Chi EM

We flew to Da Nang, then took the bus to a potter’s field. The story follows the scenic mountains, curving alongside the dirt roads. We trace down the dips to the duck ponds, back to the American war. When much of this greenery hid soldiers waiting to cross the Han river into the South, US troops would consistently bomb the edge connecting land to water. Because of all the blood that glided from the hills to down below, Han River became ‘Blood River’.

My great-uncle was twenty seven when he ran up the hill to tend to the aftermath. The first bomb prompted his presence. And then they let down another. Although everyone did their best to piece together an arm with a leg to a sheet with a name, so many mourned the bodies piled up, that even those unsympathetic to communism came to light an incense. In short, one caught a slip of paper, sparked and ignited all the men and women to dust. The family van parked outside the cemetery. My dad announced how lucky our family was. We entered the cemetery knowing exactly where my great-uncle rested. For their sacrifice, the graves are clean and honored by the government. Nevertheless, it was still a potter’s field because only twenty percent of the dust was identifiable.

My great-uncle was the eighty percent whose family took the test and came up short.

Like any girl at the right age, I lugged the fruits, my sister, the paper money and the incense down from the van into the open field where the heroes laid to rest. I only slightly whimper from the patriotism in the air. And from the pain for our countrymen. No description of Vietnam quite exists without an antagonistic portrayal of the heat. Today was sunny, unbearably. So my sister’s impression of our quiet journey stepping onto the grass was etched away by sunlight. My grandmother left the van last. I reached out my remaining hand and grabbed on to her as her feet balanced her body.

To soothe my grandmother’s guilt, my dad found a psychic who led us to the very gravestone we all stood before. This man looked like any other scam. Draped over his stocky torso, a black aó dài, traditionally cut, as it neither hugged nor diminished his curves. He held in one hand a disheveled yellow map with Han characters, the other, a jade rosary. He hummed the entire ride here. He put his hands on my thighs as a joke. “Here. Your uncle is here ” He turns to my dad while gesturing towards an unmarked grave far deep into the cemetery. We each followed him with my dad leading by his side holding a granite slab. Engraved on it is a name followed by numbers I have mostly been afraid to read and never ever did know. I had planned to take photos of myself on this trip and wore heeled sandals donned with a needlessly long coral dress. By now, I had already tied one side of my dress into a knot. On one arm, I wear the fruits. On the other, I hold my grandmother as the roads get harder to guess. My sister is behind me digging her platforms in and out of the mud. We walked a short while until we reached where the ancient roots of a palm tree went back into the ground. There lay an unmarked grave like the millions that surrounded it.

My grandma solemnly bowed a sincere thank you towards the psychic. Without looking up, she scolds, “Don’t just stand there. Set up the fruit already. Your greatuncle must be hungry.”

I promptly put out the dragon fruits, mandarins and mangoes on all the graves nearby. My sister potted the orchids. We lit incense then I burnt the paper. One hundred dollar bills. Wads of five hundred thousand vietnam dongs. Blue Shirts. White Shirts. A big house. A car. Then my dad laid down the rock slab and backed away The shine from its veneer reflected the fire back. The heat suffocated me a little. But I did not complain about the obvious, I was too concerned with the unknown.

We may never know whose dust we mourn today. We don’t dare acknowledge this. We all stood silently for my grandmother to uphold her sisterly duties. She is now seventy-eight. She returns here knowing she had taken care of her little brother into his next reincarnation.

I watched everyone close their eyes. So I clasped my hands together. Rest my index fingers onto my chin. I closed my eyes and repeated to myself, “Nam Mô A Di Đà Phật. Nam Mô A Di Đà Phật. Nam Mô A Di Đà Phật. I am Nguyễn Ánh Hằng. I was born on January 20th, 1999. I come here today to thank you for protecting our country. For sacrificing your life for us to have peace. I am here to pay my respects and to ask you to continue to protect and bless us with health, prosperity and happiness for the years to come. ”

"Nam Mô A Di Đà Phật" I katowed once.

"Nam Mô A Di Đà Phật" I katow twice.

