Tag: Family

Feminism Vietnamese way

I have seen them in Ao Dai, on scooters.

I have seen them in Ao Dai, holding child, on scooters (perhaps on the way to childcare) before work.

I have seen them with child canvassing the street selling lottery tickets.

Perhaps I used to be that very child my teacher mom in Ao Dai used to carry.

I remember we had to get help. Live-in maids. Four working adults in a family were not available for one child.

Existential loneliness. Thay, nhay, chup (stand on the table, toss the ball, jump in mid air, and catch it while falling).

I repeated that drill so many times, it now stuck in my memory.

Then, luckily, I got a hold of my brother’s guitar.

So, from then on, me and the strings.

Back to feminism in Vietnam as I experienced it.

Vietnamese female went professional such as accountant (my sister), teacher (my mom) , pharmacist (my sister-in-law) and dentist (my niece), during the 60’s and war time.

They put in long hours, performed up to par.

Then came home. Another round of expectations: that of a housekeeper, to have home-cooked meals on the table and clean sheets in the bed (Vietnamese female version of Papa – “keep those shoes on my feet”).

Fast forward to the here and now.

Some took a short cut (yahoo news features a mug shot of a supposedly $2500 per night call girl). Others migrate overseas under pretense and pretext of marrying to foreigners.

I only know how my mom lived her life.

From morning to mid-night.

I refer to her in another blog (Mom’s Ao Dai).

But I cannot help mentioning her again since I saw another mom-type, holding baby in arm, while riding the scooter, in Ao Dai (receptionist uniform at a Vung Tau resort).

Good luck to all the children without a helmet. Good luck to all those moms who struggle to raise a family in a very hot, flat and crowded city.

Good luck to young and emerging female type who has to juggle between tradition vs modernity without tossing the baby out with bath water.

Everyone I spoke to agreed that here in Vietnam ,

it’s the women who actually run the show: power, money and happiness/well-being of their children.

Betty Friedman would have been proud: here, they practice feminism without labeling it as so. Just do it. Lean-In. Thanks Mom.

Motherhood, Madness and Meditation

Seeing a photo of a grey-hair guy, on bike and  backpack, riding home with bouquet of flowers in the front basket, reminded me of International Day of Women.

There is no doubt, according to an Australian’s observer, that women are bosses here in Vietnam.

Tiger Mom.

To punctuate this point, I was sitting at an outdoor cafe at 7:30 AM, when three different women, on bikes, taking turn showing up for work across the street.

Despite traffic congestion, pollution, heat, and child-care, they were on the dot.

In fact, I did not need to verify this point.

I lived with a few: mother, sister, cousin, nieces and wives.

The women I know have been remarkably strong, resilient and yes, slightly masculine in the sense that they did not mind the menial work.

Now, with I phone, I pad and scooter, they are on a level playing field.

multitasked, multi-talented and multi-facet.

Women respond to stress much better than men.

Phone companies love female customers: they chat, text, and send pics.

When e-commerce fully takes hold here,  we can be sure that women will spend a chunk of  change online.

Still at early stage of mass market, Vietnam , and its female consumers, are well on the way to fulfill life’s dream: motherhood, madness (shop till they drop) and yes, meditation.

My mom showed me that these two extreme can co-exist. In fact, they need each other to balance out a person, a woman at that.

On this Women Day, let’s salute that we all come from the same Womb, and Technology finally erases the inequality of the sexes (caused by agrarian  culture and industrialization).  Two Vietnamese women came to mind: one at the Pentagon, invented heat-seeking bomb, and the other, in the US Air Force , known for precision strike.

I wish a lot of luck on those husbands whose wives have out-achieved their dreams. May they seek comfort in the company of good men who do not succumb to madness, but to meditation.  A woman’s glory is also a man’s joy. Just have to update your version of software. Think different. Collaborate and not compete.

Holding hands in Saigon

The old couple holding hands walking down the street.

They looked at me, I at them.

What did they see in me? Younger version of themselves? Old man looks at my life? I am a lot more like you? Should it be the other way around?

What did I see in them? Grey and withered, still attached, like glue?

