Tag: France

Shame and Stigma

Making small talks on New Year‘s morning, I mentioned various distant relatives, among whom a handsome ping-pong playing cousin of mine.

I remembered him as 60’s looking, hair, glasses and short shorts.

He was later married with kids before got  sent to re-education camp.

While he was away, his wife had an affair and made him feel ashamed upon his return and reintegration to larger society.

Those external stresses, at first glance, must have driven him to suicide.

My hostess cousin overheard my conversation, rushed out of the kitchen  and said ” cousin T was gay!”

“He had been pressured to maintaining a modeled family against his wish.”

Mystery unveiled for me after all these years.

The stigma (of being gay at a time and in a place where it was unacceptable) was followed by shame (even his “modeled” family couldn’t hold waters).

The agony of shame and stigma must have eaten up the man.

If memory served me right, I , up until yesterday, couldn’t conceive his family as “spinners” of story.

His father showed my mom where to find housing and apply for a teaching job.

My birth certificate (showing the address) still bears witness to their kindness to relatives fleeing Southward during the partition (North-South).

In all appearances, with his father also a teacher, which used to be ranked first (Si, Nong, Cong, Thuong – Mandarin, Farmer, Factory worker, Merchant), and rest of family high achievers until the last shoe dropped.

I felt for cousin T.

Perhaps taking his own life was the only way.

If he had lived in this time, or emigrated to a certain State in the US, or EU,

he could have carried on happily.

He ended life to stay true to his nature. (as of this edit, the US Supreme Court is into its 3rd day hearing about gay marriage).

When Francoise Sagan released her bombshell publication  “Bonjour Tristesse“, a lot of young people committed suicide in France. Existential loneliness.

Our own Nguyen Anh Chin also composed his “Buon oi, ta xin chao mi” (Bonjour Tristesse) after a time living in France.

Every society finds ways to explain outliers and outcasts.

We put much spotlight on how many lives Bill Gates has saved (good for him), but we have yet done inventory of what’s in our closet. Instead, we ignore what we can’t explain, or doesn’t fit into the mold: a handicapped child, a gay cousin, an interracial nephew or an unmarried niece.

Society is judged by how well it protects its weakest link, not to convenient put on labels such as “dysfunctional”, or worse, “reject”.

With 7 Billion , the chance of outliers and outcasts will only increase. Consequently, the burden is  on us to overcome fear, to be a good Samaritan. When you do to the least of these, you have done unto me.

Where is  the “Bill Gates” in each of us? The good Samaritan who stands up to shame and social stigma? (Condom Contest Prize $100,000 from Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation). The funny thing about Social Proof (they all do it) is it changes just as quickly if given the right catalyst and back wind (in 10 years, public opinion in the US about gay marriage has flip-flopped).  Be that force of change. He ain’t heavy, he is my brother.

R.I.P. cousin T.

Flaubert et moi

Actually this is about the redemptive aspect of literature.

Set in 1843, Flaubert‘s character rode the psycho-somatic roller-coaster. The result: Madame Bovary set him apart from his Romantic contemporaries. He started the school of Realism even though he never admitted it. Bovary got married, Bovary got bored, Bovary had an affair and a brush with death but recovered just to fall into the arms of another man.  Finally, bankruptcy and death. But Bovary wasn’t the character. It’s Flaubert’s attempt at depicting French country side and country living of his time (Like Roger Altman‘s films, the place is the main character).

In fact, some critics overheard him said, “Madame Bovary, c’est moi”.

Feeling hemmed in and enveloped by a flat country side which to others  might be heaven – wife of a country doctor  etc…but to our character, it’s an oppression.

She longed for the return of the glamorous “Gastby type”.

Flaubert held up the mirror to show us ourselves, the mirage we invented and dreams projected (which essentially our shadows in the cave).

I had no preconception before reading that piece of art.

Having finished it, I still have no post-conception of it.

It just was. Human nature.

The illusion of a better find around the bend, of Moore’s Law that keeps multiplying to infinity . This is antithetic to Flaubert who was known for his dis-taste of machine.

