Love: Breaking that wall

The Forward:

Just a couple things I want to say about this piece.

April 30, 1975 is not Vietnam's Independence Day. It is used in this piece with a secondary meaning from the perspective of the author, who is Vietnamese. I never lived during wartime, but I grew up in a soldier household because my dad was a soldier. So my perception about war is gained through stories, and movies.

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Love in life

They said that love is what matters. Love - the one that can conquer all. But my mom told me that sometimes motherly love still can't save her childrens from napalm, and there is nothing a mom could do about it. Napalm is the one that can conquer all.

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My mama taught me differently. She said that this life is not regular for women, and that I must become a well rounded lady if I want to survive. She always says that before she sings me a lullaby to sleep every night. I was always perplexed by what she meant. She would be sitting on the edge of my bed, petting my forehead gently; her voice was low, yet bright. Her voice was like an everlasting fire that supports the life line of a humid Vietnam. Growing up in Vietnam was a surreal experience. I never know if I was sweating or crying, or it was simply rainwater. Does she mean that I have to sacrifice in order to love someone? I know Vietnamese people call those mothers, the ones who lost their children to the war, the Heroic Moms of Vietnam.

On April 30th of every year, I would stand half naked in the bathroom, while the TV is blasting in the living room downstairs. April 30th is the day Vietnamese people gained their peace all together - as a country. I hear it goes like this "....we need to not only pay our tribute to the soldiers who died to protect us from the American Imperialist, but also the mothers, who were the strongest support to our soldiers...". So I pulled my pants up, and exited the bathroom to help my mom make lunch.

On this very day, everything halts. Everything halts so everyone gets to remember their losses, and what they have taken for granted, and perhaps, also appreciate what we earned through hard work. So, it is the reason why kitchens stop sizzling, and the sound of cooking tools clanging against each other dies down. In my family, we eat spring rolls because of its simplicity. You just need to prepare the meat in advance - one or two days before. The smell of raw meat would seep into my nostril whenever I cut it.

"Don't rub it all over your face and hair like that, baby" - she clicked her tongue in such a way that . Then she would order me to go make the peanut sauce. To make peanut sauce, I need to roast the peanuts, and then grind them into finer pieces. However, the moment I overestimated the amount of oil needed to roast peanuts, and almost caught the kitchen on fire, my nanny hit me on my head, and shoo me away.

"Trời ơii, what can you do, huh?” She groaned while nudging me aside. The proper answer in that situation should be silence, and an apology. My heart was pounding, but my mouth answered, “who knows”. Because I was useless in the kitchen, I had no choice but to go back into my bedroom. I didn't want to lay down, and wait for the smell of roasted peanuts to seep into my nose like how the raw meat smell did, so I sat down near the bathroom instead.

On April 30th every year, I pull out the container of hard boiled pork, and shrimps from inside of the fridge, and put it in the microwave. As I use the chopstick to pick up slices of meat and lay it out on the plate, I dream of various ways of using technology and machines to help me do that thing quicker, so I can go back to the bathroom.

After the meat is the vegetables. On the biggest plate, the lettuces are put down first, then the mint leaves, and Thai basil, and then cilantro. Next to the vegetable plate would be a small bowl of water. Then there is a plate of rice noodles, looking all white, and pearly. There is also a stack of rice paper on the side. After setting the table, we gather around to eat.

The TV kept talking, but we were coated in layer silence. Sometimes it's comforting; sometimes it's maddening just because we started to become robots ourselves. First we pick up the rice paper. Then we dip two fingers into the water bowl, spread the water evenly on the rice paper to soften it up. Then we select the vegetables we want, fold them in half, and arrange them sideway on the rice paper. Then we put the meat on top of the vegetables. Make the meat slices line up! After that, this is when we start rolling, and packing all the delicate ingredients inside a wrap that is seemingly fragile, but very durable in the end. You have to cram the ingredients together if they start to spread out on their own.

It's an art that I never really mastered. I would watch my mom do it, while sitting on the opposite,admiring her hands. Her rolls always end up big, and tough and handful in my palm, while my rolls are often too fat that it breaks into half, or too skinny; either way, my rolls say goodbye to their ingredients. I would ask my mom how she knows how much vegetables, and meat is enough. She would tell me to "just estimate it". I could not roll my eyes any farther behind. If making spring rolls was that easy for me, I would not have to ask. The key to an outstanding, mouth watering spring roll is knowing how much ingredients are needed. You can't have too much, and you cannot have too little. Maybe you can estimate how much is the right amount if you are a good spring rolls maker, but I am a glutton myself, so I always want more. I want to eat more until the skin of my stomach gets ripped.

