VietnamEazy

by Trami Nguyen Cron

  I went to my room, put my school bag down on the floor and slumped over on my bed, waiting for the guilt to settle in over me. But I did not feel any guilt. Instead a strange new sensation came in its place. I could not feel the usual shame of having done something wrong. The familiar smell of fear did not even sneak in. Instead, the swell of injustice overwhelmed my entire body. My fingers started to grow cold and my body shook. I felt a strong conviction that a deep wrong had been done to me, a conviction that grew into anger. What had I done that was so wrong that I deserved to be slapped and humiliated in public and called hideous names usually reserved for prostitutes? Mom risked not only the lives of Van and me by ramming into us at high speed, but also her own life and the lives of my siblings, her children. How could this be right?

  I did not know what to do. I had no relatives nearby to turn to and no friends to run to. My childhood was so isolated from my peers that I did not have a single person to confide in during my hour of need. I felt lost, drowning in thoughts of despair, and was startled when the dark green phone on my desk rang.

  “Hello?” I said reluctantly, assuming it would be Mom and not wanting to talk to her.

  “Kieu?”

  It was Van’s familiar, calm voice, now tinged with a hint of panic.

  “Can you talk?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “We have to run away!” he blurted out. “She will not allow us to be together.”

  My mind raced with all the rules of proper behavior that had been impressed upon me. Running away with a boy would definitely ruin my life and reputation. That was an indisputable fact. Yet any fear I might have felt was overwhelmed by a deep sense of injustice done to me. Van urged me to make a decision. Mom and Minh would be back soon. I did not have time to weigh my options, to ponder or agonize. My gut would make the decision.

  “Yes, come pick me up now,” I said in a low and mature voice, firm and decisive. “She’s at the bank and will be back soon.”

  I felt bad leaving my little brother home alone for the short period of time until my mother came back from the bank. The overwhelming responsibility I felt toward all my siblings made it hard to leave. But Mom had forced me into this. She had left me no other option. Throughout the six years living with Mom and away from Ngoại, I had slowly grown a backbone. It may not have been made of steel, but it was strong enough to withstand what happened to me that day.

  I believe every child has a seed within him or her. It is a parent’s job to nurture and nourish that seed so that it may grow into whatever tree or flower it was intended to be. That seed should be watered, fed, protected and guided, but always allowed to be free to become what the universe intended it to be. To squash the seed, to force the child to become someone else through guilt and restriction, is an act of violence against a fellow human being and contrary to the order of the universe. This is a wrong that many Vietnamese parents continue to perpetuate to this day.

  Van drove for two hours, at least, heading nowhere in particular. Neither of us said much. I cried a little, because I was a child beginning to realize the enormity of what I had done. I asked Van to stop so I could find a payphone and call my Mom. After only a few hours, I already missed my family terribly. I wanted to call her to tell her I was OK. I was sure she would plead for me to come home. Once I’d heard her apologies, I would drag it out, pretending to be reluctant, and then grudgingly agree to come home that night. I would have taught her a lesson and everything would be all right once more.

  We stopped at a gas station. My fingers trembled as I slowly dropped coins into the slot of the rotary public phone. Van stood next to me to offer support, but by then he was as afraid as I was. He was starting to realize that since I was a minor, he could go to prison if my parents reported him for kidnapping or statutory rape.

  As I dialed my home phone number, I felt each pulse in one ear and the beating of my heart in the other. My fingers grew cold as I waited for Mom’s phone to finally ring. Tiny ants crawled from the base of my spine up to the nape of my neck.

  “Hello!”

  It was my stepfather’s harsh voice, but I did not want to deal with him now; this was between me and Mom.

  “Bố, please let me speak to Mom,” I pleaded.

  “No, she doesn’t want to speak with you,” he continued in his harsh voice. “You have upset her. You have made her sick. You better come home.”

  I was stunned yet again! He spat at me without a single note of care or sympathy for the barbaric way I’d been treated. Now she wouldn’t speak to me? The depth of sadness and disappointment I felt then at my own mother was indescribable, and the dislike I had for my stepfather sunk roots into my heart.