I wish I could read it in French.

But the English version is Flaubert enough. I understand more about escapism, nihilism and “the journey is a reward” .

The illusion that one can control and change destiny.

As fate would have it, Bovary died a wretched lady and her doctor-husband stayed on in the very town she had detested.

Back then, in that setting, writers must be autocrats to afford deep researching of the characters and setting of a novel.

What would he do had he been born in this century?

Like Norman Mailer, he perhaps would stick with the typewriter and not Twitter.

Meanwhile, what would we do being born in early 1800?

We would die younger, hence the longing for escapism must have come sooner.

Would we want to switch places with them?

Are our qualities of life surpassing theirs?

How about the index of misery?

Perhaps Flaubert breathed cleaner air, but according to his character,

still oppressed and constricted.

The take-away from Madame Bovary is ” le mot juste“. Flaubert would read out loud, finding the right word that tickles the ears.

Again, I wish I could have read it in its original language.

One thing I appreciate about Vietnam: you can go to a bookstore, and buy translated books from Russia, France, America or South America.

Someone, somewhere in this “belong-to-bottom 15” of miserable index, is trying to look up le mot juste, to do justice to an author’s intent.

When they found it, they would not let go of it. So would I. Everything (word) has its place and time under the sun. Flaubert’s place has so far been secured in French literature . If Madame Bovary got digitized though. Flaubert would have hated it.

Still the one (who sings)

Bob Seger‘s still the same.

Shania Twain‘s still the one.

And at C’est Moi tonight, the owner/singer (Vietnamese back from France) still carried the show with her energy and charisma, as if she owned the place.

When you sing, you have to lift the audience out of the here and now.

If they are on their feet, all the better.

Time suspended.

Bodies transported to a windmill (Dans le soleil and dans le vent) or a party and back (Wonderful Tonight).

Male baritone and female alto, vocal or duet, and the silence of the prelude.

Then the loop from vocalist to audience and (feed)back which in turn validates the performer.

Forget reality and all its pain.

Just Do Re Mi in infinite variables, one breath at a time.

The Vietnamese taste for music ranges anywhere from classic Western,  Pop  to traditional songs welcoming Spring time.

Rooted in agriculture,  people here cultivate then celebrate.

The upcoming week is time to board “The Last Train” : time for migrant workers to get out of the smokestack and back to their village.

Spanking new $2 dollar bills in red envelopes; kids in new clothes and old folks rejuvenated by family reunion.

Spring not only brings hope but also brings back the familiar . Let’s say someone has died, on the first day of Tet, everyone goes out to the graveyard, as if trying to cross the chasm , to bring him/her back to the fold and festivities.

Call it “collective denial” but it’s entrenched here, unlike Greek‘s Alpha-Omega mindset of “one cannot swim in the same river twice”.

I got that feeling tonight when Thanh Hoa (the singer/owner) took my request for You’re Still the One.

I sat there a few years back listening to that same song, same setting.

She still carried the show as she had done before.

Which gave me that feeling of homecoming, of having a seat at the table.

On YouTube, you can choose to hear “Still the same” by today’s Bob Seger (older) or “Still the same” by Bob Seger of the 70’s. Still the same.

Still the one.

Still wonderful tonight.

Music transcends time and age.

Music for Spring time , bridging cultures and distance.

It connects people, links the generations and calls out for renewal and redemption.

Come home child! There is always a seat at the table. You are still the one.

My 555 plan

Get back to your roots.

Eliminate waste and accessories.

Differentiate and make it relevant.

Actually, 555 is just a self-branding attempt, after a cigarette a friend of mine used to smoke.

I had to attach a numeric code to differentiate (sticky and trans-cultural)  my Yahoo log-on ID.

Now we hear of 999 plan etc…

It’s hard to stand out among Earth’s 7 Billion.

During a town hall meeting on LinkedIn, its CEO was ambitious to convey its vision i.e. to connect people to people, and people to opportunities.

Now we have the way (technology that connects millions at 2nd and 3rd degree separation), but we lack the will.

