I made myself a meal for the first time in weeks. It made me feel slightly more human, less robot. I made my mom's crack pork chops (with sauteed scallions and shallots, leftover from our potluck last week) with steamed broccoli and basmati rice (ran out of my other white rice). It was simple and satisfying, and made me miss my mom very much. So I made a decision that makes me happy. I decided to violate my plan of doing nothing on those six Sundays during Boards studying. I've wanted to learn and compile my mom's recipes for a long time, but resisted making this (and several other ventures) a goal during my study time at home. I wanted to let go of the need to be "productive" even on my "day off." I'd pretty much planned on being a couch potato on those no-study-Sundays. I haven't entirely abandoned this image of myself (my dad will have plenty of company on the couch). But atop of my meal today, some small coinciding events reminded me that my mom's cooking is something I want to preserve. These included meeting up with a junior high friend I haven't seen in a couple years, who still remembers how good the food was that my mom fed her when we were thirteen; being sent an article about students discovering their immigrant parents' stories way past the time they felt there was little left to know; and Allison raving about Vietnamese food.
I can make my mom's crack chicken and pork chops which have become addictive staples among those I've fed it to (hence crack), egg rolls that I steep in oil despite everyone's complaints about unhealthy because that's how my mom does it, and her various kinds of eggs (yes you can put ground beef in eggs). But I have a list of others I'd like to learn and have been limited in the past by ingredients, or her protest that I'll never make these things because they're meant to be consumed by groups. These include a tangy sweet and sour catfish soup; my favorite kind of spring rolls with boiled beef and pineapple; Vietnamese crepes with shrimp, pork and bean sprouts; and my favorite favorite meal of all time, a noodle and fish dish that she makes every time I come home. The fish is marinated and fried with onions and lemongrass, served with vermicelli. Condiments include roasted peanuts, raw onions soaked in vinegar, some pickled vegetable whose name I don't know, crispy sesame rice paper, lettuce, and other Asian greens whose names I also don't know (part of this project entails learning names). As with a lot of other dishes, you don't eat it in one big bowl; you use a small rice bowl and keep re-filling it as you go. You take some noodles and fish, add condiments to taste, and top with a key component: a pungent shrimp sauce mixed with red peppers from the backyard. I do believe the essence of my love for food lies in 1) sauces and 2) mixing things. Some people finish their burger before they eat their fries; I always complement a bite of burger with a few fries. This dish isn't something most people like on first try, but once your palate adjusts it is such an amazing blend of flavors and textures.
To prove that I'm studying and not just daydreaming about my mom's food, I'm going to impart something interesting I've learned in posts when possible. Today I learned that three out of five heart transplants are rejected by the immune system of the recipient. Getting a new heart is pretty wondrous, but it's not so easy. People miss what's theirs when it's gone. As an almost twenty-five year old, I find it a bit pathetic that I consciously miss my parents probably more than they miss me. I hope this helps keep them close.