I thought hand-holding was for lovers, young lovers.

Like Virginia‘s motto “Virginia is for lovers”.

Here in Saigon, old couples still hold hands, walking down the street.

It gives me  hope, the public display of affection part.

It is affirming, affectionate the whole way through.

Leo Buscaglia once extolled the virtue of Love.

We have Dr Love and Dr Death (assisted suicide).

Both sides of the same coin.

Then we got Dr Strange Love, about bombing and mutual destruction.

The ultimate scare!

Humanity courting disaster.

He who has the bomb holds the key to life.

Archeological dig found a grave with two people holding each other in life and in death (earthquake victims?).

What motivated them? That force which we all felt at times, and recognized when seeing it.

In business, we shake hands upon conclusion of a deal.

In love, we hold hands walking down the street.

Any place (Valentine in the park).

Old man looks at my life, I am a lot like you.

I need someone to see me the whole way through.

I held my dad’s hand on his death-bed.

I saw him struggle with those last attempts at life.

One more try, one more beat. One more refrain, then fade out.

Rather try and fail, then never at all.

Old man looks at my life.

My turn to look at younger men. I am a lot like you.

Survivor’s guilt

We have heard uplifting stories about the human spirits, survivors at seas and in the wilderness. But the other side of the coin is survivor’s guilt. This reaction is just an extension of that loneliness as portrayed in Cast Away.

The story goes like this. Three guys survived a crash and found themselves on an island. Of course, “he ain’t heavy, he is my brother …” Then an angel appears to grant each one a wish. “I want to go home”.

The second guy gets the same wish. The third and only guy left couldn’t wait for his turn. He blurts it out “Gee, I wish my friends are still here with me”. You know what happened then. His wish to “friend” the other two canceled out their reunion at home, bringing them all back to that lonely island of three.

Survivor’s guilt.

It eats us up inside:

I woke up this past Christmas realising it was my friend’s last Christmas.

He has now passed away. But for that brief morning moment, I experienced a speck of guilt. Perhaps it will return next Christmas as well.

For ten years, between 1975-85, I lived in guilt. My dad had stayed behind in our home in Saigon while I partied on (Disco craze).

I ended up volunteering at refugee camps, longing to see my Dad‘s face among the crowd (in fact, one of the guys in my team got that wish: he was reunited with his two younger brothers right there in the Jubilee refugee camp).

That long decade saw the rise of Rambo character, who tried to relieve his guilt via rescue mission.

Relief or rescue, we were onto the same theme: guilt.

Eastern culture was more into “shame” than Western‘s “guilt”.

The aftermath of Vietnam left us paralyzed with both shame and guilt.

(Reflections of my life).

At times, while working out, I moved the damn weight away from my chest, all along with silent scream: ” I did not cause war”.

Yet the impact and influence are the same: separation, loss and bewilderment.

So, on that quiet beach walk, or a stroll through my moon alley, I picked up a stranded star fish, or a loose brick. Just do what I can, in smallest way to make life worth living. It matters to that particular star fish to be tossed back to the sea. Or the brick to the side of the road. Makes it a safer world.

A world without guilt. Survivor’s guilt.

Happy Monday

Yes, one might feel Wonderful Tonight, but not the next morning, Monday that is.

Unless, it’s a keeper. Passion doesn’t push it way in, since it’s intrinsic in nature.

Yes, we are alloted only 24 hours a day.

But some of us can connect the dots faster than others.

Then there are those who can help others make those connections.

Blessed are the peace makers.

Former President Carter made a comment the other day about the agenda Occupy movement.

He was into Habitat for Humanity. Why not start Jobs for the Jobless.

Happy Monday to those who got work.

Happy Monday also to those who look for work.

Happy Monday to stay-at-home mothers whose sacrifices are much needed.

The innocence of the late 50’s, early 60’s showed forth in “Monday is Happy Day…Tuesday is Happy Day”.  Wonder if those sentiments will ever make a comeback. Please hold the grease and the hairspray though. Those who find Monday a Happy Day can surely handle Friday’s Happy Hour.

