Hàng Ngày

I’m really nervous about this memorial service tomorrow. I packed a black skirt and shirt and shoes. I also packed jeans, a bright green shirt, a pink Vietnamese scarf and flip flops. I have no idea what to expect. This whole event has made me realize I don’t really know how my dad’s family reacts to emotion, to tragedy, to the need to lean on each other. There’s something deep within me that tells me this is going to be a big deal for a lot of people. Or maybe it will pass like sand blowing from an upturned palm. I’m really nervous. I’m afraid. I’m afraid of the emotion in my family members that could very well be set loose tomorrow at 2 pm. I’m afraid of the emotion in myself. I am not really sure how to say goodbye in a group like this, and why do people do it? So many cultures have funeral or memorial services to honor and remember those who have passed out of this life. Why? Why do we come together as a community to do this? I guess I will find out tomorrow. I am bringing shells. Nothing much else.

And so what else to do? Get up and check my email and write on my blog, of course…

So one of the programs I run is a short summer volunteer program exclusively for college-age Americans of Vietnamese heritage to travel to Vietnam for the purposes of teaching, giving back, and exploring their multifaceted identities. They have been given some probing writing assignments by their insightful long-term volunteer mentor and coordinator to which I have been an avid reader. Tonight when I checked my email I had one particularly poignant response about a young woman and her personal interpretation of and coming to terms with her multicultural identity. It was amazing. I feel so lucky to have (not quite in-person) met these women.

I am reminded of a sentence that remains lodged in my memory from a letter that one of my students gave me more than a year ago. I can quote his words verbatim, at least the most moving sentence: “Teacher, you are so much younger than me, and I learn so much from you. I think that is fascinating.” I find myself with the same feeling when I read these “assignments” from the volunteers in this program. Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.

OK, I just read Eric’s (http://ericburdette.blogspot.com) blog entry about Memorial Day yesterday and I had to write. Eric writes, “I must say that I couldn’t have had a much more “American” day since my return to this country.”

My Memorial Day, while extremely American in some ways, was extremely “Vietnamese” to me in the sense that I did random things with people I didn’t know and didn’t know what was coming next but just accepted it as an “experience” and went with the day as it was, no agenda.

My day too started off with work. I went to the consulate (again) today and needed to pick up some additional paperwork at the VIA office, so after sleeping late and drinking a nice leisurely coffee, I took the nearly one-hour walk down Haight and Market streets to my work. This was primarily because I irresponsibly lost my Muni pass last week and refuse to pay for something I already paid for once. When I got to work I had a message from a friend of a friend who lives in Oakland saying there was some sort of barbecue and he would pick me up at the MacArthur BART station around 2. Well, I was bored and didn’t want to wait, so foolishly took the BART to MacArthur thinking “I’ll just find a coffee shop or something, and hang out and write.” When I got off I felt like I was in that no-man’s-land area in St. Louis between SLU and Downtown on a Monday morning when no one is on the street and the only thing around you is pawn shops and potholes. Interesting. What to do? I wandered, of course.

I wandered until I found a little hole-in-the-wall place that sold cookies and had tables shaped like ironing boards sitting out on the street. I sat with a cup of coffee and watched the cars roll by until Aaron picked me up and we were off to the grocery store to pick up supplies for this barbecue. We decided to make salsa, got the ingredients, waited in line, had a few free samples, got back in the car, and all of a sudden were in this apartment in the trees and under the freeway where there were a bunch of kids from Wesleyan. Fixins for a party…we played “running charades,” the same as charades accept that you have to run to the “cluemaster” who’s in the center of the field. There was no barbecue, but Aaron and I made salsa. We all sat around and ate salsa and chips. We measured our feet and forearms respectively, to determine which is bigger, for real. They were the same.