Showing posts with label vietnamese. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vietnamese. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
my mom
My mom turns 67 today. It was only recently that I realized that she was three years older than her officially documented age (this changed her age to me by two, since I'd previously thought she was only one year older than her official age). Growing up in Northern Vietnam while the Communists were fighting to oust the French, she stopped going to school for a few years during the fighting. When it was time to return, they tried to put people back in the grades corresponding to their age, but they were all behind. My grandparents lowered my mom's age, so she could be in the grade in which she belonged. Growing up, she was a daddy's girl, and later, she tells me, she had many suitors (I believe her). She worked as an accountant for the government for awhile and married my dad, and then taught high school history, and somewhere in there gave birth to four boys in seven years. She took them, carrying the baby whom she fed powdered milk, through fields and marshes and sea to Thailand and to Germany and eventually to here. Her dad passed away in Vietnam before she left, and her mom passed away there too, but when my mom was in America, when I was five and remember her crying in the hallway. In California she made clothes, helped my dad run the bakery and then the convenience store and then the wine store, was and is still a receptionist at my aunt's pediatric office, and gave birth to me. When I was a kid she worried I'd never grow much hair. Once when I was in elementary school and she found out about something really bad I'd done, she didn't yell with anger; she cried with disappointment. In high school before I could drive and I wanted to volunteer at a hospital 40 minutes from home, she'd take me there after school and wait there for three hours until I was done, to take me home. When she saw me off for college, she wouldn't leave to go to the bathroom until after I passed the security gate. In med school when we had to interview a relative with an illness I talked to her about the heart surgery she had when I was thirteen, when she stayed home for a few months and we gave her a bell to call us if she needed anything. She doesn't like chocolate, butter, sweet things or any non-Vietnamese food. She likes jewelry, watching National Geographic and Animal Planet, posing for pictures, and talking to anyone. I don't know that many concrete details about her life before the time that I noticed details, and it took a long time after noticing before I started asking. I hope to know.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
vietnamese-american
I watched Joy Luck Club yesterday morning, and nearly burst into tears about twenty times. My propensity to cry at overtly tear-inducing film scenes depends on my mood, and my general mood these past few weeks has been Being in the Motherland--all the obvious feelings that entails. And hey, that movie is pretty good.
Having many first-generation friends and America being America, in writing my mass emails from Southeast Asia last summer and this one, I got a lot of replies from people about how they related to the cultural aspects of my experiences. From people who felt connected, disconnected, somewhere in between, in relation to their family’s culture. I’m not sure when I started becoming consciously aware of my culture, but I do know that my family has done so well in keeping it a constant presence, whether or not I was aware. And for that I feel such incredible gratitude, it’s tangibly difficult for me to write it accurately. And I feel it’s so important, I so want to get it right.
When I visited Notre Dame Cathedral in Saigon, I sat for a long time in the pews because I was tired from walking all the day in the heat. Mass wasn’t in service but there were a few women in the first row reciting prayers. It immediately brought me back to going to Vietnamese mass with my parents at home, as a kid. I hated going. I hated that it was in the middle of the day, that I had to dress up, that I couldn’t fully understand the sermons, that in the summer it was stifling. But there was one thing I didn’t hate, one thing that with age I actually grew to love, and that was the recitation of prayers in Vietnamese. In English we just say them. In Vietnamese, I wouldn’t say there’s a real melody to the prayers, but the prayers are melodic. There are certain tones that made me enjoy memorizing and reciting them too, purely for the sound and experience, because I’m not religious and not really spiritual either. When I heard the women saying them in Vietnam, they sounded exactly like back home in California, and I found myself saying them too. And I was struck by how this thing, these words and these tones, was carried intact from across the world.
Lately I’ve felt, with a sense of urgency, a need to preserve things about my parents and their history that might fade when they’re gone. To keep through time what they so bravely, carefully transported through place. I want to make my mom’s food, to teach my kids Vietnamese (and have them learn the great amount I don’t know, if they’re not too resistant). And most, to honor all my parents went through to bring me here, by remembering and continuing what they left behind. Because it’s their values from there that made it possible for me to cultivate ones from here. I can feel the question of rationale arising: why does it really matter to remember where you’re from? I don’t have an all-encompassing response, because all my metaphors are too-neat answers. But I think that if one life lived is what provides meaning, and it’s this continuum that makes a single life possible, then there must be some syllogism there.
In America, when people ask you what you are, they mean where your family’s from, because it’s (usually, ideally) accepted that you’re American. In Vietnam, even though my family is Vietnamese, they ask me what I am. They see you by the country you live in, and you’re not considered Vietnamese. And it’s true, because I’m not fully or even mostly Vietnamese. But I’m not just American either. Too often people find themselves choosing between one culture and another, when one of the best things about America is that you can have both (or several). I really dislike the misconceptions of being whitewashed because you’re integrated into American society, or of being super Asian because you have a lot of Asian friends. Because in polarizing things this way, you can forget that you should (or so I personally think) remain connected to both, and can be, despite falling into one of those aforementioned categories. Because that’s what the hyphenation is about. It’s about how one can motivate the other, how you take the best from each, how you incorporate the privilege of perspective into your life, how past and present becomes your future.
