A Day in Vietnam

(A fragmented recollection of a day visiting Vietnam. I write this in the hopes of it reaching out to others that have migrated, adapted, and now living within the gray area of what once was and now is)

Dad, Linh and Lam walking to the market

(Monarch butterflies migrate south to escape the cold of the winter. Humans are not so different. We migrate to escape the cold of war, poverty, and injustice. We take boats. We take planes. And some of us, even on foot. We leave behind our old lives, friends, and family, taking with us only the memories that remind us of home. It is those same memories that guide us back.)

It's our second day in Vinh Long, a city in South Vietnam. It's big enough where we can find a hotel with a standing shower, but small enough that it still feels like a family secret. It’s about 10 in the morning, hot, humid and sunny as expected. My mom double checks that she has a portable fan with her, one of the ones that she bought in bulk from Costco.

“Should I bring two?”

“No”

“Ok but don’t ask to borrow mine when it gets too hot”

“Ok I’ll try ”

My dad calls for a driver and we wait. Me, my sister, my father, my mother and my boyfriend. It's his first time in Vietnam. It's his first time in Vinh Long and it's now his secret too.

We drive and it's quiet other than my dad’s conversation with our driver, a habit that he subconsciously can’t help but pursue. They talk about the roads, streets and hidden alleys only the locals would know.

“Oh so much has changed”

“Has it?”

“Oh maybe not, I mean I can still get around, but it sure feels different”

He's nervous I am sure. And so is my mom. Maybe I am too.

We arrive at the government office. They ask what's needed to get a new ID. They only have their American IDs now, their Vietnamese ones long expired.

“Do they need their IDs since they wanna move back?”

“Yeah, I am pretty sure”

“Are you and Linh gonna get them too?”

“Probably not, our whole lives are in America”

We scramble back into the car and my mom’s fan is already at 70 percent. We drive a short distance with my dad leading the directions. The constant honking of motorbikes fade and we arrive. It’s a quiet street with brick houses painted pastel colors. I know this street. I grew up on this street. I moved away from this street.

I see a lady waving. She’s small in stature but her loud voice makes up for any loss in height.

“XEP, XEP, you’re finally back handsome!”

They embrace. They talk. We all exchange smiles in return. She’s visiting from Canada —Toronto, if I remember correctly. She’s an old neighbor, a friend. Her daughter is also visiting, now a nurse and a mother. She says her hello’s in English and we do the same.

We walk together to another neighbor's house. Cô Wa’s home. She’s lived here for 40 years and is my mother’s best friend. Or was, before the effects of distance and time. She grabs us sodas and they’re lukewarm under the unconditioned heat. My mother’s portable fan is now at 30 percent.

“Is there a charger? I am not used to the heat here”

It sure is hot outside, but Cô Wa doesn’t seem to mind, a tolerance built up by decades under the blazing sun.

Hours pass, or what seems to be minutes under the illusion of told old stories and the excitement of new ones.

“Should we go to Ba Nam’s now? Its already 2”

My father heads first and I follow. It's a beautiful home, newly renovated. Her grandson funded the project from his business. A success he found in a city a 10 hours drive away. Her niece and live-in caretaker open the door.

“How many inches have you grown since the last time I saw you?”

I laugh. Frankly, I am not too sure if I’ve gotten taller. Maybe older, but not taller.

My boyfriend stands patiently, saying hello with the limited Vietnamese he knows. They smile. He waves at Ba Nam’s great grand niece, hiding in the corner. She cries, unfamiliar with the American foreigner in front of her. I understand that feeling, for I was once also the little girl scared of the American stranger.

We move towards her room, a path I once followed. It feels odd now, like entering into a stranger's space. Despite all my efforts to preserve the memories of the same little girl I once was, my feet are now bigger, my face now slimmer, and my dreams now dimmer.

She looks different, the effects of Parkinson's withering her to her skin and bones. She looks sick. She is sick.

She whispers my name.

“Lam”

My mother always tells me that I have a beautiful name. A name given to me by Ba Nam after she was quickly inspired by her favorite Hong Kong soap opera character.

“Lam is beautiful name isn’t it”

It's a name that has been mispronounced and misspelled since I was six years old. A name that has been weaponized by grade school bullies, a signifier of my otherness.

But here..

Here my name comes out smoothly.

“Lam”

They explain she can barely speak these days, the disease progressing fast and aggressively.

She says my name again.

“Lam”

A tear rolls down her frail face. A tear rolls down mine. I sit with her. I hold her hand.

How does one grieve someone that is still alive? How do we hold onto memory when it so easily slips past us? What do we do when things change, when we change? Is it the little unseen and sometimes misunderstood things about us that brings us back? Is it the same things that remind us that we are now different?

As we leave, I see a butterfly fly past, its wings glistening under the Vietnamese sun.

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Lam is a recent college graduate based in Chicago, Illinois, currently working in the tech space. Moving to the United States from Vietnam 17 years ago, she seeks to find identity, memory, and family connection through reading, writing, conversation, and of course.. food.

Connect with Lam on LinkedIn.