VietnamEazy

by Trami Nguyen Cron

  “Why do they throw everything on the floor?” I whispered, and he politely replied while containing his laughter, “It is normal for folks from the countryside to do this.”

  He saw my look of horror and embarrassment.

  “We never did this in our family,” I added, while trying not to judge my relatives. No wonder Ngoại did not want Mom to marry my father.

  He nodded with a knowing smile.

  “I know, I know,” he said, and patted my hand reassuringly.

  After dinner, the crew said their goodbyes as I lingered with my family. I wanted to hug them, but I was not sure if this was acceptable for my family. I reached out to Bác first to hug her and she seemed surprised as I felt her small body stiffen. I immediately released my hug and held her hand between my palms. I gave her one of the money envelopes I prepared and thanked her for dinner, filled with promises that I would visit soon. I continued this process with each of the ladies in the family. Unlike other machismo cultures, in Vietnam, oftentimes the women controlled the money in the family. It was easier for me, a woman, to give money to my female relatives so the men did not lose face.

  I was happy to see the home of my ancestors, but I doubted I would ever visit again. Despite the natural connection I felt to them, somehow they felt too removed from me to truly embrace. Was I being influenced by their Communist Party connections? Many Vietnamese in the countryside joined the party as a means of survival when the Americans slowly lost control of North and Central Vietnam to the Communists. Or was I being judgmental, carrying prejudices toward my father’s family drilled into me by Grandma? It was dark as we climbed into our taxi. I could hear the summer bugs chirping in the background, the sky was black and full of stars. I was satisfied I finally met my family in Vietnam. Through the dirty car window I saw them there, waving at us. I leaned back as the car pulled away, closed my eyes and yearned for an imagined childhood in Vietnam. I relived every morsel of my first family meal as the crew’s voices faded away in the backseat.

  6

  Merging of Cultures

  STEAK AND POTATO STIR-FRY

  Thịt Bò Xào Khoai Tây

  A country’s cooking often reflects the merging of cultures throughout history. I love this dish prepared by my grandma as a special treat. In America, I found a similar dish in Salvadoran cooking called Lomo Saltado. Their dish is influenced by the immigration of the Chinese into El Salvador. In their version, tomatoes are added and soy sauce is used instead of fish sauce.

  3-5 Servings

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 pound rib-eye steak

  1/2 tablespoon oyster sauce

  1/2 tablespoon Maggi 1889 sauce

  1 tablespoon sugar

  1 teaspoon pepper

  4 cloves garlic

  1 onion

  3 russet potatoes

  2 tablespoon butter

  2 cup vegetable oil

  1 garlic bulb

  1 bunch cilantro

  Slice rib-eye into thin slices. In a small bowl add oyster sauce, Maggi sauce, sugar, pepper and smashed garlic cloves. Mix well. Add the mixture to the meat and marinate for thirty minutes in the refrigerator.

  Peel and chop onion into cubes and set aside.

  Rinse and peel potatoes. Cut potatoes into 1/4 inch-1/2 inch cubes. Parboil the potatoes. This will ensure thorough cooking when fried, resulting in a soft middle and crispy outer texture. Add butter and 2 tablespoons of oil to a frying pan. Heat until fat is bubbling. Place a layer of cubed potatoes into the pan. Be very careful not to splash yourself with the hot oil. Fry for four or five minutes. Use a large spatula and turn potatoes over gently at least once or twice during cooking. Cook until all sides are golden brown. Drain the fried potatoes on paper napkins to remove excess oil. Sprinkle pepper on potatoes.

  Take the rib-eye out of the refrigerator and remove from marinade (reserving remaining sauce for later use).

  Heat a fry pan on high and add 3 tablespoons of oil. When the oil begins to smoke, add the rib-eye and onions to the pan. Cook for three minutes or until all edges are brown, then add the marinade back into the pan to create a sauce.

  Add potatoes to pan and cook for two minutes. Place on a serving platter, garnish with cilantro.

  Serve immediately with steamed rice.