D. once talked about the benefits of shared culture, and I saw that in spending a little time with him here, when I felt consciously that the sense of being in between cultures is a culture in itself. One that shouldn’t be separated, because how sad for old things to be lost in a shuffle of migration and opportunity, and how sad for new things to be overlooked by comparison to something else. Culture is such a rich and dynamic thing, and how lucky we are to experience more than one, and to have that combination to claim as ours.
D. also brought up the idea of randomness, that we could’ve easily been brought up in Vietnam if not for certain circumstances and luck and timing. I definitely feel that, especially being here and meeting people my age and comparing where their family was at the time mine left, or others who were born after the narrow window to leave closed. If in 1954 when the Communists uprooted the French, in the small sliver of time that people were allowed to choose communist North or democratic South, my parents hadn’t been able to migrate South, I might’ve been born in Hanoi. If in the years following the fall of Saigon in 1975 my family hadn’t escaped, before nearby countries stopped taking in refugees, I might’ve been born in Saigon. If they hadn’t been picked up by a German boat, sponsored to Germany and then America, I could’ve ended up in so many places. But the one thing that doesn’t change no matter time and place or situation in life, being born to my parents means being born Vietnamese. And if I had to choose only one reason out of the many I feel, it is for that that I love being Vietnamese.
Having many first-generation friends and America being America, in writing my mass emails from Southeast Asia last summer and this one, I got a lot of replies from people about how they related to the cultural aspects of my experiences. From people who felt connected, disconnected, somewhere in between, in relation to their family’s culture. I’m not sure when I started becoming consciously aware of my culture, but I do know that my family has done so well in keeping it a constant presence, whether or not I was aware. And for that I feel such incredible gratitude, it’s tangibly difficult for me to write it accurately. And I feel it’s so important, I so want to get it right.
When I visited Notre Dame Cathedral in Saigon, I sat for a long time in the pews because I was tired from walking all the day in the heat. Mass wasn’t in service but there were a few women in the first row reciting prayers. It immediately brought me back to going to Vietnamese mass with my parents at home, as a kid. I hated going. I hated that it was in the middle of the day, that I had to dress up, that I couldn’t fully understand the sermons, that in the summer it was stifling. But there was one thing I didn’t hate, one thing that with age I actually grew to love, and that was the recitation of prayers in Vietnamese. In English we just say them. In Vietnamese, I wouldn’t say there’s a real melody to the prayers, but the prayers are melodic. There are certain tones that made me enjoy memorizing and reciting them too, purely for the sound and experience, because I’m not religious and not really spiritual either. When I heard the women saying them in Vietnam, they sounded exactly like back home in California, and I found myself saying them too. And I was struck by how this thing, these words and these tones, was carried intact from across the world.
Lately I’ve felt, with a sense of urgency, a need to preserve things about my parents and their history that might fade when they’re gone. To keep through time what they so bravely, carefully transported through place. I want to make my mom’s food, to teach my kids Vietnamese (and have them learn the great amount I don’t know, if they’re not too resistant). And most, to honor all my parents went through to bring me here, by remembering and continuing what they left behind. Because it’s their values from there that made it possible for me to cultivate ones from here. I can feel the question of rationale arising: why does it really matter to remember where you’re from? I don’t have an all-encompassing response, because all my metaphors are too-neat answers. But I think that if one life lived is what provides meaning, and it’s this continuum that makes a single life possible, then there must be some syllogism there.