  I hung up the phone without answering him. Tears welled up and my chest felt tight, but no tears came. I pushed them down, buried them deep. My whole world collapsed with the realization that I was alone and unloved. Worst of all, I had to finally let go of my childhood dream of having a caring mother. I did not ask for her to be perfect, but I did expect her to care. That was her duty. Now I realized I may have come from her seed, but that did not guarantee me a place in her heart.

  “Well?” Van asked me, looking pale.

  I slowly shook my head in defeat and motioned him toward the car. He opened the door to let me in.

  “Let’s go to my parents’ house,” he said. “You can live there. It should be OK. They’ll talk to your parents.”

  At fifteen, I ran away from home with a man. That at least was what they all wanted to believe. The truth was at fifteen I ran away from my own mother.

  A few weeks later Mom and Van’s parents negotiated the terms of my move back home. I knew moving home was the best choice for me. Living at home would allow me to finish college, get a job and then leave forever. I knew the terms and consequences, but accepted them, because by then I had a clear objective for my life, one that would no longer depend on a mother’s love. I served out the sentence for my sins and wore the scarlet letter dutifully for years to come.

  Soon after I was eliminated from Sliced and Diced, it was time for Ngoại’s eightieth birthday. In our Vietnamese culture, this was a major occasion, the Lễ Thượng Thọ, or ceremony of the upper life, an opportunity for children to honor and thank their parents for raising them. My family planned a huge reunion in Paris and my mom’s youngest sister was put in charge of putting together the grand celebration. It was the first time in thirty years we would all be under the same roof.

  I was looking forward to seeing everyone, even Mom. The two weeks in Paris passed in a blur of long family meals feasting on unbelievable amounts of food, nightly karaoke and ballroom dancing barefoot in Uncle Quốc’s living room. I usually didn’t participate in the dancing, but enjoyed watching my family have fun. Mom and I had a good time together so long as we did not discuss anything she deemed unpleasant. At times, I wanted to leave Mom alone and never see her again, but something about blood and family always kept me nearby. But being close to Mom was similar to being trapped in a cage with a tiger: You never knew when the tigress would strike again, so you gently maneuvered yourself around her and wore a lot of padding, just in case.

  The second week we were in Paris everyone else was out and about and Mom and I were antsy and wanted to visit a few bakeries. Being alone with Mom was nothing I chose lightly. I appreciated any happy moments I had with her, but there had been precious few of those over the years. After I graduated from college I moved to California to get away from her. I always felt uncomfortable around her and the invisible space separating us was a source of persistent pain, but I did not know how to erase that distance.

  During those days in Paris, I sensed her aging more each time I saw her. This made me feel some sympathy, and softened me enough to allow a little space for tolerance and forgiveness toward her. Or maybe that was just how it worked with family: Sheer exhaustion led you to bury the bad and put it behind you. Good then drifted into the picture, of its own will, and you
did your best to shape it into something that might last. Despite the shortcomings of our relationship, I was feeling more of a sense of ease and confidence around her, less like a child who could never please her mother. Perhaps I was putting into practice my new belief, the Sliced and Diced epiphany, that I no longer needed Mom’s – or anyone else’s – approval.

  She and I loved French pastries more than anything. At the time, Lenôtre was considered the best, so we puzzled out the right subway route and found our way to 44 Rue d’Auteuil. The aroma wafting out the front door of the bakery was intoxicating. The glass window displayed an unbelievable array of petits fours, pastries and cakes. We bought two boxes of goodies for the family to share later that evening. My favorite was always Baba Au Rhum, a light cake soaked in rum with an amusing name. We strolled to a nearby cafe to stop for an afternoon drink and snack.

  It was a cool day but the sun was shining just enough to keep us warm. We sat in the small, typical wicker French chairs and placed our treats on the small iron cafe table. Mom ordered her usual cafe au lait and I, crème de menthe. We ordered a baguette, Pâté de Campagne and flan dessert to share.

