Ăn Bắc, Mặc Nam: Short Story Version

Ăn Bắc, Mặc Nam1

Eating as in the North; clothing as in the South2

Tuyêt:3

I remember school at home. I was one of the lucky ones. Mẹ and Cha had enough money to send me to school after Primary school. They even had enough to get me through Private school in the evening. But it was so different here. 4

All the opportunities! They all were waving in my face, tugging on my hand, dancing before my eyes. What I would have given to have even heard of these words: scholarships, internships, technology courses, advanced placement! Here, they were as common as rice! It was so overwhelming, so exciting, so frightening. I’m not sure if I screamed or cried or laughed. Maybe I did it all. 5

But there were so many faces, and I didn’t know a single one. 6

They all wanted the scholarships and courses and opportunities too. That frightened me, but it also made me determined: I would earn something here. Coming here wasn’t easy; we all sacrificed everything. I think we left part of our souls back in Vietnam. But it wouldn’t be for naught; I would do my best. I would bring honor, prosperity, and “all that stuff”, like Tiên would say. What Confucianism put above all. I would put it above all. 7

My first paper returned was an A. A few glances were thrown my way, and I didn’t know what that meant. Was I clearly different? Could it be so obvious that I was a foreigner? Or was it the A? Was I doing something wrong? What was it? So I did all I could: made myself as small as was possible and kept my lips closed. 8

This continued through to lunch until a girl with short brown curls walked up to me. 9

“You’re the girl that got an A, aren’t you?” the American girl asked, sitting down with a lunch tray in hand. “That’s probably because you’re Asian. Asians are usually smart, aren’t they?”10

I had no idea what she was talking about, so I smiled politely and nodded. 11

“Well, my name is Amity, what is yours?” she held her hand out so boldly, and I wondered what made her do so. Why did she want to talk to the new girl?12

“Tuyêt,” I replied quickly. Only then did I notice how thick my accent was. 13

She gave me a funny look, and asked me to repeat it. But when I did, it didn’t help much at all. “Is that a Chinese name?” she asked at last. 14

That was far from the last time I was asked that question. 15

“Vietnamese.” I shuffled awkwardly in my seat, for once embarrassed of my name. Why couldn’t Americans say it? Was it weird? I had a new start here, and I didn’t want it to be ruined by having an “odd name”. Normal. Blend in. “Just call me Gwen.” Maybe my reading obsession had come in handy, and the allusion to British faerie tales would be clear. Or maybe I just hoped too much, and read too much, and thought too much about everything.16

I think it was the later. 17

“Gwen! Now I can say that name!” she laughed, and I knew right away that I had a friend that didn’t care that I was new to America, or that I hoped too much, and read too much, and thought too much about everything. That didn’t mean I opened myself up right away though. So I smiled politely and answered her questions, not saying too much, not saying too little. It was a start. 18

Tiên:19

Tradition. Everyone have tradition, right? Every month, we visit the Vietnamese mart. It’s about a half hour away, and it’s not easy to get to, not to mention the traffic’s always thick. But who cares about that? It’s tradition that we go to the Viet mart. We can speak freely in Vietnamese, without English, eat Vietnamese food without people staring and asking “What’s that?” and laugh at jokes only Vietnamese would understand. It’s like being unlocked and breathing. 20

I want to breathe again.21

If I close my eyes hard and forget everything, I’m in Vietnam again. I have to forget that this is Virginia and that we’ll go home in a few hours, but if I can forget that, I feel like myself again: Vietnam’s Tiên. In Vietnam, this is who I am: that person I hide when I’m at school. The person that English wouldn’t understand. But the loud Viet pop music, the scents of fresh soymilk and phở, the chatter of Vietnamese: it’s almost home here. Almost. 22

Now there’s a way of doing things, especially when at Vietnamese plaza. We first eat lunch at the Tứ Linh Restaurant, talk to the people there, then go next door and get fresh warm soymilk. Then we get useless fun nicknacks (For Tuyêt, stationary and Vietnamese calligraphy pens; for Truc, Doraemon candy; and for me, the newest Cam Ly CD). If we have enough money, we get our nails done or our hair done the right way. And since Truc was a boy and didn’t like that sort of thing, he’s dragged into the waiting room, playing his Nintendo DS. 23

The last stop is always the mart itself. Because normal marts don’t have lychees, dragon fruit, rice (bags and bags of rice), noodles, crab sticks, jack fruit, and all that good stuff. I don’t know why, but it’s nice to be in a mart. Maybe it’s because taste and scent are so strong. Maybe because there are other Viets there. Maybe I don’t want to forget, like so many people do. I want to remember that there is a place called Vietnam still. 24

I want to run through the aisles, grab a bag of milk candy and hug it. I think I did that the first time we went to the mart after coming to America, and Truc laughed at me. He said it was something a little kid would do. But what else smells like home? What else tastes like home? How do you call it: nostalgic? And I feel like a little kid again. Maybe that’s why it would make sense to run through the aisles and eat candy. 25