Then Aaron and I and three other guys got back in the car and headed to Berkeley. We ended up in this guy’s co-op apartment building where we played foosball and then decided we should take the basketball out into the beautiful weather and play horse. On the way we had to take a pitstop at “a great bench” according to Aaron’s friend. He led us up a mountain and all of a sudden stopped and said, “here we are.” What?!? He started climbing a tree, and we saw a bench perched about 10 feet above the ground in a tree branch, overlooking not only the Berkeley football stadium (best free seats in the house) but the entire bay area. It was better than the view from Grandview Park. It was breathtaking (also thrilling because of the whole climbing-the-tree thing.) We played horse, I almost won. Then we all got back in the car and Aaron dropped me off at the BART to head back to the city, where I walked for about 40 minutes before hopping on the Muni in the zone where I wouldn’t be caught for riding illegally (because I’m still not going to pay for the same thing twice…)

Weird day. OK, maybe not that weird, but random. I might never see these people again, but we had fun, played outside, cooked, and they showed me one of the most amazing spots in Berkeley.

There is a park not far from my house called “Grandview Park.” It is named as such because it is probably the best view in all of San Francisco. From the top of this withering sand-dune with a little clump of shade-trees at the top, you can see the ocean, Golden Gate Bridge, downtown, the Marin Headlands, South San Francisco, and the most beautiful sunset view ever. I’ve been up here a few times (I think I’ve mentioned it to some of you, but Joann, my roommate who has been here two years and is about to leave, had never been. Joann, Mike, and I set a date to climb to Grandview Park and watch the sunset yesterday. When we left the house at 7:40 pm, the fog had rolled in with a vengeance. After climbing the stairs to the top of the hill, we were being “rained” on by condensation that had collected on the tree branches and was falling again with the powerful winds. It was freezing. We got to the top and this was our view of the city:

Mike and Jo atop Grandview Park. Behind them is the best view in SF.

The coolest part was that on the way down, we walked to the West and Mike showed us this staircase to walk down. From the top it seems pretty normal and unassuming, just a gray-tiled staircase. When we got to the first landing, Mike said “ok, now turn around.” Wow. Someone(s) put a lot of time into this. This is the view of the entire staircase from the bottom. We stopped at each landing to watch the picture develop. All in all an interesting Sunday adventure.

I woke up this morning to the shockingly loud screaming of my cell phone which I carelessly left across the room last night. I jumped out of bed to stop it from waking up my roommates and realized that it was Minh, so instead of ignoring it I decided to answer. So much for not waking up my roommates: I was pulled into a drunken half-Vietnamese conversation with some of my favorite Long Xuyen men that had me practically screaming “Có gì mới không?” over and over in my quiet little California bedroom. It was 7:30. I thought about getting up for the day, VERY briefly, then took a look out the window and realized it was gray and rainy, and probably cold as well. I decided to curl up in bed and go back to sleep.

I remember my students asking me “teacher, how do you feel when it rains?” It’s a funny question, but very common in Vietnam. “Do you you feel sad?” would always be the follow-up. I answered truthfully that the rain doesn’t really make me feel sad. It just makes me feel contemplative (I think I said something like “It makes me think a lot.”) It makes me remember. It makes me want to read and write and sip tea and have a good conversation with an old friend. I realized when I woke up again an hour later, my head still aching from lack of sleep all week and abusing my body with alcohol last night, that I have absolutely nothing to do today. It’s a rainy Saturday in San Francisco, and I have nothing to do. I went back to bed again, this time with a good book and a cup of tea next to me.

On the way home tonight, for some unexplainable reason, I was craving bruscetta. What to do? I went to the market on the corner and got myself some garlic, tomatoes, and fresh basil.

When I got home I set everything down, decompressed, took some pictures off my wall, cleaned up a little, and then remembered: the craving. I went to the kitchen to start my bruscetta, washing all of the vegetables first, the fresh aroma of tomatoes, lettuce, basil, and garlic filling my nostrils with a tingling sensation.

Then I began to cut the basil, the spicy sweet freshness rising from my nose to my cheeks, and settling down to my tongue while I chopped the large green leaves into tiny bits, and I was suddenly taken to a thousand memories of this smell, this feeling in my nose, and the stimulation of the “basil” section of my brain kicked into full-gear.