Papa’s shoes

When you karaoke in Vietnam, you are likely to hear Papa along with Hotel California and Casablanca.

Something ends with an “a”.

I have blogged about Mom’s Ao Dai. So to be fair, here is “Papa‘s shoes“.

At lunch, I was joined by a boy and his Dad (it’s common in Asia at peak hours to sit at the same table with complete strangers).

The attention that boy got from his Dad brought me to tears.

I had to turn away, pretending that red peppers were too hot for me.

Papa struggled all his life: French domination, migration to South Vietnam after the Paris Accord 54, and later, in 1985 to Virginia.

He was a flamboyant but family man at the same time.

Taller than most, he wore US large size. I shined his shoes after his siesta to send him on his “sales” route.

He was the only man still fought his turn at karaoke at the age of 80.

Most memorable was when I finally heard that I had passed the Baccalaureate exam (French lycee equivalent of SAT) in flying color, he pulled out his wallet for my friends and I to buy beer (we would have sneaked out to do it anyway). Rite of passage.

He stood up to defend us against robbers by night and bully by day.

And he got teary after I had suggested that he should take a trip to visit his other woman who was

still living in the old country (he was too old to make the trip out of the nursing home then).

Every kid I talked to whose dad had died during the war had similar regrets.

That every time they had a nice meal etc.. they wished they could share it with the old man.

That kid who joined me at my table had something precious going without realizing it.

His dad urged him for the third time to try a dish. I guessed he finally relented.

With every passing day, we are replaying the same old script: ignoring the moment to chase the shadow.

A line in Papa “…keep shoes on my feet” says it all.

Kids need shoes and their daddies.

To deny a worker his rightful way to earn a living is to deny another generation a shot at life.

Yes, my Dad lived the only life he had known how: machismo (punching out a cocky supervisor) and romantic (wallet with girl friends’ pictures) at the same time. His life reflected his time, often upheaval and fleeting.

He was younger in his larger extended family. He did what he could with the help of my mother (see Mom’s Ao Dai) to put shoes on our feet.

But in countries like Vietnam, a man is still viewed as a cedar, to fend off the enemy and dispense favors around.

I only look back to those warm moments e.g. beef noodles and book-browsing.

I hate it when parents try to put their kids in a jury box.

When they were both gone, kids, like me, are left with only half of each.

I guess that’s where selective memory comes in: when you viewed something or someone as favorable, you only see those traits that reinforce your preconception. In my tapestry and collage, I only saw my Dad’s shoes from a teen vantage point. And how large were his shirts and pants. For him, I did cry twice: one was cry-wolf when he slipped and fell down the stairs, rolling head-down  many turns yet emerged unharmed.

And the second time  was at his funeral. My parents are now resting in peace at the Serenity section in Alexandria cemetery. They had a rhythm of separation due to migration (war) and reunion. Both lived to be in their early 90’s.

Today, at lunch, it was about to be the third time. But I managed to hold back. I didn’t want that kid to see a complete stranger got all teary over a piece of hot pepper. Enjoy it kiddo, while the ride lasts.

Daughter-Daddy

Before my daughter arrived, I had heard of other people’s birth complications which required C-section etc…

So we took up Lamaze classes, and I felt “effeminated” among men and women with pillows.

When I drove A. home the hospital  offered to wheel her out (already strapped in the car seat to begin with). In the parking lot (A.’s first outing) some passerby said “Oh, how cute”.

I realized then I got “china” to be cherished and well-guarded.

The drive home was unnecessarily longer than usual (with light rain to dramatize the scene). At home, we had friends already with welcoming signs.

“Welcome home A.”

She was indeed special and welcome to this world (later, she would experience the Northridge earthquake, LA riot, dot.com burst, single-parented, 9/11 and great Recession. But that was for later).

A. grew up calling me Papi (after the baby sitter’s language).

A. has an amazing sense of coordination. This showed in her taking up Hip-Hop at an early age, and went on to win in competition (no 1 USA).

She collaborated with her “brown” friends (the new valley girls).

And conducted herself beyond reproach.

Any dad would be lucky to have a daughter like A.

She now in Jr College, juggling P/T job and school.