Tuyêt always makes sure we get a bag of lychees. She still sees us as little girls in the yard, peeling lychee nuts. In just a couple hours or so, we could peel up a whole box of them, laughing and chattering like old sames. We would talk about our teachers, give them bad nicknames, joke about slapping them with those sticks they slapped us with if we asked too many questions. If we had any marks from being hit too hard, we would laugh and say they were our “battle scars”. We would make jokes we probably shouldn’t have about people we knew, throwing the pink lychee shells all across the yard at the same time. We were too little to not be happy. 26

We still keep that tradition. We forget everything that is now. That’s how I like to live: forgetting everything. 27

And then we remember. 28

We go “home”, we speak English, we do homework, we leave that behind us. They leave it behind them, at least. And I peel a lychee, and just have to imagine us in the back yard, peeling lychee nuts and laughing over jokes we shouldn’t laugh at. 29

Tuyêt30

“Tiên! Tiên!” She had never had good hearing, but I felt I had to shout a bit louder now. Was it something about America that made her hearing bad? 31

She actually responded. “Cái gì thê?” What is it? She had to pull out an iPod ear bud to answer. As usual, she was sitting at the computer, playing games on the internet. Especially Audition. Vien introduced her to that game a year ago or so, and ever since, she’s lived a second life on the internet. We only had one computer, a fact Tiên cared little about. 32

“I need to do homework,” I muttered in Vietnamese, watching her character dance across the screen. 33

“And I need cash,” she replied back casually, her fingers flying over the arrow keys as if it were nothing. If only those skills could be used in the realm of homework. Oh, how I wish I could type so fast! Maybe she would just type the assignment for me…?34

“Tiên, stop dancing and wake up!” my hand jokingly slapped her cheek. She usually forfeited the computer over by this point. “For your elder sister, Tiên! You’ve got to honor and give the best for your elders!” To which she would reply, “Yes, Tuyêt, you’ very old. And very annoying. Fine, just hurry up and do your school work!”35

I guess she forgot her lines. 36

“If you’re so old, Tuyêt, get your own computer! You have a job; go get yourself some money!” She snapped, and there was no jest in her eyes. Never before had I seen Tien so angry! Tiên wasn’t an angry sort of person. But now, her eyes were living coals, usually dormant, but heated up by some unseen force, suddenly burning at the touch. I didn’t say anything different than before; what made her in such a mood?37

At first I was speechless, afraid of Tiên, afraid for Tiên. So I decided to compromise and cool her down. “Just let me know when you’re done, ok?” I put on my best smile too. But she just muttered something under her breath and turned back to the screen. The night passed and I never did get the computer. But I wasn’t counting the hours, and I’m sure she wasn’t either. 38

Tiên:39

Truc brought his Doraemon lunch box with him everywhere, even if there was no lunch in it. Anything of Doraemon would catch his attention. You say: Truc, clean your room and you might see Doraemon! His eyes would light up and he would run up the stairs to work on his room. He had every Vietnamese Doraemon comic book spread across his room, along with all sorts of printed out posters of the little blue cat. When we went to the Viet Mart, we would bring him Doraemon candy. Doraemon. Doraemon. Doraemon was all he could talk about! But suddenly it stopped.40

“Truc! I packed lunch for you! I even added some Doaremon treats!” I called out to my brother, but there wasn’t the usual excited racing down the stairs. There was a dull, slow thud-thud-thud instead. “Truc, cái gì là sự không ổn với bạn? Khẩn trương; take your lunch and get to school!”41

But he didn’t tell me what was wrong, and didn’t hurry up, just giving me a rude frown. “I don’t want a Doraemon lunchbox. I don’t want Viet food.”42

The slap I sent across his face sounded louder than I thought it would. I couldn’t’ believe him, talking to his elder so rudely and ungratefully! “You’ll take what you are given! This is what we have!” 43

When I shoved the lunchbox into his hands, he dropped it on purpose, making the plastic box open and the thermos of phỏ roll across the floor with a bump. “People at school think Doraemon’s weird. They think he’s like Hello Kitty, and that he’s for bé. I won’t let everyone laugh anymore!”44

What strong words. Did he realize that our whole family was going through the same sort of pain? “Have you told them about Doraemon, what he really is? Maybe then, you could start a trend!” I offered with a smile. 45

“New kids don’t start trends,” his face scrunched up, trying to be tough and hold his pain inside. But he couldn’t. 46

Wordlessly, I picked up the thermos and lunchbox from the floor, laying them on the counter. Grabbing a paper lunch bag from the drawer (my secret stash of biscuits and pocky and milk candy), I made a quick sandwich with the last scraps of bread and slice meat, bundled it up, and handed it to him. “I won’t tell Mẹ. Now, khẩn trương!” I gave his shoulder a push to the door. 47

Before he left, he smiled half way, and it frightened me. “Cảm ơn, chị,” he said and stepped outside. 48