I heard of a new book entitled “Lean Start-ups”. The author mentioned “rentorship” of the means of production (Google Adwords, Amazon rack space etc…).

Even when the barriers to entry (means of production) are lowered, new entrants still get cold feet (catch 22: low consumer confidence leads to low spending, hence reduces the size of the pie, in turn, weakens the pull factor).

Even our Greek demi-gods need bail-out.

In education, we heard of “Waiting for Superman“.

Now, it’s waiting for Superman everywhere from EU zone to the O zone.

No, I don’t have a 555 plan to come to the rescue. It’s all in the unwinding.

And this takes time and belt-tightening (the 60’s protest was a rage against the machine i.e. inhumane,

now Occupy WS couldn’t articulate its distress i.e. wanting things back to the way it used to be in).

One thing is clear: we are in this together (dark side of globalization).

Vacationers from Europe couldn’t afford to travel to Hawaii. A resort in Hawaii got shut down (Michael Dell lost a lot of money there along with his Santa Monica hotels).

A Chinaman decided to shop in France (instead of Florida).  A Filipino street vendor just got flooded and went under. A Korean caterer LA tweets about his lunch site. And a Vietnamese man tweaks his latest app to share photos (Color) while Japan nuclear power plants striked a deal for two more reactors along the Vietnam coasts (this time, with Fukushima lessons learned).

There will be a lot of sorting out inside our hot and crowded sandbox.

The age of oligarchy has just dawned, not only in broadband, but in all sectors.

We can’t remember and choose among too many offerings (as BRIC countries export themselves e.g Tata in England, Huawei in TX).

Consumers always say they want more choices, while in reality, they pick the default option (organ donors in Europe were too lazy to opt out ).

So we are back to our roots (As of this writing re-shoring is on the rise with Albany getting $4 B pledge for chip facilities, and Pitts a huge endowment).  After all, America got talent, right!

I read somewhere that Youtoo is doing just that: to offer everyone a chance to submit their own video and to broadcast their 15-seconds of fame.

There will be enough bandwidth for everyone. Everyone is a star, because each has lived a wonderful life. Irreplaceable and invincible.

When your heart still beats, the cursor still blinks, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. There are zillion of stars in the Universe whose 7 Billion are here on Spaceship Earth, wading water to school, landing a plane at near miss, or coding all night to finish version n.0.

There is no better time to live, to invent and to round people out of their slumber. Victim no longer. Victor all the way. Brain bubble is the kind that never bursts. What’s your 555 plan?

Powerful women

World’s oldest woman. 115 years old. Oldest man, from Japan, 116 years old. Life expectancy in 1900 was 47.

World population has increased drastically. (Bio tech century). At the nano level, we can detect early symptoms of all sorts of disease (nano pharma).

Ironically, as the West is more aware of health issues and is taking preventive measures (diet, exercise and environmental retrofit), China with a huge population has to shallow the consequences of rapid industrialization , urbanization, obesity and pollution.

Asked on ABC News why Chinese children are much fatter than early generation, Ms Lee replied “because of China’s increased milk consumption.”

Charlie Rose asked Yang Lan, coined Chinese Oprah, about her agenda. The reply: capacity-building and to realize a civil society.

I believe she will see it realized. After all, she commands 200 million viewers each show (compared to O’s 7 million).

BTW, she was among the speakers at Fortune 2010 Most Powerful Women conference. Being in Media, and being a woman in today’s China , she signed up with Creative Artist in Hollywood which helped land interviews such as Charlie Rose’s and a piece in Fast Company. In Vietnam, I heard a story that all three powerful media owners are females who got their start as receptionists of a hotel on Saigon’s main tourist hub.

Our 21 st century produces not only media moguls, powerful women as heads of state (see portraits here

http://www.csmonitor.com/CSM-Photo-Galleries/In-Pictures/Current-women-heads-of-state )

but also longer life (TIME Nov 15 documents a larger percentage of women making electronic purchase decision as well as watching NFL football).

