My Vietnam

If you ever want to achieve happiness, don’t dwell on the past. Instead, start living. What is the point of obsessing over something that has already happened, and that you cannot change? Live! And be merry.

-Kien Nguyen

The Unwanted

“I can’t believe you would ever want to go there,” my friend’s father said as he glared at me from across the kitchen table.

Easily putting a damper on the dinner party, my simple statement that I would be going to Vietnam for spring break immediately showed itself to have been a bad judgment call on my part. He continued with, “This won’t be your typical spring break, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you don’t come back. What are you sleeping in? A hut?”

All eyes turned to look at me, and I characteristically started to blush. After giving what I felt was an adequate representation of what our class was hoping to accomplish, I changed the subject to something less controversial, like the salad. I was proud and thrilled to be going to Vietnam. Why was my mom the only person who understood this? I wanted to go there to challenge myself and make my father proud. One of our last conversations had been about my need to explore, travel, and learn about my country’s history -- and I had promised him that I would try to do just that.

I am a soldier. Sometimes it feels like my battle was yesterday, other times it feels like it was just a dream. I’ve been told that when people fight a war, they do it for their fellow soldiers. My battle technically went on for four and a half years, though part of me still fights it everyday. Once you’ve been in a war, the life you once lived is never as you left it.

You can go through the motions and acclimate yourself back into your old habits, but something is always different -- you’re different. The steps I walk now are much different than the steps I walked four and a half years ago. I am older, wiser, stronger. At the same time, I am emptier, lonelier, colder. My war is one that haunts me daily. It lingers in my conversations, my memories, and in other people’s perceptions of me. It, like the Vietnam War, has not yet found closure. Perhaps through writing this will all change.

By combining my journal entries and narrative on loss with the war experiences of Vietnamese authors, I argue that despite the vast expanse of miles and cultural differences that separate both the Vietnamese and Americans, we are inherently the same. We are human. We all have stories to tell, but this is my memoir. After analyzing works by Bao Ninh, Kien Nguyen, Le Ly Hayslip, and Frances Fitzgerald, I chose to create a text shaped by the words of those who experienced the Vietnam War.

Though I relate my personal experience to a battle, I do not wish to downplay the horrors of war. Instead, I choose to engage my sources with my own words to form a story that is entirely my own --my Vietnam. After reading their stories, this American girl immediately felt a connection to each narrative, for she found a piece of herself in them. Hope and healing in the face of tragedy is the common thread that ties us together. What follows is an analysis of these Vietnamese accounts and my own memoir, woven together, I hope, into a quilt of healing.

December 17, 2001

When I drove home for Christmas that year, I carried with me a bag full of books. After taking four English classes during the semester, the amount of literature I had consumed was enormous. I packed it all into its own separate duffel, and strained to carry it to the car as only a 5 foot tall girl can do. I was exhausted. Physically drained by my lifestyle of optional sleeping, I watched as the lines on the road appeared as one while my body struggled to remain alert. Even so, I couldn’t have slept if I had tried. The stress from classes and my extreme fatigue were nothing compared to what I was going home to. My dad was dying.

March 8, 2003

HANOI: the capital of Vietnam. A bustling, impoverished, regal city with more people on motor bikes and bicycles that I have ever seen! Forget stopping or yielding at a 4-way intersection -- there’s no such thing! As we walked through the city, we passed countless beggars and street children pleading with us to spend money. After talking to some of the cute kids, I had to say yes. My senses were challenged as we walked through the market and saw slaughtered animals and lots of swimming eels and octopus. (One splashed me in the face!)

Tonight we took a cyclo ride through the streets of Hanoi. I have never seen anything like this- it seemed as though everyone was on the sidewalks, waiting to sell their merchandise. The key word is waiting. I didn’t see anyone buying anything…I wonder how long they’ll wait.

In her memoir When Heaven and Earth Changed Places , Le Ly Hayslip talks about her perceptions during her own cyclo ride. She writes, “The buildings narrow around us like trees in a jungle or high stones in a canyon. We snake back and forth, covering and re-covering our tracks, but always plunging further into darker, more forbidding zones of the city” (130). Given that Hayslip is a Vietnamese woman returning to her country after leaving with an American years before, she clearly fears that her cyclo driver is taking her to a location where she will be punished. As American citizens functioning as tourists in Vietnam, none of us had to encounter such rational paranoia.

