YOU WILL LOVE IT,’ I assure my four children as we step off the plane, hoping our visit will weave threads that someday become bungee cords pulling them back. But it’s me I’m trying to convince, longing to find connection and meaning.
The vibrations of this place I once called home but fled so long ago, pulse in me with each step of my return. My heart twists and beats in a flurry of feelings, confusing and complicated. It is grief for the time I lost, the experiences I’ll never know. It is joy in my return at long last. Each day, these feelings grow stronger the longer I stay, like a loved one whose memory cannot fade, no matter the distance. But I discover the things in my memory, like the bluest of skies from sunrise to sunset; hourglass-shaped women dressed in flowing white tunics and matching pants, their thick black hair swaying with each step; bicycles competing with scooters and weaving to and fro on the roads; the house of my childhood with the checkered floors; streets lined with flaming orange phoenix trees; and Grandmother, her face tan and wrinkly, arms outstretched, waiting to pull me into
her comforting embrace, are no longer the same.
War brought rockets that whistled and rained, destroying homes and shaking the dusty ground. I didn’t know if the bitterness I tasted on my tongue was smoke that tinged the air or the fear that swept through my body, making me tremble and cover my ears. My toddler hand, sweaty and shaky, gripped Dad’s, hoping he’d never let go. Giant beasts with metal blades sliced the air, and I kept stopping to stare, but Dad pulled me along, his lips thin and tight. He offered words that made my stomach feel not quite right, ‘American helicopters will save us. Hurry. We must escape.’ And so, we ran with Mom and brothers by our side underneath the thundering sky.
In my birthplace now, a persistent haze obscures the sun. Thousands of scooters rumble and race alongside an equal number of cars, spewing thick, black smoke. Young ladies, dressed in jeans and tops, look like women from anywhere but here; their pretty, flowing tunics and wide-legged pants, reserved only for special occasions, hang forlorn inside closets. The street where I used to live, whose name I can never forget – Nguyễn Minh Chiếu – is called something else, a word I can’t remember, and in truth, I don’t care to try. A new, modern, tall home exists where once mine stood. Grandmother is no longer here, and my arms feel empty without her warmth. If only I could have one more day with her, I would say, ‘Goodbye.’
In my hotel room, the plaintive cries I hear in the street below are from passing vendors, their carts filled with fresh coconuts, juicy orange mangoes, and fragrant sticky rice in all the colors of the rainbow. The dove’s coo outside my window tells me peace has returned to this land where war cleaved families – North between South, brother between sister, mother between son – some reunited, while others remain changed forever. Those I meet, young and old, their faces no longer awash with fear, are intent on creating a future rather than remembering the pain of the past.
The push of war that once made me run and kept me away – grounding me in red, white, and blue; showing me what it meant to be free to chase the American dream – is no longer as strong as the pull that urges me to return to discover the places my ancestors once knew: Hà Nội, Lạng Sơn, Hải Phòng, Hạ Long. As a child, fairy tales didn’t entrance me as much as the stories of my parents’ pasts. Dad riding atop bony, gray water buffaloes and catching mice in rice fields with great uncle by his side. Mom reading under the cool canopy of longan trees a thousand years old with trunks thicker than anyone’s arms can hold. Humid, moonlit summer nights filled with floral notes of frangipani, and conversations of a hundred families out for an evening stroll. These bedtime stories filled my mind with curiosity and a yearning to return to this magical land.
My children and I roam down narrow alleyways where two- and three-story homes, beauty salons, and beef noodle shops pack tight. Black electrical cables form cobwebs overhead while clean laundry – their pops of color welcome against the dingy walls – wave on sagging lines strewn under windows. A brown dog, so thin I can count its ribs, sees us but doesn’t slow. Its jaunty trot reminds me of my parents’ life lesson – keep going, head held high.
‘Hello, Madame?’ a young voice calls, and my head turns. She stands behind a wood podium; one hand waves a brochure while the other beckons us to enter through the doors behind her. There’s a fluorescent yellow sign above her with the word MASSAGE, and in the soothing space beyond the glass doors, a row of plush brown leather recliners awaits. Her hot pink lipstick and hair pulled back in a ponytail make her look like a teenager, not much older than my youngest son. Her invitation tempts me, but the smell of grilled pork, smoky and tantalizing, from a stall down the street reminds me of our growing hunger. I shake my head and say, ‘Không. Chúng tôi không cần. No. We don’t need.’ Her eyes open wide, and her pink lips spread into a grin. ‘Chời ơi! Cô là người Việt! Oh my god! You are Vietnamese!’ I nod but don’t stop. I should be used to it now, but it’s never easy to accept. The people of my birthplace think I’m a foreigner until I speak, and my northern accent, clear and true, reveals that I am one of them.
And like Dad, I tell my children, ‘Hurry. We must go.’ But it’s not to escape; it’s to continue onward, as there is so much more to see and discover of this place I used to call home.
Our feet wander through the golden rice fields at harvest, surrounded by the hypnotic hum of countless cicadas, and like a mother’s touch, the hot noon wind caresses our faces aglow. My hands cradle heavy heads of rice stalks, and I imagine them cut, gathered, threshed, and delivered to lands near and far. One day, the grains I hold will be cooked and plump, banishing hunger from bellies; at least, this is my wish. Through bamboo forests, we go so thick the air turns cool and fresh. We hop over murky rainwater puddles where mosquitoes flourish, and the smell of earth and algae bloom. Aboard a creaky wooden junk, we sail past towering gray limestone karsts and let ourselves believe in the ancient folklore of a mother dragon and her children. They swept down from the heavens to protect Vietnam from Chinese invaders and now sleep with only their backs rising above the water’s surface.
