Edition 43 | 2021
I Wish I Could Peel Off My Skin and Replace It with Yours Words Mai Nguyen
5 minutes. It was 5 minutes into the date before he popped the question. ‘Where are you from?’ It doesn’t matter who asks me, whether it’s the catcalling tradie and his rammer on Kilburn Street, or the old lady on the bus with the wiry hair and too much lipstick. Every time I get hit with the question, I always hesitate approximately 4 seconds before I answer. I know they want me to say where I was born – Vietnam, in the vibrant, historical city of Hanoi. And after those 4 seconds, I do, and I always make sure to give them a smile as they start gushing about how much they love ph or bánh mì. Of course, I don’t really talk about how I’ve lived in Australia the majority of my life and I have more memories of this country than of my hometown, or how, although I am not a citizen here, this is my home, and even though I am a citizen of Vietnam, I don’t know if it is home. That lengthy sentence usually stifles people. Even the tradie. ‘Vietnam! I was born in the capital city.’ The Kensington Hill garden trail was a beautiful place for a first date. All sorts of objects from famous stories were tucked away in secret corners, like the Nimbus 2000 hanging from the fig tree, or the Narnian lamp post half-hidden behind the eucalyptus. ‘Oh, cool! I’ve never been overseas so I don’t know what it’s like. So, what’s it like?’ We stopped to sit on a log, right outside Bag End. I turned away quickly and smiled. It wasn’t going to be a typical phở discussion. ‘It’s a pretty city. Lots of Vietnamese-French architecture. And the people are really lovely.’
‘Nice.’ I peered at him, sitting there in his Nike Airs and North Face jacket. His skin tone was almost the same as mine – pale, discoloured, and yet, anyone could tell he was White and I was Asian. Here I go again. This focus on skin, my skin, his skin, their skin, and how just because I was born in this skin, my identity has been shaped. It’s supposed to be an organ. Why can’t it just be an organ? ‘Well, your English is really good.’ He stood up and tried to open Bilbo’s door. It was locked from the inside. I wanted to be a smartass and say his English was good too, but I didn’t. ‘Thanks! I moved here when I was 8, and it’s been 12 years, so that’s probably why.’ ‘That’s pretty cool. Can you speak Vietnamese then?’ A bougainvillea bush grew right next to the log, all magenta and pink. I rubbed a leaf between my fingers. It was soft, like Mum’s skin on the back of her hand. Grandma said all the kids in their war-ravaged neighbourhood thought she was a porcelain doll, skin white and velvety. Those same kids grew up to chastise my sister on the day she was born. Bronze and coppery and wrinkly, straight out of the womb. Đen, they called her. Black. A slight exaggeration, but Vietnamese aunties are good at that.
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