12/17/01

I threw open the front door that December evening, tossing my luggage on the ground and yelling my usual home-for-the-holidays greeting to my parents. My mom came to greet me from the kitchen, her expression flat.

I instantly concluded that I would receive a warmer reception from my father, so I ran into the family room where I knew he’d be sitting, most likely watching football. For the first time in my life, he didn’t get out of his chair to give me a hug. As I approached him I noticed that he did not look like my dad. This man was much thinner, with heavy circles under his eyes and gray, thinning hair. Something was wrong. I watched him struggle through dinner, clearly not able to enjoy food like he once had.

The next morning, my parents told me they had to talk to me. Hospice. There’s nothing more the doctors can do. It will be a special Christmas. Did not want to stress you out during your exams. It’s ok to cry. Tears slowly came out of my father’s eyes. I wanted to slowly dissolve into the couch, remaining there until the new year. This could not be real.

March 9, 2003

When the alarm went off at 7:15 AM, I felt something that I hadn’t felt after losing a day and flying forever...RESTED! Breakfast was delicious (honey pancakes, lo mein, rice-filled omelettes). We waited in line for a long time to see Ho Chi Minh’s mausoleum. You wouldn’t believe the number of people in line, it stretched for a mile. Knowing Ho Chi Minh’s powerful influence in Vietnam, I was not surprised. When you enter his enormous Russian-inspired tomb, guards stand at attention in every corner. Don’t even think about talking or smiling, you’ll be kicked out in a second. Keeping my head down, I walked into the room where his preserved body rests in a glass case: this was the father of modern Vietnam. I was at once in awe, somber, and shocked at how alive he looked, like he was taking a nap. The silence carried on until we were outside.

During her return to Vietnam, Hayslip found herself reflecting upon a random Ho Chi Minh portrait in a residential home. She writes that "on the wall hangs the inevitable portrait of Uncle Ho. Although the picture is supposed to convey a sense of Ho’s spirituality, I find it triggers old memories and more than a little discomfort. The religious aura of the picture only reminds me of the awesome power of the state compared with puny individuals like me” (159).

While in the mausoleum, I could feel Ho’s power over his country even in his death, just as Le Ly could. After reading Hayslip’s memoir, I wondered if there were Vietnamese who would be uncomfortable in making the trip to see him. Some of the people who fought against the National Liberation Front and the northern communists must have felt a certain amount of negativity towards Uncle Ho.

My question was answered when I read Kien Nguyen’s memoir The Unwanted . In it, he tells the story of the hardships that his family faced as Southern supporters after the Vietnam War. Once Saigon is taken over by the Communists, Kien and his family are forced to submit themselves to the new government. Ho Chi Minh’s lasting power over his people is shown when little Kien asks a Communist soldier, “Who is Uncle Ho?” (66) Clearly surprised, the soldier responds with, “Who is Uncle Ho? Why, he’s Uncle Ho Chi Minh, our savior, our supreme president. Just by his name alone came the destruction of the shackle that, for many years, enslaved our people to the Americans” (67). From this point on, Kien and his family are forced to give in to their new government’s regime, thus placing Uncle Ho on the pedestal on which he continues to stand today.

December 24, 2001

One week later my dad had to go to the hospital. Clutching Lolita as I walked alone into the waiting room, I figured that I would get caught up on a classic book that I, being an English major, should be familiar with. I was the only person in the waiting room without someone with them. I could feel people’s stares on me as I started to read. I wanted to say to their eyes, “I am 20 years old. It’s two days before Christmas. My dad is dying. He never smoked and yet he has lung cancer. If he were in this room right now, he’d make sure to say hello to everyone. He’d be the first to open a door for any of you, and chances are he’d be learning your life stories by now.”

March 9, 2003

The visits to the temples were peaceful in a city that stresses me out!