"Nam Mô A Di Đà Phật" I katow thrice. It was a short prayer. I said what anyone says to a man they have only heard of twice. Once offhandedly. And the other, on the ride here. When everyone was done with their prayers, the adults sent us back to the van. The psychic took out from his pocket a small black book of, I assumed, spells.

“Can I stay? This looks cool.” I interrupted the ceremony.

“Chuyện người lớn " (Adult stuff) my grandma snapped back. She took her hand out from the prayer position and wrapped her right hand on my left shoulder to turn me around. Then she whispered.

“I have to speak privately with him. We have important things to catch up on. Take your sister to the van and take care of her. She seems tired.” She then patted my shoulder twice to send me off.

My sister and I walked out from deep in the cemetery to the gate where the gravekeeper sat on his plastic stool, one leg crossed over the other. I turned to my sister with her ear plugs in, staring far into the distance. Her posture was slouchier than the day before. Her demeanor is more lackadaisical than ever. But before I could even bend her back straight and interrupt her little world with some light scolding, the grave keeper, having seen us appear near, had already gestured his arms, signaling us to come to him. His straw hat rested on his thighs as he puffed in and out the cigarette smoke between words.

“You kids come from Saigon, eh?”

“Dạ. " (Yes) I said whilst shyly bowing my head down.

“Are you gonna go anywhere fun? You’ve come all the way, make sure your parents let you have fun too.” He laughed and I awkwardly mimicked him.

At the mere suggestion of teenage rendezvous, my sister finally awakened from her boredom and cheerfully inquired, “Uncle, do you know any fun places?”

The gravekeeper chuckled, “Go to Han River at night. The dragon statue on the bridge blows fire and they have a lot of bánh tráng trộn, xiên que, that junk food you kids like.”

"Wow, Uncle you ’ re so xì tin" (cool) I politely joked and he laughed in response. “It’s very hot out here. I think we’ll go sit in the van. Thank you so much for your suggestions and for taking care of the cemetery. We’re very grateful.”

“Haiz, no biggie. The soldiers keep me busy with their shenanigans.” I bowed, then looked to my sister to make sure she did as well. We walked towards the van as the gravekeeper continued to laugh in the distance.

In the van, we both sat in separate rows. I put on my headphones and blasted my favorite Britney song, Oops! I Did it Again. I am now steeping in my own annoyance. Occasionally, I would turn to my sister, who did not seem to care for a thing in the world, to fuel my anger.

You see, my problem is this. I'm dreaming away.

Looking out the window, there was now no one near us. Even the gravekeeper had left to attend to his duties. Just two girls in a van, staring out at the mountains to pass the minutes. The silence helped me finally make sense of the gut wrenching sadness I felt as I watched my grandma hold back tears. He was not my brother to cry for, so I cried for my grandmother instead.

“Do you think the psychic is legit?” intruded my sister.

I turned up the music to avoid an unnecessary argument. Wishing that heroes, they truly exist

“No, like seriously, why do they believe in this nonsense? And you buy into it too.”

I closed my eyes so I don’t have to respond. So she would not have seen my cry.

I cry watching the days

“Does it matter? You don’t care anyways. ”

The heat was increasingly irritating. The van did not have black screens to soothe my skin. I was buried in heat. I was sweating. The makeup for my planned photos had been melted by the sweat.

I lugged the fruit and laid it down. I burnt the money. I held my grandmother through the rocky road. I did everything and I looked ugly while doing it all.

“Yeah, I don’t. But you do. It’s kinda backwards and stupid.”

Can't you see I'm a fool in so many ways?

“If you ’ re gonna come along, then be respectful. No one needs you here. You don’t do shit. If I was not here, I know you’d let grandma do all the work. Do you even care about her? She’s in a lot of pain having to remember all this stuff from the war and you act like you ’ re above it all.”

I yanked out my headphones. I had never been so upset that I needed to stand up and assert my dominance. She cowered back in her seat, taken aback by my tone.

“Chillout. You’re turning crazy like mom. No one asks you to do anything. You do it and then you get mad at everyone. ” She rebutted me, knowing that it would have only made me madder.

