In the video, she was in Vietnam, celebrating my cousin's wedding.
She looked absolutely gorgeous, as always. Gosh, the audacity to look so good, pftttt. Donning a glittering long sleeve and loose pink pants, I saw her cling to my uncle, both singing a famous Vietnamese love ballad and eyes glowing from excitement. She's a wonderful singer and it was evident the crowd loved it. I loved it too.
In my head, I thought, "wow, I've never seen her this happy before."
Finally. An episode about my mother. Gosh. This episode is about my world. About someone that brought me life. Someone that is always there, who's love I've pushed and challenged many many times. But that's the fact about a mother's love.
In Vietnamese there is a saying, "Nghĩa mẹ như nước trong nguồn chảy ra," When translated to English, this means, "A mother's love is like the water running from the source." Endless it means.
Forever.
Endless, unconditional love. I'm lucky. I'm lucky that I have a mother. I'm lucky that I have her as my mother.
This is my attempt at writing down a part of her story from my own memory of many nights asking, more like pestering, her for the details. Here we are.
My mother was born a year before the Vietnam War ended. There's a shrapnel scar on the corner of her eyelid from a small explosion that caught her as my grandma ran and carried my mother in her arms and all their belongings, with my uncle and aunt trying to catch up on their little legs. My mother would find out later, after coming to the US, that the man who dropped the bomb causing the explosion was none other than Ly Tong. They would meet each other and my mom would briefly mention her scar and when and where she got it.
His eyes probably lit up, realizing that the date and place matched a date and place in his mind. They would grab each other by the hands, hug, and later, he would give her $100 in good humor and as an apology for the scar before he left.
I call Ly Tong, Bac Ly Tong. He's a prominent anti-communist activist in the Vietnamese-American and Vietnamese community and also happens to be one of my dad's best friends. He passed away last April. But that's another story.
The fact is, my mother has many scars on her body.
Plopped in front of the box TV that played another martial arts Chinese show, my 4-year-old self curiously watched my father inject a needle into my mother's lower back, sending medicine in to hopefully tame the cancer growth she had. Every time he did this, he would have to lift the hem of her shirt. I remember my young self widening her eyes in disbelief as I saw a thumb-sized bruised indent on her lower back. I asked her while placing a finger over the deep-ish indent, "what is this?" (My father quickly swatted my hand away, of course.)
To that, she recalled slowly, "A snake bit me there when I was 3 or 4, back in Vietnam, your age. Your grandma was so scared I was going to die. Infection for days. But I'm here with you now aren't I?"
Today, the snake infected-wound is gone, but the cancer since then has never left. Growing up, my father always praised how strong his prayers must have been for my mother's cancer to almost go away. Recently, the cancer has resurfaced. My mother and father have kept it a secret from my sister and I for a few years now, this resurfacing. The only way my sister and I even knew about it is when my mother would ask, "Ngoc, check how to get to this hospital address."
My mother is 30 years younger than my father. My father swears it's love. My mother said that too to me, often enough that I believed in it. I was a kid. I never noticed the age difference. And even if I did, it was just a fact of my life. A fact of my life that when shared would garner shock, even horror. I remember in my elementary school years when my mother would come to give me bits of medicine when I was sick, and every single kid at my lunch table would stop their conversations to look at my mom.
"Ngoc, your mom is so pretty!"
"She's so young!"
I responded, "What, like your moms aren't pretty or young or something?" (And hey, all mothers are freaking goddesses. My kid self was dumb. :I)
Whenever she appeared at my elementary school, either to give me medicine or take me home, I would feel so safe.
I was fluent in Vietnamese then. More fluent than I am today. Fluent enough to share with her what happened in my days with this 3rd grade teacher or that 4th grade english class. To all my stories, she would nod and smile. Slowly, I began to lose more and more of my Vietnamese vocabulary and that fact today hurts like hell. Today, I can have a superficial conversation with her about various topics. As a kid, I remember looking at Vietnamese kids my age with contempt for not being able to speak as much Vietnamese as I did. But the fact is, as I grew older, I grew busier, and so did my mother as she took over her own small nail salon. There were less opportunities for us to have conversation.