  Not until I found myself stowed away in my aisle seat on the flight from Ho Chi Minh City back to San Francisco did the dizzy intensity of those days begin to ease up. I replayed scenes from my whirlwind experience of my home country. I had not been in Vietnam long enough for my body clock to adjust, so while there I stayed on West Coast time and would often wake up at 4 a.m. Rather than fight to get back to sleep, I would slip out of bed and stroll through the park near where I was staying. Those early-morning walks were my favorite times in Vietnam, freed of the well-meaning but intrusive presence of my producer and TV crew. I cherished the chance to have simple intimacies with my people.

  To my amazement, I saw groups of men and women in Western workout clothes doing Zumba, ballroom dancing and some form of tai chi. They intently followed the instructor’s direction, but I had to laugh, hearing the teachers’ singsong voices, a way of speaking I’d never heard in my native language. It was like hearing rap in Vietnamese. I shook my head wonderingly and walked on, smiling at the strangeness of it all and curious what I’d see next. There were also individuals doing random exercises that went against every rule regarding proper form, such as locking one’s knees while twisting and bending back and forth, holding a railing while swinging one’s legs up and down without any core control. I had to fight hard to hold back the chuckles. I wished we could do a TV show on “How to be a proper Vietnamese in Vietnam” and show all the comical things I’d seen on the trip. It would be as funny as the Fung Brothers’ “Things Asian Parents Do,” which I loved to watch on YouTube, and ring just as true.

  Strolling the streets, I almost got run over by a young girl who ran out of a fancy salon with a wad of newspaper that was on fire. She threw it to the ground and jumped over it three times back and forth, then stamped out the fire with her feet, leaving a pile of ashes on the sidewalk. She seemed upset and was murmuring something under her breath. My curiosity overcame my shyness.

  “Em làm gì đó – What are you doing?” I asked her softly, hoping I would not offend her.

  She glanced up at me, a bit surprised, but softened her look and smiled at me.

  “Xui xẻo – Unlucky,” she said. “I had an awful first client to start my day so I had to burn the bad luck away or my whole day will be ruined.”

  “Why did you jump over the fire three times?” I continued.

  She was surprised my Vietnamese was perfect.

  “Jumping over the fire will cleanse away bad energy,” she said. “Three times is what I am told would do the job.”

  I think I asked her the questions because I hoped she could help me understand my own past. Whenever Ngoại came back from a funeral, she too would jump over a fire before coming into the house, so she could be sure the deceased person did not follow her inside. As a girl I’d had a hard time understanding why she did that. Now I was starting to get a better idea.

  It was impossible not to think about how different leaving Vietnam felt this time compared to when I left the country at the age of eight. I remember being told by Ngoại that we were going on a large plane to France. Though her words were full of excitement, her eyes revealed fear, confusion and sadness. She said we could only bring one of our favorite toys. We were to give away the rest to our friends as souvenirs so they would remember us for years to come. I was upset to have to give away my favorite toys. What about my little kitchen set? My seven dwarfs made of soft plastic? What about Snow White? Actually, I didn’t care for the plastic Snow White with a grotesquely large head, so I misplaced her somewhere. I sat in front of the seven dwarfs deciding their fates. Who would be able to go with me to Paris? I chose Bashful. I felt a deep connection to him, to his soft expression, shy body language,
yellow coat and sad eyes. He would need me more than the others. The decision to split up his family was a difficult one for me, but Grandma said I could only have one so I obeyed.

  On the day we had to leave, it was eighty degrees and humid and Mom dressed me in three layers of clothing, including thick and heavy hand-crocheted sweaters. I had never worn any jewelry in my life, yet that day I wore two gold necklaces, clip-on earrings and bracelets. At one point I looked over at my brother, who also had necklaces on him, and we both burst out laughing. Mom was irritated but too frazzled to make a fuss.

  Before leaving the house, Ngoại silently cried as she walked around every room and kissed every table and chair and wall as we watched, quiet, transfixed and uncertain. Neighbors waited outside our front door to say their goodbyes. Our precious black cat with white paws was handed over to our neighbors across from our house. I was excited to get all this attention, yet was confused as to why everyone was so sad. We were going on an adventure, they told us. I saw my little neighborhood friends cradling my dwarfs in their arms, watching me with their dark eyes, tanned skin and bare feet. Their names have faded into the shadows of my mind.

