Before

this, languages that surrounded me existed only in the form of English, intercepted with snippets of Vietnamese and Chinese. In the mornings, a mixture of static and fast talking clatter would fill up my house as my mom’s radio echoed through the hallways. I’d wake up annoyed, but slightly relieved to know that my mom is living.

Staggering into the sunrise, the rest of my day would be lived in the English language, unless I was near family. That’s when the welcomed snippets would interject, and I would hear my mother tongue. Their blurry memories of Vietnam remained alive through their recollections and black and white photos. By the time I had reached the age of ten, I magically acquired the ability to listen to gossip in Vietnamese, but nothing more. This was all I knew of Vietnam.

Here, gossip clings to the air and surrounds me. Bickering, yelling, bargaining, chatting, talking. Moving beyond radio background, the sounds permeate themselves through the thick sweaty air, into my eardrums. Now that I am here volunteering, Vietnam has become much more than distant words, but is now a reality. My hallways become the dusty uneven cemented roads my mom once walked on selling soy milk, my day is lived in Vietnamese, the sun beats like there is no tomorrow, and the rain arrives with little notice.

I particularly liken the fact that I can observe locals under the shield of my Vietnamese exterior. Yet, my attempts to hide are thwarted by the fact that I speak too “cứng” meaning stiff, having never spoken the language before I arrived in Vietnam. The transition from listening to it to actually speaking the language has not been easy, but it’s been a process that seems more of a treasure hunt than a task. It’s as if all these words are contained in my mind, but can only be found if I search high and low and think about it really hard. Then maybe, just maybe I’ll find the right words to say.

My time here feels like I’m trying to complete some kind of circle, seeing that my family left on circumstances unlike my return. The locals here hold a resilience and practicality that I see manifest in my family but in even more folds. The nuances of the Vietnamese capture me almost everyday. The pungent smell of dying live fish, slabs of meat, wet dirt and motorbike exhaust mixed in with “uncalled for” mannerisms like public nose picking, anti-diaper babies, normalized pushing, and odd hours of loud karaoke have just left me ironically enamored. Maybe it’s because this was once the way of life for my family, and would have been mine had it not been for a series of events that were out of their control. But now I’m here, and this clamorous experience is mine, with my tongue confused as ever, black and white photos becoming colored, and Vietnamese gossip still lingering around me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.








my article in volunteer in asia's "nho vietnam" newsletter. the rest of the articles are great!