  I sat facing Mom and waited for the familiar sensation of space opening up between us to descend. But to my surprise the atmosphere remained comfortable, intimate yet relaxed. Could it really be happening? I squinted through the sunlight, studying my mother’s face while she looked absently out toward the street. Could our mother-daughter relationship really be evolving into a casual friendship? As we enjoyed our drinks and smooth, creamy flan, I debated whether to risk destroying the moment by asking a question. With Mom it was always hard to predict how she would interpret any given thing at any given time. A probing question might seal this new closeness – or shatter it.

  I was once told, “Whoever sees the problem is responsible to fix the problem.”

  I saw the problem, the open wound that we shared. I wanted to heal the wound, once and for all, so I could move on with my life. After Mom and I chit-chatted about the visit and gossiped about my aunties, I met her eye and lowered my voice.

  “Mom, I have a question I’ve been meaning to ask you,” I said, speaking deliberately and tentatively, as if I were a child sneaking up on a house cat to catch it. Her face shifted from enjoyment to confusion and for a moment I wished I could take back my words. But it was too late.

  “Chuyện gì – What is it?” Mom replied, straightening up.

  I could see her shield coming up as she sighed and braced herself for my kicks.

  “I just want to know why we never talk about me,” I told her, gaining momentum now. “We talk often, yet you only tell me about other people, and never ask me about my life. You never ask about John. You never ask about me!”

  I was on a roll and a part of me wanted to complete the thought, grab my purse and sprint away from whatever I had wrought. Yet even more powerfully, I wanted to know the answer, even if it were horrible or insulting. I was prepared to move on with my life, as an adult at last, and never look back, if that was the way it had to be. Her eyes narrowed as she spoke to me.

  “Tại vì Mẹ nghĩ Mẹ không có quyền hỏi con vì Mẹ không làm tròn bổn phận của người Mẹ. Mẹ không có nuôi con từ nhỏ – Because I don’t believe I have earned the right to ask you, because I have not been a complete mother to you. I didn’t raise you when you were young.” She spoke her truth with a soft sigh so powerful, it blew away my wall of judgment.

  I was stunned. All those years I thought she did not care about me or ask about me because of the shame I had brought upon her for not being the perfect daughter she demanded. Yet all along, she felt she was not good enough for me?

  “You have the right, Mom, because you’re my mother,” I said, my voice shaky. “Don’t ever feel like you cannot ask me.”

  Her tears began to flow. I reached out for her hand to reassure her. Our roles had suddenly reversed. Now I was the mother consoling her broken child. All the sadness, anxiety and fear that I had carried with me toward my Mom for so long was now replaced with compassion and love. All those years of sadness and pain triggered by her inexcusable actions and words were now vanishing in the fading Paris sunshine. I had learned the truth.

  I came to understand that day that the love of a child toward a parent is truly unconditional. At that sidewalk café in Paris I wanted to take on all Mom’s sufferings as my own so she could be free of their weight and scars. Some seeds are stronger than others and better equipped to weather the storms of life. Yet we all have merits and were placed here to serve one another. Some plants have to seek out the sun amid the tall trees to live out an extraordinary life. Others want to live in the shadows and remain small to help anchor the roots of a tree. I was an oak tree and Mom, for all her ferocity and bluster, was a dainty flower that could easily be plucked away by a harsh wind. Her parenting might have violated every rule in the book by contemporary, Western standards, yet she had done what she could, with all the heart and soul she could muster, and she had helped prepare me for my extraordinary life.

  8

  Through Hell

  Hades Rice

  Cơm m Phủ

  Cơm m Phủ or Hades Rice is a popular dish in Hue city in Central Vietnam. It was created about eighty years ago by an actual restaurant named m Phủ. This dish usually contains seven colors to represent the first seven steps baby Buddha made at birth. Chef Tirone created this recipe as he imagined his last meal on earth, which includes five savory dishes and two desserts.