Lunch at the Tonkin Inn-lots of laughs, but of course, I laugh at everything…

Tonight we had dinner with Vietnamese students-eye opening, hilarious, fulfilling, and special. A lot of them have my e-mail address. The dancing game with the balloons was priceless. (Why didn’t I bring my camera?!)

While we socialized with the Vietnamese students, I could not help but think of how similar we all were, despite our significant cultural and societal differences. During my one-on-one conversations with them, I found beauty in the fact that we could talk about anything. The students were not afraid to ask questions that some might view ascontroversial, and it was this bravery and confidence that I thought was both appealing and respectful. They were careful not to offend, and through the looks on their faces I could tell that they were genuinely, seriously interested in what I had to say to them. Rarely are my conversations in America this intense. In other words, when I first meet people, oftentimes our discussions are brief and on a surface level. These Vietnamese students were different.

In Fire in the Lake, Francis Fitzgerald offers a much different view of Vietnamese and American relations in the early 1970’s. She writes, “In going into Vietnam the United States was not only transposing itself into a different epoch of history; it was entering a world qualitatively different from its own. Culturally as geographically Vietnam lies half a world away from the United States” (7). Granted, our cultures are vastly different down to the way we remember our ancestors. Even so, on an evening in March, a group of American students was able to find countless bonds with fifteen Vietnamese men and women. Perhaps we were searching for a common link with each other. Or maybe it worked because it just did.

December 24, 2001

He doesn’t know it, but I am more scared right now that I have ever been in my entire life. I’m sitting alone in this hard-backed chair with a book that I do not like. I’m waiting for my mom to come out and check on me. I’m hungry. That snack machine over there looks pretty appealing. I’ve had a lump in my throat for the past three hours, and when I stare at you it’s not because I’m rude. I just want my dad to look like a healthy man, like you.

March 10, 2003

LEAVING HANOI: I’m in a plane right now, flying to Hoi An, a coastal village, hoping for some sun in this fog-covered country!

Hanoi was nothing like I expected it to be. The traffic was absolutely insane, with no regard held to going easy on the horn. If I hear anymore beeps it will be too soon…

One of the most fascinating parts of Hanoi is that everyone seems to do almost everything on the sidewalks. You would think that there was no such thing as cooking, playing pool, or giving a pedicure...inside! This gives the city character, and I was entranced by the people-so friendly. Many are poor, yet they appear to be so happy. All of the people I met had never been out of the country.

I was impressed with their humbleness and simplicity.

I leave Hanoi changed…and full on rice.

While in Hanoi, I found myself moved by the daily interactions I saw between my trip-mates and the Vietnamese. I was delighted at how open my fellow classmates were to speak to them, impressing me with their honest desire to learn and grow. I could not help but think about what it was like for the Vietnamese to speak with us.

Nguyen discusses this idea when he was a little boy and has a conversation with a U.S. soldier. They talk about his homesickness, and he shows Kien pictures of his family back home. Did any of us show family pictures to the Vietnamese? I am almost sure we did. Kien offers his perspective of the situation when he says, “He told me he was from Wisconsin. To me, the name Wisconsin was as strange as the color of his eyes” (68-9).

Even while in their country, I sometimes forgot that the Vietnamese would find us just as foreign as we found them. It was in these differences that we were able to find ourselves in each other. In other words, the differences existed for us to move past the surface and see someone who was perhaps just like us. As the American is leaving, he says to Kien, “Thank you for everything, for being my little friend, for making this place not so alien as it was two days ago” (69). For the sense of security that I felt while in Vietnam, I thank the Vietnamese.

December 24, 2001

By the fourth hour I decided to go into the “Restricted Personnel Only” door myself. I needed to know what was taking so long. Upon entering my dad’s room, my fear instantly grew. He was in a hospital gown, looking absolutely skeletal. I’ll never forget his big blue eyes, saucer-like when contrasted with his bony facial features. When they finally noticed me crying, they started to tear up, too. It hurt to breathe.

March 10, 2003 continued

Enter: Hoi An-the cutest ocean village ever. After checking in at our incredibly nice hotel ( I took a picture of it), we walked around the town which, though touristy, was so much more calm because there was much less traffic than Hanoi.

