Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Same Same

iUniverse, Inc.

Chapter One

* * *

Where my mother calls home, one can hear the children laughing in a distant schoolyard, scooters honking on bumpy roads, and cicadas chirping at dawn. Bamboo grows freely, next to swaying palm trees and grazing water buffalo. The air feels pure in her ancient town tucked between Hue and Hanoi. The houses are aged by the unforgiving heat and monsoon rain. Bundles of incense burn from altars that dominate family rooms, and portraits of the dead watch over those still living.

During my son's first trip to Hoi An in the summer of 2005, Thien covered his eyes while meeting his great-grandfather.

"Scary, scary, I want to go home," he said. My grandfather, Ong Ngoai, laughed and went to another room. Ong Ngoai peeked out slowly. He didn't want to scare Thien but wanted to watch his great-grandson play with the water in the well.

Ong Ngoai was recovering from a stroke. I looked at his dark face with lines drawn deep underneath his cheeks—his eyes sunken, his hands frail, his hair white. Ong Ngoai ate very little during our stay and rarely got up from the wooden bed in he living room. When Ong Ngoai did get up, Thien raced to the bed to hide underneath the mosquito net, trying to avoid having to speak to his great-grandfather. Thien was scared of Ong Ngoai's skinny and aging face. In that moment, Thien looked like a native Vietnamese boy with freshly tanned skin and peasant pajamas.

The first night's dinner was festive with all of Mom's five siblings and their children sharing a feast of fried fish, water spinach soup, caramelized prawns, and big bottles of beer. We sat on a bamboo floor mat, either kneeling or squatting, with our porcelain bowls and chopsticks. The cups and bowls were aged and chipped, but no one seemed to mind. Ba Ngoai, my grandmother, didn't believe in throwing anything away and refused Mom's offer to buy a new set of dinnerware. I noticed that Ong Ngoai didn't speak much during dinner and instead smiled while watching Mom catch up with everyone.

After all the siblings left, the house was quiet again. Ong Ngoai's voice softened, and his face lit up as he watched Mom unpack for the three-week stay. Mom began to divide up the handbags, American cheese, and beef jerky to give out to extended family.

"Why did you bring so much stuff?" he mumbled while stretched out. Out of habit, Ong Ngoai always gives Mom a hard time for bringing too many gifts.

Years had gone by since Mom's last trip to Hoi An. Whenever I sat on the pink plastic stool and stared out at the dirt path, Ong Ngoai liked to point out the ficus tree next to the gate. Thirty-five years ago, he planted that tree as a symbol for Mom. She had left their home near the end of the Vietnam War and didn't return for twenty years. The tree was older than me, and the leaves were overgrown and dipped into a fishpond. At certain angles, the tree seemed to weep.

Their house was emptier than the last time we visited. Two uncles and an aunt had died within three years of each other. My favorite uncle, only forty at the time of his death, left behind three teenagers, who lived with their mother down the street from Ong Ngoai's house. When my cousins came by on our second day, we smiled and gestured to one another. In my limited Vietnamese, I could only ask how they were doing and not much else. My grandparents' home was simple, with a makeshift kitchen, a drinking well, and an open terrace. Pebbles, dust, and mud puddles lined the street outside their house. Privacy was a foreign idea. All the neighbors could see into each other's homes, and conversations were easily overheard. There was no Western toilet, only a hole in the ground that we tried to make the best of. In the afternoon heat, we liked to duck into the washroom and throw a bucket of cold water over ourselves. The sound of the water hitting the floor is constant in my mind.

My husband, Peter, and I chose not to sleep in their house because I couldn't bear the dry heat that was trapped in the house or the mosquitoes that dined on my skin. Instead, we soaked up the air conditioning at the budget hotel on the same block. We let Thien run around naked and eat ice cream to cool off. I showed my affection by going to Ong Ngoai and Ba Ngoai's house for every meal and in the evening for storytelling.

The refrigerator, flat-screen TV, scooters, and vitamins locked in the cabinet were all made possible by Mom. It's true. As my cousins and my youngest aunt enjoyed a modern Vietnam, earning college degrees and getting corporate jobs, Mom worked six days a week at the nail salon in San Francisco. For more than thirty years, she sent any extra money back to Vietnam to help pay for weddings, school uniforms, medicine, and little extras for my grandparents.

* * *

For decades, Ong Ngoai woke up at four in the morning to bike to the beach and enjoy a morning swim. Like other Vietnamese, he came early to Cu Dai Beach to relax in the still water and cool air. Since his last stroke, Ong Ngoai didn't go to the beach anymore.

Ba Ngoai woke up at the same time to walk to the bakery and buy fifty mini baguettes. Even at age seventy, there was nothing that held her back from working in the heat. The French baguette provided income for Ba Ngoai, as she stuffed them with jambon, pickled carrots, and jicama to make the famous banh mi thit that Vietnam is known for.

"For locals, I sell banh mi for 20 dong and 50 dong to foreigners." Ba Ngoai smiled as she told me about the pricing. Her teeth were stained red from the betel nuts she chewed twice a day.

She never dressed up; instead, she wore a cotton tank top and matching pants with brown plastic slippers that were faded and cracked. At the marketplace, Ba Ngoai hid her old age with a conical hat, making her blend in with all the other marketplace women. I distinguished Ba Ngoai by her smile, fat cigarette, and squat.

"Those foreign photographers take my picture all the time," Ba Ngoai told me as I sat with her at the riverside market.

"Do they give you money or buy a sandwich at least?" I asked.

"No, they hardly ever say anything to me." She shrugged, still not understanding why photographers were fascinated with her.

Tuan, my brother who lives in Vietnam, found a postcard of Ba Ngoai in a gift shop in Ho Chi Minh City. He bought the whole stack and brought them to the family. Mom and Ba Ngoai were embarrassed and hid them all away.

"Ba Ngoai works hard, and she looks sad in this picture. Don't show it to anyone," Mom warned me while rolling her eyes.

* * *

The women in the Hoi An marketplace are tough. Many of them are over the age of sixty but handle boats and scooters with ease. They can take the heat as they drag loads of mangoes and dragonfruit on their backs. Ba Ngoai and her marketplace friends have endured times of famine and floods but still smile even though they work harder than the people I know back home.

I watched Mom prepare blue crabs, steamed pork belly, and grilled catfish for my grandparents. The smile on Mom's face never disappeared while she was home.

The drunk who lives across the street sang loudly every evening: "We're poor; we eat vegetables. They're rich; they eat meat." During our dinners, he purposely screamed profanities while drinking cheap beer on the steps. This neighbor had no relatives in the United States to bring him gifts.

Each morning, Mom woke up early to walk to the riverside market to pick out fish, water spinach, and...