  Dish 1: Lamb Chop

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

  1/4 tablespoon fresh rosemary leaves

  1/4 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves

  Pinch black pepper

  1 tablespoon brown spicy mustard

  1/2 tablespoon olive oil

  1 lamb chop, about 3/4-inch thick

  In a bowl combine all ingredients up to the lamb chop. Pour over the lamb chop and marinate for at least one hour in the refrigerator. Remove from refrigerator and allow the chop to warm to room temperature. This will take about twenty minutes.

  Heat grill until smoking hot. Place lamb chop on hot grill and sear for about three minutes on each side. The meat will be medium-rare. For medium, cook for an additional thirty seconds on each side.

  Dish 2: Grilled Chinese Sausage

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 Chinese sausage

  Heat grill on high until smoking hot. Grill sausage on all sides for thirty seconds (two minutes total).

  Dish 3: Fried Egg

  INGREDIENTS:

  ½ cup olive oil

  1 large egg

  Heat olive oil in a pan for three minutes on high heat. This might look like a lot of oil, but don’t worry; it will make the bottom of the egg super crunchy and the yolk will remain creamy. Crack the egg directly into the hot oil. Cook for one minute, or longer if you like your yolk hard.

  Dish 4: Seared Foie Gras

  INGREDIENTS:

  1 tablespoon olive oil

  1 4-ounce piece Foie Gras, ¾-inch cut

  Heat Dutch frying pan on high heat for three minutes. Add oil. Cook each side of the foie gras for ten seconds.

  Dish 5: Kobe Beef Carpaccio

  INGREDIENTS:

  3 ounces Kobe Beef thinly cut into 5 into slices

  2 tablespoons olive oil

  1 tablespoon capers

  A small piece of brie thinly sliced

  Fresh ground peppercorn

  Arrange Kobe beef on a plate, sprinkle all ingredients on top and serve.

  Dessert 1: Beignets (makes about 2 dozen)

  INGREDIENTS:

  4-6 cups vegetable oil (for frying)

  1 cup water

  1 cup milk

  1 large egg

  3 cups all-purpose flour

  2 tablespoons baking powder

  1 teaspoon salt

  2 teaspoons sugar

  1 pinch nutmeg

  Powdered sugar />
  Pour oil into a large, deep pot or a deep fryer and begin to heat. Combine water, milk and egg in a large mixing bowl and mix well. Add flour, baking powder, salt and sugar. Mix until the batter is smooth. When the oil has reached 360ºF, drop individual spoonsful of batter into the hot oil and fry. Flip over the beignets two to three times until golden brown and puffy, then remove. Drain on paper towels and sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve.

  Dessert 2: 1 piece of fresh Durian, that most unusual Malaysian fruit.

  Halloween was always my favorite time of the year. The air was crisp and clean and everyone seemed to be in a happier mood. I was excited to host a party at Mom’s house so we could all gather to watch Episode Six of Sliced and Diced. No one in my family knew that I would be eliminated in the episode. I hoped it would not put a damper on the night and turn the whole thing into a pity party. I was proud of my accomplishments and thrilled with the experience, but alas no one would believe me, even if I swore it on a light bulb. (Yes, light bulb: In Vietnam, instead of saying “I swear on my mother’s grave,” we sometimes say “I swear on the light bulb.” If we were lying, then some magical curse would cause the bulb to burn out instantly. What was the likelihood of that ever actually happening? Zilch!)

  In Vietnam we had our own version of Halloween, though the reason and meaning of our festival was slightly different. We called it Lễ Cúng Cô Hồn (Hungry Ghost Offering Festival). The festival fell on the same day as the Buddhist Festival Vu Lan, usually in July. It was a day to celebrate and display our piety or dutiful dedication to our parents. Forgiveness was the theme of the day. For one day, the spirits in hell got a break and were allowed to roam the earth to visit their relatives and have some food. I loved how my culture cherished the act of eating so much that we even built in a holiday to allow dead spirits a day to chow down.