During our walk, Davies and Truc recommended tailor-made shops for us…where we spent the next 2 hours!

Dinner was at the same restaurant where we ate lunch today. We arrive at the restaurants, and there’s the staff waiting on us- I could live like this forever…

In remembering the city of Hoi An and the magic I felt while I was there, I cannot imagine a war ripping apart the town as it must have. There is something to be said about being in Vietnam, driving through the lush, green countryside, imagining bombs destroying the land. War is brutal, but when surrounded by the beauty and simplicity of a country once torn apart, it was very difficult for me to envision what it must have been like to be working a rice paddy and encountering a foreign helicopter landing just feet away.

More than simply pondering the destruction of the land, I found myself guessing at what it would take for many Vietnamese soldiers to offer their service and lives voluntarily. In The Sorrow of War, Bao Ninh talks about the mentality of his fellow soldiers in North Vietnam. “They had simple, gentle, ethical outlooks on life. It was clearly those same friendly, simple peasant fighters who were the ones ready to bear the catastrophic consequences of this war, yet they never had a say in deciding the course of the war” (18). These “simple” people were willing to give their lives for the freedom of their country, willing to sacrifice their land to constant bombing for their nationalism. After traveling through Vietnam and seeing its splendor, I cannot imagine being so committed to the cause that I would give up its beauty in the name of freedom. Then again, I was born into my autonomy and have never had to deal with such a decision. I respect the determination of the Vietnamese immensely.

January 24, 2002

Days passed and the time came to let him go. I rushed home from school to be at his beside, and as soon as I entered the dimly lit room that January evening, my fear of death overwhelmed me.

March 11, 2003

Drove to the site of the My Lai Massacre. Along the way we stopped in the countryside. The people spoke absolutely no English but smiles abounded. About 20 school-children ran onto their porch to shriek “hello’s”…I’m adopting all of them.

Once at My Lai, everyone’s mood became somber. Our tour guide cried as she recalled the events of that fateful day when U.S. soldiers murdered countless innocent elderly, women, and children. The photos in the museum combined with our tour and the reflection with tea afterwards were incredibly moving.

In attempting to come to terms with what I witnessed at My Lai that day, I find myself looking to Bao Ninh’s narrative to search for some kind of meaning in the war. My search may never end, but his thoughts on war color a backdrop to place against the horrors of My Lai.

For example, he writes, “War was a world with no home, no roof, no comforts. A miserable journey, of endless drifting. War was a world without real men, without real women, without feeling” (31). Perhaps for the American soldiers that day, their endless drifting included a trip through the village of My Lai, a miserable journey that they never thought would end.

In a question that he raises, I find both the Vietnamese and American sides still searching for its answer. He asks, “Where is the reward of enlightenment due to us for attaining our sacred war goals?” (47) When all is said and done, I wonder if it was worth it. For the Vietnamese I can answer with a nearly confident “yes,” and for the Americans my response most days remains a “no.” After visiting a sacred memorial like My Lai, I can acknowledge that my country made mistakes. I only hope that the lessons learned during the Vietnam War will carry on through to the future of the United States.

January 24, 2002

Ever the actress, I pushed those feels aside and sat next to the bed, blindly staring into eyes that looked upwards, eyes that had a gray glaze over them, that were focused on a spot at the top of the wall. My father was talking incoherently and struggling to breathe .

March 12, 2003

Early morning…what’s new?

Drove to Hue -- the ancient capital of Vietnam. I enjoyed my time here but found myself anxious to get to Saigon.

THE BEST: Visiting the Buddhist temples and seeing monks followed by a boat ride down the Perfume River and dinner at the Saigon Hotel gardens.

During our tour of Hue, we were told that this city encountered a tremendous amount of bombing attacks during the war. Fitzgerald furthers this discussion when she talks about her return to Hue after the war. She writes, “Central Vietnam was the region hardest hit by the American War. Driving from Danang to Hue on my first trip back, I somehow expected to see the rusting bodies of tanks, the scars from the bombing and shelling on the hillsides” (448). I also caught myself looking for the remnants of the war while touring the city, and could not come up with anything solid until I saw the gravesites for fallen soldiers. Though the city has been physically healed, the memories of those who gave their lives to the war are not forgotten through the mass memorial sites that we passed along the way. Our attention was also drawn to the missing part of the ancient Citadel and bullet holes that could still be seen in clear view.