In America, when people ask you what you are, they mean where your family’s from, because it’s (usually, ideally) accepted that you’re American. In Vietnam, even though my family is Vietnamese, they ask me what I am. They see you by the country you live in, and you’re not considered Vietnamese. And it’s true, because I’m not fully or even mostly Vietnamese. But I’m not just American either. Too often people find themselves choosing between one culture and another, when one of the best things about America is that you can have both (or several). I really dislike the misconceptions of being whitewashed because you’re integrated into American society, or of being super Asian because you have a lot of Asian friends. Because in polarizing things this way, you can forget that you should (or so I personally think) remain connected to both, and can be, despite falling into one of those aforementioned categories. Because that’s what the hyphenation is about. It’s about how one can motivate the other, how you take the best from each, how you incorporate the privilege of perspective into your life, how past and present becomes your future.
D. once talked about the benefits of shared culture, and I saw that in spending a little time with him here, when I felt consciously that the sense of being in between cultures is a culture in itself. One that shouldn’t be separated, because how sad for old things to be lost in a shuffle of migration and opportunity, and how sad for new things to be overlooked by comparison to something else. Culture is such a rich and dynamic thing, and how lucky we are to experience more than one, and to have that combination to claim as ours.
D. also brought up the idea of randomness, that we could’ve easily been brought up in Vietnam if not for certain circumstances and luck and timing. I definitely feel that, especially being here and meeting people my age and comparing where their family was at the time mine left, or others who were born after the narrow window to leave closed. If in 1954 when the Communists uprooted the French, in the small sliver of time that people were allowed to choose communist North or democratic South, my parents hadn’t been able to migrate South, I might’ve been born in Hanoi. If in the years following the fall of Saigon in 1975 my family hadn’t escaped, before nearby countries stopped taking in refugees, I might’ve been born in Saigon. If they hadn’t been picked up by a German boat, sponsored to Germany and then America, I could’ve ended up in so many places. But the one thing that doesn’t change no matter time and place or situation in life, being born to my parents means being born Vietnamese. And if I had to choose only one reason out of the many I feel, it is for that that I love being Vietnamese.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
first day
To get to my uncle’s house you have to walk through a narrow winding road not open to cars. To get here I traveled twenty hours, thirteen of which were on an on the whole unpleasant plane flight from San Francisco to Taipei, and if I had to leave today it would have been worth it.
My cousin (my mom’s brother’s first child of two) brought his little girl (seven years old) to the airport to meet me, and it was wonderful to see them. I’d met my cousin for the first time back in high school when he visited California, before he was married, and he looks the same. I remember my brother told me that he’d taken my cousin to Universal Studios and when he saw King Kong during one of those tram car rides, he jumped out of his seat and exclaimed, WOW. Now I feel like him and every thing I see is King Kong.
My uncle (my mom’s eldest brother) looks older than I imagined he would. He’s in his late seventies, but still I imagined him to be sturdy, like my grandparents on my dad’s side. Which makes no sense since they’re not related, but that’s what I thought. Comparing my parents and relatives at home to others here, I see how living here versus America does make a difference in how you age. My uncle is frail, with my mom’s nose and warm eyes with his eyelids folded towards the middle so they look like they slant. He has trouble sleeping, like my mom too. My cousin-in-law is super friendly and sweet, though her Vietnamese has a different accent and can be hard to follow. Their daughter is adorable, already a quietly strong person who refuses to admit she’s motion sick or complain about it. My other cousin (my mom’s brother’s second child of two) has a daughter too, six years old. The two of them make me so glad that I could visit while they’re still young. Even though they keep only slight memories of you (as I assume, from what I remember of visits from people when I was a kid), it’s nice to know that you met during that time in your life, because it passes so quickly. Like how I met my half-German cousins when they were a few years old and now they’re teenagers and it’ll never be the same when I see them again.
I’ve always been so close to my immediate family that for a long time I hadn’t given much thought to my extended family, also because they are really extended, all over the world. Somewhere along the line that changed. A lot of my drive to come here, and what’s already been affirmed in small and substantive ways, is that roots really are roots.