“You don’t ask because you expect it. You’re so fucking spoiled. You complain that no one gets you. That you ’ re not close with anyone. Well you don’t even try to spend time with us. You don't treat us like we ’ re your friends or your family. We cook and serve you. You little brat. You..” By now, I had already failed to keep the tears from coming back. My dress still knotted up, dug into my thighs and into the cushion of the chairs. To yell down to the back row, I practically bent the arch of my chair into a flat surface. Still, I urged the vowels to echo through the crying. Then suddenly, the doors flung open.

“What happened? Why are you crying?” My dad asked in a tone that clearly showed his lack of sympathy on my behalf. Neither reason nor my crying could have refrained him from scolding me. Afterall, I am the older one.

“I don’t know. She just randomly started yelling at me! Calling me a brat and spoiled and that no one wants me here.” Now, her eyes begin to water like how babies automatically scream at any slight disapproval.

For some reason, birth order dictates that I must be more motherly by nature and more stern in demeanor. I must never be upset with a child who does not know as much. I always have to give to her wants, without wanting any in return. Mom has to feed her, clean her clothes, and clean her room. I have to talk to her because she does not talk to mom. And that is the law. And my father, rightfully, looked at me as how one looks at a criminal. But I had never felt the urge to speak truth to power run through my veins before. So, for the first time, I looked into my father’s eyes with a death wish in mind.

“You always take her side when she’s obviously wrong. Mom is right. You’re why she’s so selfish and inconsiderate.”

One slap across my left cheek. It was swift. I held my hand up and pressed my palm against the pain.

“What’s got into you? If you ’ re too lazy to be a big sister, like your mom is being a wife, then you can follow her and leave this household.”

That was the last words I heard from him before he embraced my sister and called a cab.

They soon left for their father daughter date by Han River, to watch the dragon blow fire. They both needed a break from the crazy women who dared demand them to be bothered for people other than themselves.

Before they left, while they were waiting for the cab, even after they had left and it was only my grandma and me in the van driving back to our hotel, I didn't stop crying. And I kept crying.

Burrowed my head between the corner intersecting the seat and the window. And I kept crying.

My grandma could not comfort me with words that aligned her with scorned women, bitches and feminists. In short, she could not say I was right so she said nothing at all. Instead, the entire 2 hour ride, she patted my back over and over. She brushed my hair over and over.

Only when we got back to our hotel room did the crying manage itself. My grandma spoke her first sentence for the night.

“Go shower and then sleep. I’ll pack the suitcases.”

Despite still choking on my own words, I insisted that I would help. I pulled out the two suitcases from the closet.My grandmother and I shared one. My dad and my sister each had their own. I opened ours and my grandma wrapped the remaining fruits to give once we got back.

Then there were the lanterns we bought from Hoi An. And lastly, our clothes, each of us, only an outfit or two.

Then my grandma opened my dad’s and sister’s suitcases. “Don’t. Let them do it themselves. Go to sleep.”

She ignored me and continued gathering their dirty laundry into a large pile to fold. “Okay, I’ll do it but you go to sleep.”

She does not stop so I had no choice but to assist her. We fold their clothes in silence for a few minutes. It was a sad day, so I did not force conversation. But the sadness could not overpower my grandma’s need to teach me how to be a good woman: one that takes pride in loving those who do not love back as much.

“I joined the Communist Party too, you know. I mean I didn’t have to fight like your great-uncles and grandpa, but I still joined and was brave too. They don’t see it that way. They don’t think I sacrificed at all for our country. But they’re wrong. ”

Knowing there was nothing left to lose, I finally asked the question I had been wondering all day.

“Is that why they didn’t come with us?”

She nodded her head then resumed her story. “They don’t believe in the psychic. They think I’m crazy, but they don't get that it's my duty to care even when no one does. And that’s how I sacrifice for my people.”

I could only infer that she understood how I felt. But to her, caring was not a burden. She took pride to care like the commander to his badge. Caring did not weaken her the slightest. She was simply a soldier doing what was needed of her.

When I was a kid, I was often afraid of ghosts. The only way for me to sleep was if I turned my face to the wall and she cuddled me from behind. That night, I was not scared but she was scared on my behalf. Of my possible fate the next morning and for my future as a girl who had her first taste of talking back. She wrapped her arms around me to comfort herself. I cried again.

-Lam Trinh