Fitzgerald writes, “The wounds of war had disappeared from the countryside, and in Hue the citadel and the palaces and tombs of the Nguyen emperors had been so completely rebuilt and restored that it was hard to imagine that battles had ever occurred” (448). I could not agree more.

January 24, 2002

“This must be what it is like in war”, I thought. There were no machines to save him. We were lost in the jungle and he was not going to make it. When the morning came he had left with the evening’s last star, and I had become fatherless.

March 13, 2003

On a flight to Saigon in Hallie’s First Class seat. Not a bad way to start out a birthday.

As we drive through the streets, I feel like my last dream for the trip is coming true. Growing up listening to the music of “Miss Saigon,” I have always wondered what this city would be like. Now here I am in its fabled streets, anticipating all that is to come today and tomorrow.

Visiting the War Museum was momentous, not only because of the articles that were on display, but because I was able to see the looks on my classmates faces as they respectfully moved from exhibit to exhibit. While staring at one of the U.S. tanks left here, I found myself pondering over the entire war. It was beginning to make sense for me. The Vietnamese just wanted their freedom, and we felt that by offering them our support, they would be able to find it. Granted we were wrong, but I don’t fault anyone. The important thing now is to remember this past, and make sure that it doesn’t happen again.

Today was my birthday. I was afraid that it would be difficult, given my family circumstances, but I was wrong. My trip to Vietnam not only provided me with the experience of a lifetime, but it handed me a class-worth of new friends. Beyond the vast expanse that is Vietnam in my mind, past the fact that I am actually here exploring and growing, I found ways to connect with the fourteen other students, three professors, and two guides on this trip, plus a number of Vietnamese who we briefly met. Isn’t that what’s important? Finding a personal connection and holding onto it for as long as you can? I’ll never forget my time here. It was at times challenging, tiring, fascinating, and amazing. But most of all, it was mine.

There is something about letting go. In other words, when someone writes their memoir, they release the silence of their past and expose themselves for the world to see. In releasing my story to you, I feel a lightness come upon me like I’ve never felt before.

War hurts, but honesty frees. Memoir is powerful, and through the comparison of my journal entries to my reflections from over a year ago, I find that I have certainly changed.

Perhaps Kien Nguyen, Le Ly Hayslip, and Bao Ninh can say the same.

Memoir can be shaped in various ways. Kien Nguyen writes The Unwanted as though he is looking back into time and narrating the events of the past. Le Ly Hayslip also uses this technique but compounds her narrative by adding text from her return to Vietnam not long before When Heaven and Earth Changed Places was published. By having a narrator function as the editorial source in The Sorrow of War, Bao Ninh’s book serves as both a memoir and a work of fiction. It is in the words of Kien that the editor narrator finds a compelling memoir, and the story of the North Vietnamese is told through Kien’s own eyes.

I saw myself in Kien as he urged himself to write his story:

Kien coaxed himself: “I must write!”

“I must write! It’s going to be like smashing granite with my fists, like turning myself inside

out and exposing all my secrets to the outside world.”

“I must write! To rid myself of these devils, to put my tormented soul finally to rest instead of

letting it float in a pool of shame and sorrow.”

“I must push on! Even if some hours spent at my desk appear wasted, or some of the story-

lines I begin have to be discarded, I must press on. Otherwise the pain will be unbearable”

(Ninh 146).

And I did just that.

Works Cited

Fitzgerald, Francis. Fire In The Lake . Bay Back Books: Boston, 1972.

Hayslip, Le Ly. When Heaven and Earth Changed Places . Plume Books: New York, 1989.

Nguyen, Kien. The Unwanted . Bay Back Books: Boston, 2001.

Ninh, Bao. The Sorrow of War . Riverhead Books: New York, 1993.