  Several cars took my grandparents, aunt and uncles, Mom and us to the Tan Son Nhut airport in Saigon. After the sad goodbyes, I sat in the car between Mom and Ngoại. Mom prepared herself for what was ahead by putting on her tough mask. She held her head high and looked straight ahead. She carried a brown purse that was almost as big as me. Grandma started to mumble a prayer as I watched her legs shake up and down. I put my right hand on her left knee as if to reassure her that everything would be fine. I don’t think she even felt my touch. She looked straight ahead as if in a trance, and the shaking continued.

  Just as my car sickness started to creep up and I was getting antsy with all the warm clothes, the car stopped. We were at the airport. We unloaded the car and I followed behind Mom. We passed through many security checkpoints until finally we reached a young official who stared straight at Mom.

  “Chị kia, ngừng lại đây – Older sister, stop here!” he said.

  Her quick steps came to an abrupt halt and she turned around to face him. He looked about twenty-five, clean cut and slender. He had to secure his belt tight to hold up his ill-fitted green pants. Mom suddenly remembered her charming smile and walked over to him in her high platform wooden heels. We all stopped in our tracks and turned around to watch the scene unfold in front of us.

  “Trong giỏ Chị có gì thế – What is in your bag?” he barked at her in an irritated tone.

  “Đồ của phụ nữ thôi – Just feminine things,” she slowly replied while appearing bashful, nonchalant and natural.

  I felt Grandma’s nails digging into my palm as she firmed up her grip. I looked up at her and saw little beads of sweat appear on her forehead. She was wearing two layers of clothing.

  “Chị mở ra cho tôi xem – Open it so I can see!” the young man barked.

  Mom unsnapped her bag and dumped its entire contents on the table. Perfume bottles, makeup brushes, blush, mascara, lotions, tissue paper, tweezers, scissors and toiletries all spilled out onto the table. So did feminine pads.

  The guard was so embarrassed at the sight of feminine pads, he was overwhelmed.

  “Chị làm gì vậy Tôi nói Chị mở ra thôi! Dẹp đi – What are you doing? I only asked you to open it. Put it all away!” he yelled at her.

  Then he waved his hand to let her – and all of us – continue on. We were all too stunned to react. We could not believe my mother had taken such bold action. My right hand was going numb from Grandma’s grip. All I could think of was getting on board the plane and being able to peel off some layers of clothing. Even with legal departure papers in hand, we still had to pass through several more checkpoints. I now understood why everyone on the plane held their breath until the wheels lifted off from the runway. I was confused but thrilled as the roaring hand-claps and cheers filled the plane. Every Vietnamese man, woman and child on that Air France Flight 253 on February 2, 1981, was leaving their homeland to escape the Communist regime. We flew to a mysterious destination where language, culture, food, people and weather were completely foreign, with an allowance of only one suitcase per person, an ounce of gold and a five dollar bill. Our suitcases, specifically ordered by Grandma, made of thick woven wicker, were filled with photos and memories of an era now ended, of life, as we knew it, now over.

  Back in the U.S. after my return for more Sliced and Diced filming, my heart was not in the competition. Standing next to my rivals, waiting for Peter’s next orders, I felt none of the adrenaline rush such moments had brought me before the trip. My thoughts kept racing back to the smells and sensations of Vietnam. I decided to wear summer wedges along with my light blue, floral chiffon dress, and the cold studio air made me regret my decision. My feet grew colder by the minute. I wanted to pretend I was still in Vietnam and I couldn’t do that with cold feet!

  After spending five frantic days in my homeland traveling, filming and tasting all the different dishes, I realized that one day I would have to go back to the country of my birth and experience living there – not just visiting, but a deeper experience. I was glad that by avoiding ice and brushing my teeth with bottled water I did not get sick, though I wondered if my body still carried vestiges of the all the germs from my childhood and if my system would have been able to tolerate a surge of concentrated bacteria. I was yanked out of my daydream by Peter’s British accent.