The atmosphere on "Independence Day" gets to you in a different way. You would be sitting at the table, chewing your food, and hearing your stomach gurgling. You want to eat because it is your day off. You get to relax, but your jaws do not. Your jaws work tirelessly everyday, all year. Your jaws do all the dirty work. Without them, you know you will not survive. Your eyes, your lungs, your nose, your heart, your stomach - they all work tirelessly all year long too, and the only reward they need is your satisfaction, your health. They are concerned about you all this time, but only on Independence Day, you start to notice them.

The atmosphere on Independence Day is appreciative. Most of the TV channels will broadcast documentaries. Most documentaries are about American War. The historians, and the prime minister will retell the tales of our brave soldiers, and what they had to go through. The purpose is to remind the VIetnamese people, about what I am not sure. All I could remember are the monotone movies that depict skinny - almost anorexic - Vietnamese talking in low volume. They look sneaky in their small, fragile brick-layered house - the type of house that is called done when cement is still visible.. At least there are trees, and the soils look nutritious. The war documentaries in my childhood were strangely peaceful until it was not. The male protagonist, once he leaves the TV screen, will never return. The male who come back are the women's favorite death doctor. The women will have to hear the bad news, and they will lose their happy faces. The young women finally can choose the option to marry the other guy who never leaves. It is the old woman, the mother, who will keep sitting alone at the dining table. She still cooks for two, and carries on with her habits. War did not change her.

As I am chewing, I would be judging the VIetnamese movie director for techniques, and cinematographic choices. I would be judging the actors for their skills, and then compare them to Hollywood actors. They would never be good enough. For example, eating alone at the dining table is sad, so the director should have zoomed up close to the face, so I could see her eyes. Perhaps, the actor could have exaggerated a little.

War movies do not help with digestion. After watching those for a while, my appetite is just gone. I never know how my parents manage to eat, while watching that. "Hey, keep eating." By now, she would just hand me her rolls because I don't even have the motivation to make it anymore. "Independence Day" is when I feel guilty the most. The TV, my mom, and even my stomach will guilt me; hopefully everyone else at my age too. So I go and sit in the bathroom. Again. As I was reading articles about the consequences of war, my hand was traveling below the waistline.

I half closed my eyes, and remembered the first pleasure. The pleasure of flesh. A line of spikes on my inner thigh, and my heart palpitated. I need a good blend of pain in my life to defy. Why are we so sensitive to stimuli? After each touch, I want a new high. Maybe war photos will do.

I keep staring at those photos, as I click on links to links, even though I don't want to. The Internet tells me to volunteer. Many people are in need of my help. From the hunger childrens, to the broken family in war-plagued countries. They were all in Iraq, and Syria, and some countries I didn't even know about until I read the articles. Every war photo in those articles pierce the eyes of mine, and it hurts because I can't help but only frown. My eyes feel compelled to keep working. My eyes want to guilt trip me because I am the only lazy person around here. But what can I do? Look at their eyes! Those are the important eyes. They keep telling stories - to me at least - even when they are in their dying moments. My hard working eyes recognize instantly those eyes that are similar to them. I don't think movie makers, and photographers pay enough respect to the eyes. Why are we reactive to external stimuli? Why am I sensitive to seeing these people? Perhaps, if I can control the inner me, I won't be so sensitive to my environment. Maybe if I eat a little less, I will feel hungry too much, just like those people in the war photos on the Internet. Then I will have taken the first step to understand them, and why war is bad. Then perhaps, after that, I will start to feel belonged to someone, to something.

The gurgling was like a claw on a chalkboard. I begged myself for attention, so I used a string to tie around my waist, hoping I could choke it to death. I wanted Mother Nguyen Thi Thu to be proud of me even though we never met. I chuckled a bit as the gurgling finally died. I thought of plans of becoming a big and useful person in this society while I was staring at my phone screen.

Maybe I will bear children, just in case war among countries breaks out again.

Now that I am living in America, April 30th means something different - mostly because American people call it the Vietnam war. The Americans don't celebrate this day like Vietnamese people do. April 30th no longer coats me with the same guilt anymore, but that feeling lingers. Who would have thought a guilty heart would embrace you like a jacket? Especially when I am holding a boy's hand. The coziness makes me not want to work on the troubled feelings.

As we are walking back to my apartment, I sometimes glance at him. The water bottle in my hand does not get lighter for each step taken, so the skin on my lips has started breaking. It's getting a little hard for me to speak. I started to hate myself for not bringing a jacket during this winter time.

"So you are Vietnamese..." - He makes a comment with a subtle nod of acknowledgement.

"Yeah!"

My mind tricks me into hearing glee in his tone. It's when I look over at him, I realize that his eyes are focusing on the abyss, the wind of winter. His hands are in his pockets, trying to keep them warm. A pause occurred. Would a silence still be a silence if it is not mutual?