In marketing, we calculate CLV (customer lifetime value). These numbers will only grow larger in both breath and depth. Who would have thought cell phone penetration as now is.. First, the voice call.

Then come the apps. The village ladies in India and Africa could walk for miles as mobile pay phones to make a small profit on each call. To them, it’s nothing, compare to whatever they have carried on their heads for centuries. Once every one has a mobile phone, these early adopters will have moved on to owning a coke stand then a beauty salon.

Three cheers for technology and globalization but also, for  women progress, for in Ms Yang Lan’s words, capacity-building to realize the Chinese dream. Amelia Earhart would have been proud. She would have been 116 years of age today.

 

La vache qui rit

Forbes recently printed a McKinsey report about the coming consumer society in Vietnam. In other words, we will soon see La Vache qui rit in supermarkets along side real cows which are still allowed to roam free in the country side.

Vietnam 2040 will very much resemble US 1950, when the going was good: chicken in the pot and Chevy in the driveway.

Auto dealerships have sprung up at the outskirts, such as Dong Nai: Toyota, Honda and Ford.

Billboards build brands: Liberty Insurance, Prudential and VNPT.

Supermarts, hypermarts and convenient stores are found everywhere, selling of course, high margin, high carb items. KFC, Carl’s Jr and Lotteria employees are tasked to ask if you wanted fries and soda (combo no 1).  An underground mall has recently been opened in Hanoi to much fanfare.

In the country side, people however are happy with satellite TVs, internet hook up and mobile phones. Every house is an enterprise, either bed and breakfast, or coffee shops.

There is a price to pay by giving up traditional society for a consumer one. Vietnam will encounter those social problems Westerners already knew too well:

attachment to things will only lead to addiction, called shopaholism.  Shopaholic sometimes turns shoplifter as well.

It’s an unending cycle: the more things you owe, the less satisfaction you get out of them, hence, the more you think you need to reach old-level high. More results in less and not more happiness.

But advertisers will push this Pavlovian model to the brink.

Kids with glasses spend more screen time than face time with their parents or friends.

And they will eat La Vache Qui Rit, an inherited brand since before 1975,

and never know or see a real cow. It will be the age of vending machine: putting in a coin, and the coke comes out. No question asked. Period. Have you ever seen a real cow laughing? Or the sound of one hand clapping? Get real!

Et pourtant, I think of French bread

This guy, Thomas Huang, went searching for a chocolate eclaire in Saigon, and ended up having his article in the Dallas Morning News

http://www.dallasnews.com/sharedcontent/dws/fea/travel/thisweek/stories/DN-vietbread_0711tra.ART.State.Edition1.4fb9c7b.html

I sat next to a business man from Dallas on my recent trip to Vietnam.

He and his partners were into real estate.

And the amazing thing was, while his partner and he flew separately, Korean and Japan Airlines respectively, they both arrived at the same time.

(The Polish government could have taken a page from this playbook).

I wasn’t sure they went hunting for French bakery or not. Not everyone from Dallas craves for the dough.

But I must admit, my upper class men were into French cinema (Bonjour Tristesse), French music (Et Pourtant) and French cuisine (cafe au lait).

I, however, just barely missed the tail end of French colonial influence, and the emergence of R&R (Oh Susie Q).

Everything came back to me a bit fuzzy: like on a super 8mm reel. Back then, life was on the fast lane. Fashion and fad, fun and fear. Ballroom dancing anyone?. Male riders in the back of scooters must sit cross-legged like girls, for security reason. Occasionally, when a waltz number was up, I saw couples wearing white shirts (reflect the psychedelic purple) and tight jeans, twirling and turning, both long-hair and skinny. Way to go the late 60’s.

My upper class men adopted foreign music but selectively: Santana was OK, since it fit into their ballroom dance cycle. Christophe was OK, but only for listening. And , out on the left field, came Lobo, with You and Me and the dog named Boo (Lobo and Procol Harum were both one-hit wonders).

Public school got ample supplies of French bread and powdered milk. Up to their ears. And to change menu, they went for US army rations sold on the black market: those crackers and small peanut butter  in army-green tin cans (reminded me of Kiwi shoe polish).