I used to have the same work load while in college.

Time passes more quickly when you are busy. It keeps you out of trouble.

On Father’s Day, I always received her self-made cards. This year, as in years earlier, always with pictures from A.’s childhood. The bond will never be broken.

Every man deserves a special relationship like this.

It redeems us .

You know you can look at yourself in the mirror when your daughter said “we’re tight”.

The role of the alpha males has evolved over the years: from protector to mentor, from “lord” to buddy.

This year A. sent me a picture with us wearing same T-shirts (in design and size).

Now, that’s team. It doesn’t matter that in the photo, she was a child in over-sized T-shirt (for some day, when she reaches middle-age, I will be fading away).

For that moment, as a team, we were like one, tight.

Daughter-Daddy. No business travel, no airport food.

Just sitting on the floor, at eye level. Give Daddy a hug, a kiss.

It’s like communion. I was absolved and consecrated.

It’s not wrong doing or right doing. It’s given that we are imperfect.

What matters is, like any other species, we are built biologically, to transfer our survival and artistic genes. Do this, don’t do that. Eat this, no, not that (poisonous).

So, we navigated through the Valley (San Fernando) and yes, Mountain peak (Grand Canyon). I kidded that A. was a “jungle boy”, when she took off her shirt on one hot day at the peak of the Aztec pyramid. Back in urban jungle, she is surrounded by her Hip-Hop friends. The girl is popular, and well-liked. I would rather you judge me by looking at how well she turns out.

You see, the best thing in life came in small packages. And even better, when it’s from above. A. didn’t have to send me any gift at all. She herself has already been one.

Daughter-Daddy. I promised her my 555th blog will be dedicated to her, for keep’s sake. That future might see more incidents and mishaps, but has one constant: Daughter-Daddy: tight.

Men on the verge of nervous break-down

Here comes the beaver or the beer. Whatever handy to help men cope with his “manpression”.

It is common knowledge that men hardly ask for directions when lost, much less share their problems. Women fare better, whether it’s over sweet, or sweat.

Jodi Foster, most admired for being an accomplished Yale actress-director, has had frequent run-ins with the types: from Taxi Driver (are you talking to me?), to Hannibal the Cannibal (I will tell you if you tell me) to Mel Gibson (Please tell it to the Beaver).

21st-century men are on the verge of a nervous breakdown (unless they belong to the superclass who got together to “discuss” wealth-sharing): warfare almost got outsourced completely to drones, customer service to foreigners, and child care to the state/single-parents.

This recession brought to surface a protracted problem: there are no more Happy Days of lunch-box toting through the gates of smokestacks workplace (see “the Deer Hunter” and the camaraderie of men).

I haven’t added another layer of culture on top of that: that of machismo men (South America, Middle-East), or penchant for face-saving (from Samurai to Confucius social order and harmony).

Think about the Tunisian vegetable vendor. In a NYT op-ed, Cohen penned “people (in the Middle East) with a job and prospect, don’t need virgins in heaven”.

We have had 8% unemployment, most likely men (like in the Shining “I am so bored, I am so bored …”)  join day-time TV  audience (who BTW, haven’t been catered to due to their huge lack in purchasing power). So, Ellen and Oprah just have to follow the money. http://finance.yahoo.com/blogs/daily-ticker/america-middle-class-crisis-sobering-facts-141947274.html

Meanwhile, our men, many in construction and financial, are on the verge of nervous break down (not all can travel to Australia or Japan to help rebuild). The President Council for Economic Advisors is cautioned to come up with construction projects  such as safety bunkers, to prevent massive death tolls caused by twisters and tornadoes.

It’s so fitting that BL’s raid still involved human.

Rainbow Six and an army of stay-at-home dads should both be honored. After all, when push comes to shove, as in United Flight 93, it’s men on the verge of nervous break-down who decided to lay down their lives for others. Men may seek help (from beer or beaver), but never for directions. There simply are no substitute for courage and survival instinct. Last Sunday’s event (the getting of Bin Laden) was cause for celebration: the human race is still in tact, male and female, together subdue the Earth (or the enemies, our thorns in the flesh).