cà phê 179 (i have never been to vietnam) BY THIÊN-THI NGUYEN @SEXCTNT ON IG Thiên-Thi (she/he/they) is a graduating music and social sciences student at Vanier College in Tio’Tia:ke (Montréal), Canada. She has a glee for languages, flamenco, and Turkish funk and jazz-fusion. They enjoy spending their days curating playlists, biking with their sister, and writing as much as they can. ThiênThi plans on pursuing a Bachelor in film and sound, to settle in Lisbon, Portugal, and to hopefully combine their artistic passions and wanderlusts into narratives they are proud of.
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have never been to Vietnam.
In the late summer of quarantine, when summer was understood as “fall” and heavy knitted turtlenecks and wool and cashmere coats replaced tees and flops, my father, my sister, and I treated ourselves to some cozy Tsukuyomi ramen in the heart of the mileend. “This is where Aman and Gino live!” I’d share in the car. “Oh! My friends and I go picnic-ing here all the time!” I’d suddenly exclaim, pointing to the residential park tucked in the nest between Parc Avenue and Mordecai-Richler Library. Memories of rich St-Viateur bagels fresh out the oven and photoshoots under the sun on Jeanne-Mance passed by as boutique lights reflected on the windows of Papa’s Honda Accord. When the masked employee sat us down along the exposed brick wall, my father spoke proudly: “Ông nôi’s
café had an overarching wall like this one, in Vietnam.” *** In the spring of quarantine, I brought up the dust-filled books and photo albums from our family basement. Printed films of my parents’ wedding and The History of Vietnam took over my bedside table. Thus began a well-awaited search for identity, history, any semblance of home that was not the refurbished house I spent my days in.
my father’s home I claimed as mine—more than the one I celebrated my 5th, 8th, and 20th birthday in—more than the one safely guarding me against the Men my grandmother so deeply feared for my young adult life.
“We I live in a mid-century-built two-storey home in the heart of Ville Saint-Laurent’s Jewish neighbourhood, which my mother has painted and repainted, renovated and sculpted to look like the glossed papers of IKEA and HGTV magazines. My *** bedroom wall shares one with my grandmother’s. My “179,” he said. “It was called peach-painted door opens to 179, our house number on the the extremity of the hallway, street.” a direct pathway to the bedroom my younger self sought The decadence of Takoyaki shelter in during the wakes octopus balls called on my sis- of childish night terrors—the ter’s appetite, while the story same my mother now safeof my grandfather’s local busi- ly shares with a Man whose ness answered my cravings complexion differs from mine. more. Here laid Cà Phê 179, When I step out the front
70 | overachiever magazine
