even though Mom's overwhelmed by the distant relatives and neighbors who show up asking for money, she goes along with it.

After a trip to the big supermarket in Da Nang, Mom's smile sort of disappeared.

"What's wrong, Mom?"

"They never ask anymore. All my nieces and nephews put things in the cart without asking," Mom said sadly.

"Why not say something?" I said, a bit irritated by the presumptions that my cousins make.

"What can I do?"

It seemed that no one thought Mom had to work hard because she lived in the United States. Sometimes I wanted to shout to everyone, "Mom doesn't make that much money! Please stop taking!"

* * *

During an evening of heavy rain, I sat quietly, watching Ong Ngoai rest on his wooden bed while Mom held his hand and fed him hot rice with steamed fish. "Ba, eat fish that I made."

"Why did you buy expensive fish for me?"

"I only come home every few years. I wanted to do something special. It's healthy too." Mom continued to feed him with chopsticks.

Thien and Peter kicked a soccer ball around and took turns on the hammock. I tried to take their picture, but Thien kept making funny faces. His fair skin was getting tanned, and his hair was greasy from the humidity.

Even though it was only my third time being with Ong Ngoai, by the attention he gave Mom, I sensed that he regretted kicking Mom out of the house when she was seventeen. Ong Ngoai wouldn't let Mom out of his sight during our stay. She was young and had been swept into an unforgiving world and didn't return home until she was almost forty years old. As Ong Ngoai and Mom sat close to each other, holding hands, there was absolute forgiveness and appreciation. As the evening went on, my uncles and aunties arrived on their scooters to join the family supper and rummage through Mom's gifts.

After dinner, the women washed dishes while squatting underneath the single bulb that hung on a twisted wire from the ceiling. The evening rain and thunder arrived, and the house lights flickered. My cousins rushed to save everyone's sandals from the rain, bringing them all inside. This moment felt like a dream but was strangely familiar in my blood.

Even from thousands of miles away, Mom has shown her love to her parents and siblings. Being the brave one, the only one in her family living outside of Vietnam, Mom has lived three decades with endless worry and guilt. It's hard for her to sleep at night in California. Mom wonders whether her widowed sister will survive her solitude, whether her twelve-year-old niece has finished grieving over the death of her alcoholic father, and whether my seventy-year-old grandmother will ever quit working. On Saturdays, she wakes up at five o'clock in the morning to call home and hear the news of the week.

When I am in Ong Ngoai's home, nothing else matters except these rare moments with my family, which I keep dear to my heart. Only a few times in my life have I seen Mom's heavy heart loosen up. Only in Vietnam, Mom does not worry about me.

When I'm in this place, I feel at home in some ways. I abandon my privilege of being the only one on both sides of my family to have been born in the United States. I'm treated differently, but I try hard not to resent anyone for their aloofness toward me as I acknowledge that my life will always be more fortunate. None of them will have the opportunity to get a glimpse into my world the way I glimpse into theirs.

* * *

The night before we left, I stared at the collage that Ong Ngoai made with photos he had collected of Mom and me. The collage was hung on a wall next to the clock; the pictures were faded and worn from the dust and sun. I was surprised to see a stuffed animal that belonged to me when I was a kid, kept in a glass case like an antique item. Our time in Hoi An went too fast, and it would be three more years before our next visit.

On the morning of our departure, Ba Ngoai left the house before we woke up. She is never around on departure day. She can't bear to watch us leave. Ong Ngoai started to cry as we waved to him from the van. We didn't say anything as we headed toward the Da Nang airport. Our family moved through the security line at the airport like zombies, leaving a part of ourselves behind in Vietnam.

Departure

* * *

Mom's clients often ask her if she did nails back home in Vietnam. Mom didn't dream of becoming a manicurist. In fact, the profession didn't even exist in Vietnam until recently. She was born Pham Thi Phuong in Hoi An, Vietnam. My grandfather, Ong Ngoai, was an occasional carpenter, making rosewood tables and chairs for neighboring families and cafés. Ba Ngoai, my grandmother, always worked in the marketplace selling mangosteen and starfruit when Mom was a child. In the fall months, their small town suffered from heavy rains and floods, which made it hard to make money. With eight mouths to feed, there was never enough food beyond rice and vegetables. After school, Mom watched over the fruit stand as Ba Ngoai bartered for small fish or flowers for their family altar.

Like other teenagers, Mom wanted to fall in love and search for a good life, even if there was a war going on. Mom grew up in a thatched-roof house a mile up from the Hoi An river, with no electricity and running water. She was the eldest of six children and certainly not from money, but she appreciated good fashion. Mom was influenced by her few encounters with television and Western magazines. Her prized possession was a dress that a family seamstress made for Mom when she was thirteen. She daydreamed about collecting pretty dresses and becoming a clothing designer.

Her future was uncertain and unpromising as incense sticks multiplied in a nearby banyan tree where wives and mothers mourned loved ones who had died. It was hard to think about a future with unexpected bombings along the countryside during the war. In the late sixties, surviving the day and having enough rice to eat was her family's daily mission. With her big eyes and fair skin, Mom was considered one of the most beautiful girls in her town, but there wasn't a bright future. When Ba Ngoai met with the town psychic, he said Mom was destined for a challenging life.

* * *

When Mom and I finished eating dinner one night when I was sixteen, I asked her about what it was like to grow up during the war. Earlier that day, my history teacher had talked about the Vietnam War, and it made me curious about Mom's experience.

"Your grandparents would wake up my sisters and me to hide underneath our house. I just wanted to sleep, but we had to hide," she told me while clearing the dishes.

I tried to imagine Mom hovering in a secret shelter. "Were you scared?"

"Yes. But I wanted to sleep. I didn't understand how big the bombings were at that age. I was younger than you."

"Did you know anyone who died in the war?"

"When I was sixteen, I saw my first ghost," Mom whispered. "I heard someone playing guitar outside. I looked out the window and saw my friend Truong, but he had no feet. He was sitting on the sidewalk singing, but he never looked my way."

Truong was Mom's childhood friend who left to fight in the war when he was seventeen. After Mom saw his ghost, Truong's sister visited the next morning to tell Mom that he had died after fighting for only a few months.

Mom's intuition and superstitious nature have been a burden to her. From the moment she encountered Truong's ghost, Mom has always relied on fortune-tellers and spiritual advisors to make sense of her life and provide her with protection in the form of charms and offerings to the deceased. Under her pillow, there is always a small knife decorated with a special charm to ward off bad spirits.

After weeks of grieving over Truong, Mom met Nam, a painter whom she fell in love with quickly. She couldn't focus on school and became fascinated with Nam's artistic outlook on life. Ong Ngoai found out that Mom was skipping school; he was furious. He followed Mom one evening to a coffee shop and saw her with Nam. Ong Ngoai dragged Mom home and cut off her waist-long hair even though Ba Ngoai was begging him to keep his temper down.

Mom cried and tried to pull away from Ong Ngoai's scissors, but he kept cutting her hair until it was a short and crooked crew cut. Ong Ngoai threw her clothes on the floor and demanded that she pack all of her things.

"The next day, Ong Ngoai put me on a train to Nha Trang, and I didn't see him for a long time." Mom cried when she told me the story.

* * *

The first time I met Ong Ngoai, he showed me the ficus tree he planted that same day he put Mom on the train. "Ba Ngoai cried for your mom every day. I sent her to live with our relatives in Nha Trang. I regretted sending your mom away because she didn't come back for twenty years."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Same Same by Ly Nguyen Copyright © 2012 by Ly Nguyen. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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