Anyway, we grew up in a hurry, pulled all-night study to avoid the draft (had there been a Canada North, many would have gone. In fact, our generations’ Canada was Colombo scholarship to study in Melbourne).

And of course, the ubiquitous French bread for study break. They poured the sauce and their hearts into it, and tell you the truth, I am going to join Thomas Huang of Dallas in his hunt for a perfect French baguette. It makes me hungry all of a sudden. I must give it to them, the French, who came up with everything long: Eiffel tower, baguette and Tour De France.

Le jour le plus longue. No wonder they drink coffee all day long. Their days are even longer than ours (but they work only 35 hours per week). I realize just now why I enjoyed Cafe Du Monde in New Orleans. I was “Thomas Huang” but in the opposite direction. He went from Dallas to Saigon, and I, Saigon to New Orleans, both in search of  “un temp perdu”.

Those were the times, of war and peace, love and hate, loyalty and betrayal. Of fast life on fast lane and sudden losses.

Regime change and revolution upheaval.  Of romance and regret. Life-defining moments. It’s not just an eclaire.

It’s an era, forever gone, yet stuck in memory. Now the street behind yesterday’s Independence Palace lay dimly, leaving the glowing stage for capitalist-like District One, Vietnam’s shopping show case. We’ve got it too! Yet we didn’t get it. Maybe just an eclaire. Stuffs that are consumable. Everything else is left to fate. When one gave up free will, fate takes over, by default.

Former colonial mentality follows its master’s fate into oblivion. Bonjour Tristesse! How I wish for the young to dance, to dream and to make it happen again: to build bridges instead of jumping out from one.

The larger-than-life generation

Tom Brokaw‘s coined it “The Greatest Generation” those who preceded the Boomer Gen.

This weekend we remember many who fought those huge battles.

The way they carried themselves: smoking, shooting and even kissing in the streets of New York (celebrating victory).

Subsequent G.I. Bill made possible their going to college (many were into

engineering and management, having been exposed to the world beyond their immediate borders and compelled by much needed infra-structure projects). They weren’t the “Deer Hunters” of the later war.

Instead, they hit the books and started families, despite Post Traumatic Disorder Syndrome.

I was born later, but the previous generation seemed to have left some trails, very gentlemanly ones.

People tilted their hats, held the door, and smiled at neighbors.

I used to shine shoes for my dad, prepared his coffee and watched him interact with peers.

(I remembered seeing titles by Somerset Maugham, Saint Exupery and Ernest Hemingway around the house.)

They way he carried himself, the romantic incline and how he responded to crisis (w/courage).

Those were the times. I even secretly wished I had grown up much faster then.

Maybe deep down, I knew those happy times would be short-lived.

And true to form, history pulled a quick dialectic turn on me: I was tossed into the seas (literally) to stake out my life and time.

I “imagined” (all the people, living for today) while my hair grew longer than generation, before or after.

My counterparts in the US fled to Sweden and Canada,

while my upper classmates to Australia, US and France.

The Greatest Generation secured an industrial base strong enough to spill over to the next century.

Just try to have breakfast at one of those 50’s diners, and you will get feel for what it was like back then: sturdy counter,

pleasant hostess and  full breakfast. Hate to say, but it was manly. Just like their days in war.

In French, it would be “le jour le plus longue”, whistling and marching to their destiny with bravery and grandeur.

Propaganda discounted, I would say, they staked  out their places in history by living, fighting and rebuilding a society worthy of men.

We are all inheritors of their war-rebuilding efforts, and the least we can do is to salute and keep our shoes shined. Oh, and don’t forget to hold the door.

Vietnamese love for French songs

When traveling in Vietnam, you can still hear French embedded in every-day culture:

fork (fut-xet) , suit (com-plet) and tie (ca-ra-vat). Apparently, they just use the phoneticized versions for lack of dynamic equivalents and use literal translation, such as “Hop Dem” (Boite de Nuit) as last resort.