I spent my life believing that home was just four walls, a physical place where I could belong, where family and love meet, and where memories are made. But it’s not. It is more. Home is a feeling. Home is when the ache in your chest is finally soothed. Home is where the land that touches your feet also touches your soul. Home is where I find my beginning.
My face lifts and I smile. The cord pulls me closer. My heart yields.
her comforting embrace, are no longer the same.
War brought rockets that whistled and rained, destroying homes and shaking the dusty ground. I didn’t know if the bitterness I tasted on my tongue was smoke that tinged the air or the fear that swept through my body, making me tremble and cover my ears. My toddler hand, sweaty and shaky, gripped Dad’s, hoping he’d never let go. Giant beasts with metal blades sliced the air, and I kept stopping to stare, but Dad pulled me along, his lips thin and tight. He offered words that made my stomach feel not quite right, ‘American helicopters will save us. Hurry. We must escape.’ And so, we ran with Mom and brothers by our side underneath the thundering sky.
In my birthplace now, a persistent haze obscures the sun. Thousands of scooters rumble and race alongside an equal number of cars, spewing thick, black smoke. Young ladies, dressed in jeans and tops, look like women from anywhere but here; their pretty, flowing tunics and wide-legged pants, reserved only for special occasions, hang forlorn inside closets. The street where I used to live, whose name I can never forget – Nguyễn Minh Chiếu – is called something else, a word I can’t remember, and in truth, I don’t care to try. A new, modern, tall home exists where once mine stood. Grandmother is no longer here, and my arms feel empty without her warmth. If only I could have one more day with her, I would say, ‘Goodbye.’
In my hotel room, the plaintive cries I hear in the street below are from passing vendors, their carts filled with fresh coconuts, juicy orange mangoes, and fragrant sticky rice in all the colors of the rainbow. The dove’s coo outside my window tells me peace has returned to this land where war cleaved families – North between South, brother between sister, mother between son – some reunited, while others remain changed forever. Those I meet, young and old, their faces no longer awash with fear, are intent on creating a future rather than remembering the pain of the past.
The push of war that once made me run and kept me away – grounding me in red, white, and blue; showing me what it meant to be free to chase the American dream – is no longer as strong as the pull that urges me to return to discover the places my ancestors once knew: Hà Nội, Lạng Sơn, Hải Phòng, Hạ Long. As a child, fairy tales didn’t entrance me as much as the stories of my parents’ pasts. Dad riding atop bony, gray water buffaloes and catching mice in rice fields with great uncle by his side. Mom reading under the cool canopy of longan trees a thousand years old with trunks thicker than anyone’s arms can hold. Humid, moonlit summer nights filled with floral notes of frangipani, and conversations of a hundred families out for an evening stroll. These bedtime stories filled my mind with curiosity and a yearning to return to this magical land.
My children and I roam down narrow alleyways where two- and three-story homes, beauty salons, and beef noodle shops pack tight. Black electrical cables form cobwebs overhead while clean laundry – their pops of color welcome against the dingy walls – wave on sagging lines strewn under windows. A brown dog, so thin I can count its ribs, sees us but doesn’t slow. Its jaunty trot reminds me of my parents’ life lesson – keep going, head held high.
‘Hello, Madame?’ a young voice calls, and my head turns. She stands behind a wood podium; one hand waves a brochure while the other beckons us to enter through the doors behind her. There’s a fluorescent yellow sign above her with the word MASSAGE, and in the soothing space beyond the glass doors, a row of plush brown leather recliners awaits. Her hot pink lipstick and hair pulled back in a ponytail make her look like a teenager, not much older than my youngest son. Her invitation tempts me, but the smell of grilled pork, smoky and tantalizing, from a stall down the street reminds me of our growing hunger. I shake my head and say, ‘Không. Chúng tôi không cần. No. We don’t need.’ Her eyes open wide, and her pink lips spread into a grin. ‘Chời ơi! Cô là người Việt! Oh my god! You are Vietnamese!’ I nod but don’t stop. I should be used to it now, but it’s never easy to accept. The people of my birthplace think I’m a foreigner until I speak, and my northern accent, clear and true, reveals that I am one of them.
And like Dad, I tell my children, ‘Hurry. We must go.’ But it’s not to escape; it’s to continue onward, as there is so much more to see and discover of this place I used to call home.
Our feet wander through the golden rice fields at harvest, surrounded by the hypnotic hum of countless cicadas, and like a mother’s touch, the hot noon wind caresses our faces aglow. My hands cradle heavy heads of rice stalks, and I imagine them cut, gathered, threshed, and delivered to lands near and far. One day, the grains I hold will be cooked and plump, banishing hunger from bellies; at least, this is my wish. Through bamboo forests, we go so thick the air turns cool and fresh. We hop over murky rainwater puddles where mosquitoes flourish, and the smell of earth and algae bloom. Aboard a creaky wooden junk, we sail past towering gray limestone karsts and let ourselves believe in the ancient folklore of a mother dragon and her children. They swept down from the heavens to protect Vietnam from Chinese invaders and now sleep with only their backs rising above the water’s surface.
I spent my life believing that home was just four walls, a physical place where I could belong, where family and love meet, and where memories are made. But it’s not. It is more. Home is a feeling. Home is when the ache in your chest is finally soothed. Home is where the land that touches your feet also touches your soul. Home is where I find my beginning.
My face lifts and I smile. The cord pulls me closer. My heart yields.
An Ngo Lang was born in Việt Nam and now lives in Sydney, Australia. Her writing has appeared in Hope: an Anthology of New Authors 2021, The VVA Veteran, and diaCRITICS. She was shortlisted for The Hope Prize, a global literary award. To find out more about An, please visit her at anngolang.com
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