"They hate American right?"

"What?..."

"They hate American right?"

"Yeah..."

A silence is not a silence if there is a wall built because then silence has become tension.

"I want to love you though…"

The night time wind is as sharp as a blade. It cuts your skin. It cuts your heart. You would feel wide open, and half empty, but only then can your emotions and your words flow. Hating American is a strong word. Loving American is also a strong word. I just wish the American was there for me more often. When I remember that American people preach about freedom and equality, not love, I put my water bottle away in the side pocket of my bag. As I jog towards him to catch up, I put my hands in my pockets. We walk together, while I am waiting for him to turn his head, and look at me as if he could hear my thought. We finally reach my apartment, where, after settling in, we lay down to enjoy each other after a long day.

He always maintains the distance when we are outside, but when we are inside, my body somehow always ends up being too close to his body. I blame the door for it. I blame that my apartment has a door. Just because there is a door.

A door allows you to cross the wall civilly. A door allows you to break through the wall, without breaking it down. A door allows both parties to choose to engage and disengage voluntarily with complete freedom of their own.

He is a man of intellect even when he's not holding a book. His blue eyes see me. He blinks, then smiles, then puts his face on my cheek after covering me up with a blanket. That gaze has always been what pulls me toward him.

Then we suddenly went back in time to that day when we first met. It was six month ago, yet the warmth never left. He gave me the kind of warmth that made me want to resist. I tried to resist smiling, but it was just hard. His eyes were piercing my soul again. His hands were running down to my chest from my shoulders. His other hand wrapped around my head, and there I was completely enveloped by his chest. Never in my life I felt good about being physically small until I was in his arms. So I wrapped myself around him, holding tight onto his back. As his blue eyes continued to penetrate me, he took me to the moon where we lost inside each other. I felt his breath on my cheek, flowing down to my neck. I was covered in him.

"Come sleep with me…!" I heard him say.

Six months ago, I began to think that there was a trick behind the blonde hair, and the blue eyes. I still haven't figured out the answer.

"They said blue eyes feel like it's looking through your soul."

"Yeah.."

I looked away. I never knew that expression could be used as a flirt. I smiled. From ears to ears. He reached out, and embraced me.

The truth is I never come to his place to sleep with him. He comes here more often than not. He sits down, and he stares at me. What a gaze!..A gaze that never terrifies me. Whenever I look into his eyes, I have to doubt the validity of those Vietnamese war movies in my childhood. I wonder if the big bad American soldiers are bad because of the brutality they created, or because they can do mind tricks. After bantering for a while, I turn to him and ask if he needs to leave.

"Yeah.."

Then he leans over to kiss me.

"I gotta...go. Sorry"

I am cursing myself again for not resisting. The American waged war in Vietnam, so I guess I am supposed to hate this man too. But it's just hard. I blame the blue eyes.

"Don't be...sorry"

After every time he leaves, I always regret that I didn't try harder to hold him back. And that guilt is almost always stronger than the guilt from not supporting my country. I guess this is why many people say sex is a sin. Sex can make a person stand against their own nation, and side with the arranged enemy whose ancestors have definitely hurt that person's ancestors. I am willing to pay for my sin, but before punishing me, can anyone please answer me why committing sin with this man puts me at ease?

Maybe it's the food that always comes along with him. I know anyone that gives me food is going to make me want to become their girlfriend. The leftover plate on my table describes us pretty well. Half eaten, but still delicious. He never eats a lot so I could have the rest, and finish the food later when I need it. We just kind of are dating, but it is worth it. His leftover fills up my loneliness. This time, when he is at the door to leave again, I notice a shift in his eyes.

"We can't be a boyfriend and girlfriend..."

"Why?" - I feel a bowling ball drop down my stomach as I ask that question.

"Because...you are...an Asian woman, and I am...a white man..."

"So..?"

"That's the stereotype..."

His blue eyes are full of fear. I think I understand him. I fear doing the wrong things as well. If relationship means commitment, and commitment means putting in works, and efforts, we might wind up working together towards the wrong goal. Nobody wants to commit to the wrong things. I get it. But then...I feel loved. So ultimately, I don't get it.

"White people cause problems. Im white, so I'm the problem...part of the problem."

"Well..." - Something inside me is cracking internally. Perhaps the cold wind of winter has dried my organs out as well, while I wasn't able to pay attention. "I have a lot of problems too...". I murmur.

I extend my arms towards him in an attempt to give him a hug, but he closes the door before I could do it. Maybe next time is what I tell myself. Maybe next time I will act quicker, and when I am holding him, I wouldn't let go. He gives me the kind of bliss that I have always been looking for. The kind of warmth that makes my heart walks on its tip toes even when he is not around.