I am currently reading Andrew Pham’s “Catfish and Mandala” and his vivid descriptions of Vietnam evoke many memories of the four times I visited Vietnam so far.
Winter 1999. My sister and I traveled to Vietnam for the first time to meet my grandma and my two aunts. It’s my first Viet Kieu experience when my emotions of poverty, hopeless children with no future and human cruelty are not desensitized yet, when the sight of poor children selling chewing gums alone already tear your heart apart. My sister and I stopped at one of the food vendors in a market, sitting down on tiny plastic chairs in the streets of Saigon to eat rice and meat like the locals. As we ate the tiny meals, we can’t help but notice the two children standing near us, looking at us, waiting for us to finish and hoping that we would have leftovers. My sister looked at me, knowing that we both can’t continue eating and asks whether we should leave now. Not knowing what to do, I nod and as we left, we look back and sure enough the two children scrambled over whatever we left behind. I realize that if my family did not make it on our second attempt leaving Vietnam on a boat in 1979, that my sister and I could have been there eating some other tourists' leftovers.
Summer 2001. My friend and I travel to the countryside of Vietnam to teach English, but the government shut us off after a month because we forgot to bribe the county with gifts, while I already donated two laptops to the school. When I was supposed to inform our 50+ students scrambling inside a tiny, hot classroom that had nothing but benches, chairs and a board, that our program has been shut off, I look into our children’s eyes as they are filled with tears. News have already spread that we are leaving, but to protect the school from further difficulties with the county officials, I was pressured into lying to them with an excuse of 'important business back in the States.' My voice cracks as I try to say that we can’t teach anymore, but I mutter only a few words, until someone else had to take over. I left my Vietnamese teaching experience, asking what kinda impact have we really done, even if we gave these children an entire year of ESL? What help would it be to know perfect English in a town with only two major intersections and the only future is to be stuck in poverty with little chance of moving into a bigger city? As our school children are slowly starting to discover the internet, I get emails every three weeks from children whose names and faces I have almost forgotten, but they always ask “thay oi, thay, chung nao thay moi tro ve Viet Nam lai?” I don’t know what to answer. 'Some day', I reply, not really knowing when I will see them again. I miss them.
Summer 2002. My family and a group of friends organize a cross-country trip from south to north Vietnam to see the history and sights of Vietnam, but also to make contact with Vietnamese youths at universities and through other youth-related gatherings. Just before our trip, my friend and I took the moped (or Honda as you call it in Vietnam) and we drove alone for two hours out of Saigon to the place where we taught the previous year. We met up with Mai again, a young, bright, but very poor high school English teacher whose smile was enormous when we showed up unannounced in front of her place that is literally in the woods. She tells us about her father’s illness and that she intends to sell herself as a bride to Taiwan after hearing so many “good” stories for an easy way out for a poor woman like her to save her parents from poverty. My friend and I looked at each other, knowing what it really meant to sell yourself as a bride, and tried our best to talk her out of it, but somehow I don’t know if were convincing enough. As we return to the States, my family tried to match-make her with one of our acquaintances, but unfortunately it didn’t work out. We exchange a few letters here and then, but I haven’t heard from her since them. As I do my volunteer work for VietACT, I am often afraid of suddenly seeing her face in one of the pictures that we get from Taiwan. I sit in my comfortable apartment in heart of Silicon Valley with a stable job, and I ask myself, what ever happened to Mai? Will her house with the roof made out of hay still be there next time I drop by or will I see her face next time in a VietACT file?
Fall 2004. I return to Vietnam on a medical volunteer mission with Project Vietnam. I arrived in Hanoi several days before the meet-up, but didn’t really know anyone in Hanoi yet. Already knowing Hanoi’s sights from previous trips, but not knowing how to spend my time alone in Hanoi, I rented a moped again and drove around with my digital video camera to make my A Day in Hanoi video. Along the way, I encounter two children playing chess, a sign stapled to the street corner announcing the death of a person in the neighborhood, an old senior who sits on his wheelchair enjoying the tranquility of Ho Hoan Kim, a group of art students drawing images of the romantic scenery of Ha Noi. Exhausted in the evening, I stop over at one of those pho street vendors again and chat with a Japanese businessman about the differences between Japan and Vietnam, when the vendor owner comes over and joins us for the next hour as she lamented about how the people at the bottom of the ladder will always continue to be stuck in this status quo, and that she doesn’t see how the majority of the Vietnamese people will prosper anytime soon with the current state of phenomenal economical growth but that only benefits the few. I wonder whether her opinions will have changed next time I return to Ha Noi and stop by the same food vendor place.
January 2006. It’s the Tet Festival in Little Saigon and I find myself for the third consecutive weekend in the place that I call home. My entire family is on the Tet Festival site, taking care of community projects, preparing Phu Heo’s booth, and helping here and there. Although I never really lived in Little Saigon, I always consider it my home, not only because my family is there, but more so because the community and the people I work with are there. However, more and more, my thoughts are bringing me back to my home country. It has been two years since I’ve been back, and reading Andrew Pham’s novel makes me a bit nostalgic. I miss Vietnam. I really miss Vietnam, and I play more and more with the idea of living there some day. Last weekend, I chatted with my family about my plans to work in Vietnam for a couple of years. Mom supports the idea very much, and turns out that my sister had some ideas of her own to go back soon, and as for my Dad. I don’t know. It will be hard for him to see his beloved son go to Vietnam, but ultimately I know he will support it too, shall the opportunity arise, and shall I follow up on my dreams.
It’s Tet here in Little Saigon, but I wish that I can spend Tet in Vietnam some day soon.