My most recent memory of this scent, of course, comes from Vietnam, from Long Xuyen to be more precise, where on a Friday night only a few months ago, I was not sipping a glass of red wine and chopping basil alone, but sipping a glass of Da Lat red wine and chopping basil with Bich, Eric, Steven, Kirsty, Jenna, and Minh gathered around chopping, stirring, conversing, and rolling their eyes at each other in knowing smirks while Phil chased Calla and Aspen out in the dining room and Ms. Chang’s voice could be heard in the hallway (“OOOOOH, You are cooking DIIIIIner!!?!?!”) The basil, grown in a blue plastic tub on Eric’s balcony, I would argue, was a major factor in bridging the gaps of opinion, age, lifestyle, and nationality in that volatile living situation. But Long Xuyen is only the first memory this pungent aroma brings to mind, and my “basil receptors” drift to the next memory…

I am sitting in the small kitchen in apartment 10B, 620 West 116th street. My roommates Erin and Sophie are sitting at the table in wooden chairs butted up against the walls with beers in front of them while Liz mixes the large metal bowl full of bruscetta for our dinner and Mel yells from her room down the hall “Stop having fun without me! I’m almost finished studying!! And then we’re going to PAR-TAY!”

The kitchen shifts down six blocks to 600 West 110th Street, apartment 1L, where Darcy, Katie and Kelsey are sitting at our white 50s-style kitchen table in the large, high-ceilinged kitchen sipping wine while Brendan stands pretending to assist Raph and I in the making of pesto. Raph and I are side by side, he is chopping the garlic, I am chopping the basil, and then we are combining them into one bowl, trying with little success to blend them together into a paste, Raph arguing, “we just need a little more oil,” and me replying in laughter, “a little more oil is not going to help! Didn’t you say you have one of those little cuisinart things? Why don’t you go get it??” And him flashing me his classic sarcastic smile, the right corner of his mouth raised slightly above his left, his blue eyes laughing at me asking without words “Are you crazy?? Do you know how cold it is outside?” And me, raising my eyebrows and smiling in my own retort, telling him without words, “Yes! Do you want this to be amazing or not?? It’s only three blocks, you wimp!”

I am in my parents kitchen in St. Louis. The old kitchen. I am a senior in high school. My mom has brought in fresh basil from her backyard herb garden, a recent addition to the increasingly “wilderness habitat” style of our tiny urban backyard. She is talking about something, cooking, food, what she is cooking for dinner, food…I am hungry. I am not really listening to her, I can’t listen to her, I am incapable of listening because I am seventeen and confused and sad and hungry. I am cooking something else. My dad is in the backyard doing something with the wilderness. Pulling weeds? Painting weed poison individually onto the weed leaves in an attempt to kill them off without killing the rest of the yard? Sitting in a lawn chair reading the newspaper and sipping a glass of wine? I don’t remember. My brother is upstairs…I think. Or has he yet to arrive at home at 7 pm on a Tuesday night? Is he at soccer practice? I don’t remember. He was such a small concern in my life at that time, such a small part, not a small concern, my concern was there 100% of the time, but his presence in my life was minimal. The aroma of the fresh basil invaded my senses and made me forget everything but the hunger.

I am at my grandparents’ house in New Jersey (the old house that burned down last year after they moved, thank goodness). We are in the kitchen, and my mom and her sisters are cackling like witches while Anna, Alex, and I sit at the kitchen table in swivel chairs and swivel while we smile and roll our eyes at their cackling and turn to The Simpsons. Aleko’s slightly accented voice rises above the others, informing us how the pesto was made in Greece when he was young. My grandfather chimes back about how it was made when he was young, and Karen’s voice of reason tells us what the next step is, her face calm and serious, her head cocked to the side and her right palm flat and outstretched striking the counter like a gavel, letting us know that “this is the way things are going to be, this is how we are going to compromise.” The cousins smile and laugh at the whole episode, and Anna and Alex fight over the remote with no real purpose: we all want to watch the same thing, and Anna’s laughter rises above the decisive voice of her father, and the smell of basil fills my nostrils with its sweet and spicy tingling sensation.