Turning back to the counter, I took the Doraemon thermos and chopsticks and threw them into my bag. “I guess that’ll be my lunch then,” I sighed, watching Truc step onto the bus. “Please don’t let them get you, Truc. Be strong, be you, be like Doraemon,” I smiled sadly, knowing this was just the start. 49

Lots of Viet kids do this when they come to America. First, they turn quiet. Then they don’t want Viet food anymore. Then they don’t wanna speak Viet with family. Then they do the worst, most horrible thing anyone can do: they forget their family. To them, America is their new family, and belonging there is all that matters. But they forget that America is big, and America doesn’t care that you’re Viet, and America won’t comfort you when you’re feeling things that English can’t describe. Family can’t forget. Family will always be there to listen. Family can speak Vietnamese. 50

But none of that mattered to Truc. All that Truc could see was that if he wanted to be like other Americans, he’d have to leave Doraemon behind. He didn’t understand all that he would be leaving behind in the end. 51

Tiên52

I hate this. It didn’ take two days for me to be sure that I hated school. I talk to no one; no one talk to me. That is my identity here, but that’s not me! I sit in the corner with my cellphone and iPod, which is the best it’s gonna get here. At lunch, I’m alone. On the bus, I’m alone. When I’m not with family, I’m alone. I’ve gotten very used to being alone. 53

I’m nearly going insane being alone.54

Thanh Thao, Nguyen Vu, Vu Ha, Cam Ly, Minh Tuyet, Dan Truong. They are my best friends. The ones that live in my iPod. Truc ask’: Is that thing part of your ears? If you take it out, will you die? And Tuyêt always looked up when she notices it in my hand. 55

Tuyêt. There’s something different about Tuyêt. Didn’t she miss Vietnam too? It didn’t seem so to me. Here she is right now—56

“Chao,” she greeted over my shoulder, frowning at my iPod. She studied my mangled English paper, the unaccented letters that were supposed to make words. But they didn’t. And she laughed. “Tien, it’s Oedipus Rex, not ‘Ethipuz Res’!” Tuyêt and her obsession over making everything just right! 57

“She’d know what I mean,” I blush, erasing all the words that weren’t right. There weren’t many left. 58

Nosy Tuyêt, flipping through my book! “Antigone? I think I’ve heard of this one. It’s about the girl that stands for her beliefs and dies, losing her family in the process? It’s one of those Greek plays: tragedies? They always end sadly.”59

“It’s a dumb story,” I played with the pages. 60

“Really?” Tuyêt frowned. “My friends said they liked it a lot. It’s sad, but it makes you think. Is what you believe worth giving up everything for?”61

I wasn’t really listening. “Your friends? Like, not Viet friends?”62

Tuyêt knew what I was thinking. And she didn’t like it at all. “So what if I have American friends? They’re very nice. They helped me with my English and with adjusting to America. They don’t care that I’m from a different country or that I don’t always think the way they do, or that I am slow at understanding some things!”63

“Adjusting? You make it sound like you want to become American!” I laughed at how silly that sounded on my lips. “You can’t mean that how it sounds, that you don’t want to go back to Vietnam, that you’ll live here…forever!” The last word fell hushed, for saying such a nightmare out loud was taboo, as if an evil spirit would come and use it against me. 64

She didn’t say anything for a long time. “We don’t have much choice,” she spoke slowly, “We’re in America, Tiên; open your eyes! And for now, we’ve got to live in America. For now. In the mean time, we’ve got to learn how to live like Americans.”65

“But we’re not American; we’re Vietnamese!” My fist hit my paper. “No matter what, that’s not going to change.” It is all that I have left, I added in my mind. 66

“Yes,” I think she wanted us to agree and be sames at mind, but she continued, “But to the world, we must be American. That’s the only way we can get anywhere.”67

I don’ remember a time where Tuyêt and I felt so different about something. People use’ to joke that we were twin: made of the same sort of stuff. Now we sounded more like ying and yang, complete opposites. 68

I think she was worried about how long it took me to reply. “…Maybe I don’t wanna get anywhere. Maybe I like where I am.”69

She didn’t like that answer. “Do you know what Mẹ and Cha gave to get us here? Do you know anything about their dreams, their hopes, their expectations? They’ve given everything just to see us come to America, to be able to do something that matters in this world, to get something worthwhile. We have no choice but to give everything we are to see this happen!”70

“Is that all that matters to you: what they want? What about what you want too? Isn’t America ‘The Land of Dreams’?” 71

Tuyêt studied me for a while, as if unable to believe I asked that. “We can’t always follow our own dreams.”72

“So you live out someone else’s?”73

“Yes.” Her expression was so serious that I wasn’t even sure if it was still Tuyêt. “If I’ve been handed a dream, I should follow that. It is for my good, anyways.”74

Tuyêt’s smile almost said she believed her words. And for a while, I was pretty sure she did believe them. But day by day, it was less of a dream that she was following and more of a nightmare. The fine paper was ripping away, leaving only an ugly plastic box, but she had to keep it anyways. 75