Some old hands can still carry a tune or two in French. From the music of Christophe to Art Sullivan, from Dalida to Charles Aznavour.

Ask anyone from the older generation, they will tell you they know Alain Delon, Catherine Deneuve, Jean Paul Belmondo and Brigitte Bardot.

And you should listen over cafe au lait. You find French imprints in gastronomy and architecture (Notre Dame Cathedral), traffic cop stations and the ambivalent tie (a rare thing given its tropical climate).

Older scholars are still conversant in French. Their worn-out La Rousse copies testify to that (or as Cuban classic Detroit cars – relics of the island’s past).

Chances are they still have a beret laying around (up North, or in Dalat).

Old Time-and-Life pictures show French officers smoking in Hotel Continental and Caravelle in the late 50’s (in shorts). It was also featured as a set in The Quiet American.

Practically every nation on Earth, even North Korea, has an expat den e.g. French Quarter in New Orleans.

Vietel won the Haiti Telecom contract despite the quake. The thing they have in common: speak French as former fellow colonies. Lately, France tries to compensate for its colonial “sin” 200 years late.

Speaking of history. Madame Nhu (the title says it all) was overexerting her derivative power with bad PR comments (they can barbecue themselves all they want; nobody asked them to) about the burning monks. She once had been tutored by her soon-to-be husband presumably in French and in Dalat where the last King’s Imperial Villa was located.

A friend told me I should try to make it to Paris before dying.  Apparently, Paris is our new Rome and Mecca (it’s still among the top ten despite the recession). Even the hyper-savers in China couldn’t help spending an average of $1800 there for shopping at Capitalist temple. When Paris sizzles!

Since they arrived on tour bus, their schedules barely allowed for sitting down dinner. Just shop (although both the Chinese and the French love cuisine).

And if I can’t do it, a trip to my local supermarket will do. There, I get my French Roast coffee, and a baguette plus cheese (La Vache qui rit).

And on YouTube, I can just select French songs e.g. Francoise Hardy‘s. Those singers, in tailored suits, sang with utter confidence and vulnerability:

“Mal, je suis mal…” or, “Il fait de soleil, je pense a toi.”

As a Vietnamese of origin, I was wired from birth to love French songs. No way around it. It’s a good start for my schooling, in French, at early age. The principle of Ecole L’Aurore and her brother lingered on in post-colonial times, much like those souped-up Detroit automobiles still be around in Cuba.

Frere Jacque, dormez vous? I didn’t know I was homesick, until one day, I happened to listen to Adieu Sois Heureuse by Art Sullivan. It not only brought me back in time, but to a place where dreams entertained yet unrealized, and friendships, half-baked, left wanting.

French is the best language for nostalgia. And where else better than in Vietnam where you can still find it embedded in every-day culture and etched in memories of exile.

C’est moi

Obviously French. Not too obvious that the “tutoye” is permeating a culture predominantly focused on the collective Nous.

Weeknight, karaoke with live accompaniment.

Weekends, professional singers, one of whom singer/owner I heard came back from France (probably under dual citizenship).

This is a hybrid of crowd-sourcing and the old Command-control stage craft.

It seems to work. The audience enjoyed themselves (who wouldn’t cheer for one’s own).

Healthy depressurization.

Outside, it’s still a boiler. 40 degrees Celsius. Bike traffic is everywhere including on the side walks at peak hours.

Inside, the roses keep coming (with VN money wrapped inside for the musicians).  I held the mike, and let myself go. The song brought me back to Art Sullivan time, when he was sooooo young and vulnerable. Adieu, sois heureuse, Adieu, et bonne chance.

I never wanted to say goodbye to my (younger) self. Still here, against the wind.

Wonder if they have the lyric for Bob Seger, husky, uncompromising yet lava-filled.

At C’est Moi, you sit among people who at least can carry a tune. No need to torture yourself elsewhere. The best of all, there are pros sitting there, very much like American Idol, cheering you on.

I haven’t heard a negative comment though. Only the Pavlovian roses for group therapy. C’est moi. C’est toi. C’est nous. Not dead yet!