I’ve been practicing this “writing” thing for almost a month now, both in the private space of my journal and scraps of paper crumbled at the bottom of my bag, and in the public space of this blog. Sometimes I think that writing on the blog actually impedes my ability as a writer, as I inevitably start thinking about who will read my blog, what their comments may be, how they will interpret the words and phrases that are sometimes meant for them, but oftentimes only meant for me. What is the point of putting the meaningful writing, the sentences that drip with tears and perspiration and raw, unprotected emotion, out for everyone to see? It always feels just a little contrived, doesn’t it? Like I’m trying to sound “deep” so that other people will be drawn to my writing, when what the heck was really the point anyway? I think that sometimes my writing, like my life in general is stuck between these two barbed-wire fences of saying what I really want to say (which often involves a lot of swearing and confused, non-sensical non-sentences) and what I think I should be saying, what I assume people in my position, in my life-phase, in my location and from my demographic background should say. I don’t like this feeling. Sometimes it makes me want to quit the blog altogether and just write for myself. Is there anything so wrong with that? But what is the point of writing that nobody reads? What is the point of art that no one else appreciates accept the artist? Or maybe that is the point, the purpose of art, solely to be the expression of the artist’s emotions and musings, thôi. (I like that Vietnamese word “thôi” it expresses a lot of feeling, maybe the entire phrase “and that’s all, nothing more” in a simple aspirated syllable).

I find myself getting wrapped up sometimes in where my writing is going, how much progress I am making and to what end, what will come of it in the future, which points to a larger dilemma in my present existence particularly and maybe my entire life in general: where is this going? Do I see progress? What does progress mean? American society is so focused on a linear path of existence, from birth to adulthood, to fame and fortune, the American dream culminating in this illustrious peak of humanity that we only reach through years of work, family life, building a resume, or an “alternative” resume of experience for the purpose of this final conclusion. Is it possible to just “be” in American society, to appreciate that right now I am already at the peak of humanity simply for the fact that I am human? To be satisfied and happy and stimulated by my current existence; to feel free and creative and alive and full of energy; aren’t these the things we value in humanity? Aren’t these the things we strive to achieve? What if I can achieve them now through something simple like writing for myself, or sipping a glass of sugar cane juice, or, heaven forbid, “just” being a volunteer, a teacher, a good person, and a friend? I mean, I know in reality that I can, I CAN. But what is it that is driving me, what is it that is pressuring me, where do the “shoulds” come from, from whom, or is it even important to look outside of myself for the answer to these questions, or do I simply turn within and ask myself “what do you really want to do with your life right now, and if you’re not doing it, why the hell not?”

The sound of the train rumbles at the mouth of the tunnel and two beady eyes of light squint out of the darkness. Standing on the platform I can feel the tunnel sucking the air out of my lungs and those of the people around me, drawing a small amount of everyone’s breath into the train’s path as it rushes by and spits the air back in our faces full-force, blowing my hair to one side and causing my body to jerk suddenly to the right. The doors open and a crowd of colorful people rush off and on, flowing between each other seamlessly in the 2.4 seconds before the door closes again. The crowd inside the train shifts in its seat, molding to the influx of new bodies, strollers, boxes, grocery bags and skateboards. I stand opposite the door, leaning against the side of the train with outstretched legs, resting my upper back against the glass.

The conductor releases the break and we roll slowly out of the station, accelerating into the tube until we are surrounded by concrete and darkness, barreling down the 100-year-old tracks at breakneck speed, clattering from side to side at times causing my bag to pull slightly away from the glass and my weight to be thrown forward where my toes catch it and push it back to the wall. The other bodies sitting and standing around me yield to the movement of the train as well. Some are sleeping, their heads back on the seats or lolling to their chests, unknowingly swaying back and forth, lost in their dreams and exhaustion. Others’ ears are filled with small white plugs, and some of them look contemplative while others are tapping their feet, moving their lips, or full-out singing along to their own personal life soundtracks. I too wear headphones, the left one cracked and useless, secretly listening to both my own soundtrack and others’ conversations at the same time, one of my favorite games.

Three students with popped polo collars are having a huddle in the corner at the end of the car. An obese black woman, and her equally chubby daughter sit on the benches next to me, the girl making howling noises and her mother asking with laughing eyes what had made her daughter suddenly turn into a dog. A group of young Korean guys are standing over one of their group who is engrossed in a hand-held video game, egging him on, yelling insults and advice, laughing and jeering with their fingers.