Living in this home is like a friendly version of the Simple Life. Things are less comfortable, but not un-so. There’s no air-conditioning, but several fans. It is as hot and humid as my parents promised (90 degrees with 75% humidity), but surprisingly I don’t find it that bad. I like humidity. My parents were worried about how I’d survive without AC, but if it stays like this the fans are more than adequate. As long as I can shower. As far as that goes, the hot water runs out, but there is hot water. There’s no shower head, just a teeny stream of water so you have to squat and actively place water where you need it. This sounds un-ideal but somehow felt as nice as what we have in America, I think because I was more aware of being dirty and hence more aware of getting clean. The bathrooms are bit gritty but the linoleum is shiny and cool to the touch. We budget on electricity but there it is and the biggest surprise, my cousin wired me to the internet, old-school. Can’t use the phone while on it, but it’s there. All in all, nothing that requires more than once to get used to. I am grateful to our Southeast Asia trip last year, because most things feel nice in comparison to having a mouse crawl up your arm in the middle of the night, trekking outside in pitch dark to use the restroom, and having electricity go out on you at an unknown time of day. And the Cambodian bus ride from hell nearly desensitized me to insistent honking, which is also the norm here.
Also, today I had mangosteen and lychee and dragon fruit. It is good to be here.
My cousin (my mom’s brother’s first child of two) brought his little girl (seven years old) to the airport to meet me, and it was wonderful to see them. I’d met my cousin for the first time back in high school when he visited California, before he was married, and he looks the same. I remember my brother told me that he’d taken my cousin to Universal Studios and when he saw King Kong during one of those tram car rides, he jumped out of his seat and exclaimed, WOW. Now I feel like him and every thing I see is King Kong.
My uncle (my mom’s eldest brother) looks older than I imagined he would. He’s in his late seventies, but still I imagined him to be sturdy, like my grandparents on my dad’s side. Which makes no sense since they’re not related, but that’s what I thought. Comparing my parents and relatives at home to others here, I see how living here versus America does make a difference in how you age. My uncle is frail, with my mom’s nose and warm eyes with his eyelids folded towards the middle so they look like they slant. He has trouble sleeping, like my mom too. My cousin-in-law is super friendly and sweet, though her Vietnamese has a different accent and can be hard to follow. Their daughter is adorable, already a quietly strong person who refuses to admit she’s motion sick or complain about it. My other cousin (my mom’s brother’s second child of two) has a daughter too, six years old. The two of them make me so glad that I could visit while they’re still young. Even though they keep only slight memories of you (as I assume, from what I remember of visits from people when I was a kid), it’s nice to know that you met during that time in your life, because it passes so quickly. Like how I met my half-German cousins when they were a few years old and now they’re teenagers and it’ll never be the same when I see them again.
I’ve always been so close to my immediate family that for a long time I hadn’t given much thought to my extended family, also because they are really extended, all over the world. Somewhere along the line that changed. A lot of my drive to come here, and what’s already been affirmed in small and substantive ways, is that roots really are roots.
Living in this home is like a friendly version of the Simple Life. Things are less comfortable, but not un-so. There’s no air-conditioning, but several fans. It is as hot and humid as my parents promised (90 degrees with 75% humidity), but surprisingly I don’t find it that bad. I like humidity. My parents were worried about how I’d survive without AC, but if it stays like this the fans are more than adequate. As long as I can shower. As far as that goes, the hot water runs out, but there is hot water. There’s no shower head, just a teeny stream of water so you have to squat and actively place water where you need it. This sounds un-ideal but somehow felt as nice as what we have in America, I think because I was more aware of being dirty and hence more aware of getting clean. The bathrooms are bit gritty but the linoleum is shiny and cool to the touch. We budget on electricity but there it is and the biggest surprise, my cousin wired me to the internet, old-school. Can’t use the phone while on it, but it’s there. All in all, nothing that requires more than once to get used to. I am grateful to our Southeast Asia trip last year, because most things feel nice in comparison to having a mouse crawl up your arm in the middle of the night, trekking outside in pitch dark to use the restroom, and having electricity go out on you at an unknown time of day. And the Cambodian bus ride from hell nearly desensitized me to insistent honking, which is also the norm here.
Also, today I had mangosteen and lychee and dragon fruit. It is good to be here.
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