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Authors: Carolyn Marsden
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laid their stone hearts on the ancestral altar.
Di took photos of the pink dragons, the tree, the river, the inside and outside of the house from every angle, every relative who came by.
Sometimes she let Binh use the camera, showing her how to look through the tiny window and telling her when to push the button. Binh photographed mostly the ducks and dogs.
In the morning, Di brought out her paper and colored pencils. Binh watched, fascinated at the way stands of bamboo, the swirling river, Fourth Aunt, and a duck taking a bath came alive on Di’s paper.
As they sat by the river, Di said, “None of my greens are bright enough for this jungle.” She motioned toward the banana trees and bamboo, and the tangle of vines connecting them.
Sometimes Di drew pictures of things that Binh was unfamiliar with: a box that carried people up and down inside a building, a house with wheels pulled behind a car.
Once when Di was putting away her paper and colored pencils, she glanced toward Binh’s fruit cart, parked against the side of the house. “That’s cute. What’s it for?”
Binh pretended to peer at the cart. “I don’t know. Maybe it belongs to Ba’s cousin.” Why did Di have to notice the cart? She must never know that Binh sold fruit and sodas instead of going to school. Tonight, Binh promised herself, she would cover up the cart so that Di wouldn’t be reminded of it.
When Vuong delivered the water, Di Thao chatted with him. She took his picture and invited him to drink tea with her under the big tree.
Maybe Di Thao would marry Vuong and take him to America.
“Vuong is
my lai,
” Binh said to Di once after Vuong had brought the water.
“
Less than dust.
What an awful thing to say! Why don’t the Vietnamese like people with American fathers?”
“Because those people don’t really belong to Vietnam. They can’t be buried properly here. They will never be honored by their ancestors.”
Di looked puzzled. “Why is that, Binh?”
“Because their American ancestors were those of the invaders. How can anyone trust an invader?”
“That’s nonsense,” said Di. “Vuong is not an invader. And I am not either.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean . . .” Binh began.
Di interrupted. “On my first day of school in Kentucky, I didn’t speak English. I couldn’t understand anything the teacher or other kids were saying.”
Sometimes at Café Video, Binh closed her eyes to the subtitles and just listened to the English. She quickly grew frustrated and opened her eyes again. How would it be to listen to those nonsense sounds all day?
“Yet I wasn’t Vietnamese anymore either,” Di went on. “I had new American parents. I had nothing left of Vietnam. That felt very bad. And Vuong’s life is like that. Not one thing, not another.”
Binh stared at the ground. She thought of the way some women shouted at Vuong when he brought water.
Every afternoon, the other relatives came by the house, wanting to see Di Thao, to sit close to her, to be favored by her.
Di listened to the conversations, her forehead wrinkled as she tried to understand. “What are they saying?” she often asked Binh.
And Binh would explain. Instead of telling stories, Di kept asking questions.
The older women sat around the big table, rolling a white paste into green areca palm leaves. When they chewed the little package, their mouths and teeth turned dark red.
“Their teeth are almost black,” Di said.
“Don’t old women in America want beautiful teeth?”
“Are dark red teeth
beautiful
?”
“Of course.”
Di laughed. “A lot of Americans have teeth made of plastic.”
It was Binh’s turn to laugh. She’d never heard of such a thing as plastic teeth. Better to have no teeth at all!
Some of the men played
tam cuc,
a kind of poker game, while the smoke of their cigarettes rose into the air above them. Some read newspapers from Ho Chi Minh City.
In the afternoons, everyone laid out sleeping mats under the tree and
Di took photos of the pink dragons, the tree, the river, the inside and outside of the house from every angle, every relative who came by.
Sometimes she let Binh use the camera, showing her how to look through the tiny window and telling her when to push the button. Binh photographed mostly the ducks and dogs.
In the morning, Di brought out her paper and colored pencils. Binh watched, fascinated at the way stands of bamboo, the swirling river, Fourth Aunt, and a duck taking a bath came alive on Di’s paper.
As they sat by the river, Di said, “None of my greens are bright enough for this jungle.” She motioned toward the banana trees and bamboo, and the tangle of vines connecting them.
Sometimes Di drew pictures of things that Binh was unfamiliar with: a box that carried people up and down inside a building, a house with wheels pulled behind a car.
Once when Di was putting away her paper and colored pencils, she glanced toward Binh’s fruit cart, parked against the side of the house. “That’s cute. What’s it for?”
Binh pretended to peer at the cart. “I don’t know. Maybe it belongs to Ba’s cousin.” Why did Di have to notice the cart? She must never know that Binh sold fruit and sodas instead of going to school. Tonight, Binh promised herself, she would cover up the cart so that Di wouldn’t be reminded of it.
When Vuong delivered the water, Di Thao chatted with him. She took his picture and invited him to drink tea with her under the big tree.
Maybe Di Thao would marry Vuong and take him to America.
“Vuong is
my lai,
” Binh said to Di once after Vuong had brought the water.
“
Less than dust.
What an awful thing to say! Why don’t the Vietnamese like people with American fathers?”
“Because those people don’t really belong to Vietnam. They can’t be buried properly here. They will never be honored by their ancestors.”
Di looked puzzled. “Why is that, Binh?”
“Because their American ancestors were those of the invaders. How can anyone trust an invader?”
“That’s nonsense,” said Di. “Vuong is not an invader. And I am not either.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean . . .” Binh began.
Di interrupted. “On my first day of school in Kentucky, I didn’t speak English. I couldn’t understand anything the teacher or other kids were saying.”
Sometimes at Café Video, Binh closed her eyes to the subtitles and just listened to the English. She quickly grew frustrated and opened her eyes again. How would it be to listen to those nonsense sounds all day?
“Yet I wasn’t Vietnamese anymore either,” Di went on. “I had new American parents. I had nothing left of Vietnam. That felt very bad. And Vuong’s life is like that. Not one thing, not another.”
Binh stared at the ground. She thought of the way some women shouted at Vuong when he brought water.
Every afternoon, the other relatives came by the house, wanting to see Di Thao, to sit close to her, to be favored by her.
Di listened to the conversations, her forehead wrinkled as she tried to understand. “What are they saying?” she often asked Binh.
And Binh would explain. Instead of telling stories, Di kept asking questions.
The older women sat around the big table, rolling a white paste into green areca palm leaves. When they chewed the little package, their mouths and teeth turned dark red.
“Their teeth are almost black,” Di said.
“Don’t old women in America want beautiful teeth?”
“Are dark red teeth
beautiful
?”
“Of course.”
Di laughed. “A lot of Americans have teeth made of plastic.”
It was Binh’s turn to laugh. She’d never heard of such a thing as plastic teeth. Better to have no teeth at all!
Some of the men played
tam cuc,
a kind of poker game, while the smoke of their cigarettes rose into the air above them. Some read newspapers from Ho Chi Minh City.
In the afternoons, everyone laid out sleeping mats under the tree and
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