  “Contestants, are you ready for the next elimination round?” he called out.

  “Yes!” we replied in unison, all six of us.

  “Today, you will be cooking a dish that demonstrates the moment that changed your life.”

  He paused and looked at our faces to see if he needed to explain further. The remaining contestants looked startled and confused so he smiled and cheered us on.

  “Create a dish that has deep meaning for your life!” he urged everyone. “Be creative and cook from your heart! You have forty-five minutes to make it happen!”

  “Ready? Set. Go!” And with a wave of his arm we were off into the Sliced and Diced refrigerator and pantry to claim our ingredients.

  I detested this part most, the running and jostling, the elbowing and glaring at each other. It reminded me of going to Vietnamese stores, where there are no real lines and everyone just cut right in front of you. I never understood it. After years of education and exposure to other cultures, we still shoved and jumped in lines as if the apocalypse were imminent and we would all die of hunger if we weren’t first in line at the check-out counter. When I went to places like Huong Lan, a carry-out restaurant in Little Saigon in San Jose, I found myself patiently waiting for my turn when inevitably an older, short woman in ill-fitting shoes and fake Louis Vuitton bag would cut right in front of me. I was taught to respect my elders, so for a while I put up with these transgressions, but after it kept happening time after time, I had to adopt the same behavior or wait in line forever. I was always irritated by their actions. But now I understood it was simply a cultural difference.

  I reached for the rib-eye steak as Jay leaped in front of me, stepping on the tips of my toes. He quickly apologized while I used my monkey-like grip to grab the prized thick steak and flew past him before he finished his sentence. I continued to maneuver around my competitors to gather all my ingredients. I decided to get creative in this round and grabbed some tomatoes even though the original recipe did not call for them. My dish was an East meets West steak and potatoes stir-fry because it marked the most important moment for my family.

  As the plane took off and soared toward its cruising altitude we were finally allowed to get up out of our seats, and Mom grabbed her huge bag from under her seat. She dug around, finally pulled out two lotion and perfume bottles, and then discretely unscrewed one of the tops. She used a nail file to pull off the plastic cover inside one of the round wooden tops. Mom smiled proudly, shoved the cap in front of Grandma a
nd waited for her reply. She looked as if she were a four-year-old toddler showing her mama a prized toy.

  “Trời đất ơi! Tại sao mày lại làm như thế? Vì mày, mà cả nhà có thế bị bắt hết! – Heaven and earth! Why did you do that? Because of you, our entire family could have all been arrested!” Grandma cried out, grabbing the cap full of sparkly diamonds.

  Mom looked stunned by Grandma’s reaction. She let out a silent sigh and turned away from both of us to face the aisle. I could feel the weight of her sadness, even if at that time I could not begin to grasp the depth of it. As I look back now, I imagine Mom longed to get Ngoại’s approval. She took big risks to get it, but to no avail.

  The gap between them stayed wide my whole life. My mother would never receive the acceptance she desperately needed from her own mother, let alone any compliments. I harbored great hopes that a similar divide would not exist between my mother and me, but it did. I too longed for my mother’s approval and encouragement. I too wanted her to accept me as I was and love me despite my dark skin and scarred knee, despite my strong personality and my wrong choices. Her disapproving gaze inflicted countless beatings on my spirit that left it unable to soar. Would I be the one to put an end to this self-perpetuating cycle of abuse? Is “abuse” too strong a word to use for neglect, carelessness, indifference and thoughtlessness of a mother toward her child?

  “Kieu, you will have sixty seconds on camera to describe your dish,” the director said gently.

  I nodded. I was in a daze, filled with sadness. I closed my eyes and waited to hear the director’s voice again.

  “Five, four, three, two, one, go!” he exclaimed.

  I inhaled and opened my eyes with a huge smile.

  “Thank you for joining me today,” I began, then faltered.

  I was at a loss for words. My chest felt heavy and tears blurred my vision. Oh, no, not today. The psychoanalyst warned me this might happen from time to time, and told me to allow myself to let go of the emotion when it did. Not really an option here, however. Instead, I had to work through the sadness. Somehow. I swallowed the emotion as best I could.