Business suits, baggy shorts, backpacks, briefcases, books, bagels, jeans, leather jackets, sweatshirts, knee-socks, converse sneakers, flip flops, mini-skirts, scarves, stilettos, Yankees caps, tank-tops, skirts, shiny belts, wedding rings, giant hoop earrings, chains, shopping bags, purses, fanny packs, plastic, paper, magazines, coffee, rap music all shift with the braking and halting of the train. A young black man who hasn’t shaved in three days boards with a paper cup and begins singing a gospel tune, his eyes closed, the muscles in his neck pulsating, his head thrown back and his knees absorbing the jerking of the train from side to side. The rap music across the way from me stops, the white ear-plugs come out of some ears, people watch, people listen, people sleep, people continue their conversations, laugh, read their books and check their watches. His voice rises above the roar of the subway train, hitting a high note and holding it for at least 16 counts as the door opens again and new passengers board, unbeknownst to the artist. He finishes and collects a meager applause and a few dollars in his cup, pacing to the next car, the foul outside air and howling of the tunnel invading the car as he opens the door.

All the while the music in my right ear is pulsing away, the blood is rising in my face, my body continuing to follow the violent tossing and turning of the train’s path. The business suits, sweatpants, stilettos, strollers, gold teeth, canes, glasses and canvas bags begin to spin around me as if I am viewing them from behind the glass of an aquarium. The people moving around me have slowed, their mouths moving in time to the music in my ear that is reaching the peak of a crescendo, my face is warm and my breath is quickening, my legs beneath me are beginning to shudder slightly and still the train continues as tears are welling in my chest, a smile rising to my lips, and laughter bubbling to the top of my throat all at once. I want to scream, I want to cry out, I want to hug all of these people around me, draw them into me, freeze this moment, this feeling, this power over me, my whole body on fire, my fingers and lips trembling, frantic and calm, my breath coming in short bursts out of my slightly open mouth, the train screaming down the tracks, shuddering from side to side, sparks flying from the rails, my feet holding firmly to the floor and my hand catching the icy metal rail as we come to a screeching halt and the doors open to let in a breath of fresh air that cools my heated cheeks. I close my eyes and breath deeply, my heart-rate slowing, my lungs quivering with the intake of large gulps of air, and the crowd inside the train shifts in its seat, molding to the influx of new bodies.

I forgot to mention one more aspect of my exhilarating bike ride home from downtown SF to Inner Sunset: the wind. On a typical day the wind gusting down the Market Street corridor is enough to slow even the strongest rider, forcing me to shift down into lower gear as if I’m going up a hill when it’s really just a flat, potholed, straight shot from 6th Street to Page Avenue. The wind, of course, comes from the ocean, exactly where I am heading towards when I ride home in the evening. And for some reason, it’s only windy in the afternoons here. Or maybe I just don’t notice it in the mornings when it’s at my back…

Today there was a “wind advisory” for San Francisco. For those who don’t know, a “wind advisory” means sustained winds of over 35 mph or gusts of up to 45 mph. Drivers are cautioned to be aware of their steering being potentially impaired due to this wind, especially tall or top-heavy vehicles. I don’t normally consider myself to be particularly top-heavy (no comments on that one Minh!) and I had no other means of getting home, so I decided to brave it. Market Street was miserable. I was blown from side to side, practically hitting a number of parked cars, swerving down the street like I was drunk. The wind at my face ripped the tears out of my eyes and sucked the breath out of my lungs. There were several times when, stopped at a light, I was nearly thrown violently backward onto the ground, and surely would have been if it weren’t for my quick reactions with my brakes. The hills are ten times as difficult to power up when it feels that every ounce of nature wants you to fail. But I made it! Exhausted to the point of shaking, but felt a great sense of accomplishment. I was striding along the last stretch of path through Golden Gate Park, feeling really proud of myself, when my foot slipped off the pedal, and my slightly-too-big-for-me shoe flew off of my foot and the force of the wind blew it across the sidewalk nearly to the road. I had to laugh at that one: how many times have I seen single shoes along the side of the road in Vietnam and wondered “how the heck do you lose one shoe??” Now I know.

And I have a lot more to write about my rejuvenating and life-affirming trip to New York this weekend. But it will have to wait for another day, because I sliced my left middle finger open with the new amazingly sharp knife I have, and so typing is a bit difficult, while writing by hand (so old fashioned!) is perfectly doable.