I often had dinner earlier than she did, well, fine, almost every night... and she would come home much later with her heavy purse and high flip flops, looking like a wilted orchid. Exhaustion from work. A whole day's worth.
When I was 7, my mother sat down and had a serious conversation with me, with my younger sister, Yen, on her lap. "Ngoc, from now on, I'll be at school too like you. A school to learn how to cut hair and paint nails, so some days, I may be late to pick you up from school okay? Tell me you'll be okay with that?"
"Okay, mom." I nodded and that was that.
For the next few years, she would go to cosmetology school. And for the 12 years after that, she would work in the nail salon business, as just "another Vietnamese-American woman doing nails."
Eight of those years, she would labor under difficult, deceiving bosses. The other four years and to today, she would bravely open her own small nail salon, with the hopes that our lives could be better, that we'd be able to pay for my college education.
4 grueling years of disappointment.
Our small nail salon business garnered few customers, partially because of the late owner and partially the location. The late owner of the nail salon in a last cruel twist of fate, took most of the original customers. So we started with... nothing.
On the day of the grand opening of our nail salon, there hung a red "GRAND OPENING" sign in front of the small building complex. That first day opening the nail salon, only one person came in to have a manicure, the equivalent of 12 dollars. Enough to pay for gas at least, heh.
Weeks and months after that, my sister and I would be regulars at our nail salon on weekdays, weekends, during breaks, birthdays, on all the holidays, whole summers.
We went so often that... I couldn't take it anymore. I burst in front of my mom. Many times, I did this and many times the response was the same.
"I... I hate going to the nail salon! Why do I have to go? Can't you hire someone else to come help out? Is it so hard?!" I would fly out with.
Angrily, she would respond, "Do what you want. But do you know how hard it is for me Ngoc? Do you even think of me? Your father's retired. I'm the only one making money and hiring someone will cost more than you helping me. Most of my life, all I've ever done is help raise this family, raise you, take care of you. Don't you think that's hard? In an ideal world, you wouldn't have to come to the nail salon, Ngoc. But this is our reality. This is our life. We have to make hard choices sometimes. This is your way to contribute to our family. Love me or don't, do as you wish."
I remember crying, frustrated tears, wishing that I'd never have to return to the nail salon, but after hearing her tell me that she's not happy either. That it hurts her too, I woke up early and with my younger sister, out we'd go. Another day of work. All three of us coming home like wilted orchids after each day.
And that's the thing.
I'm so... god. Sometimes, haha no, many times, I can be so naive and so caught-up in my own winds. My mother has taught me many things about life. Some of which is...to be less self-centered, more kind, more thoughtful to the plight of others, and that if you think you have it bad, others have it worse.
Despite the lack of conversations she and I shared before I left for college, the most vivid and warm moments that will help me survive this Massachusetts winter is... gosh, I'm kind of tearing right now as I write this.
But... whenever it's getting late and she's about to head to sleep, she would always ask me, every night, "Is there anything you need Ngoc? Water? Snacks?" I look over at her, seeing her small cute but chubby frame standing by the entrance to our small kitchen, a hand about to turn off the light. Usually she'd wear her purple pajamas with shorts and she'd look so small. Smaller than usual.
In those moments, as I take in how small of a woman she is, to have been born in the last bits of a war, come to the US alone with an older man who is my father with nothing but a few promises, and work so hard to provide our family... She is incredible.
She is my world. Sometimes, in the midst of all that happens in my life, I forget where I come from.
I forget about her last scar.
A short but ugly scar at the far edge of her stomach, south of her bellybutton.
Not knowing how to take care of it, that very C-Section stitch would hurt her for weeks, even months. All because she had me.
"How painful was it, Mom, this cut here?"
"Haha, hey, don't be scared. But after having you, I still had to do all the chores in the house. Wash the laundry by hand, the dishes, cook with this thing full-on bleeding sometimes. This is it Ngoc. This is true love. There's nothing truer than my love to you. One day you'll understand..." she explained, as she planted a kiss on my forehead while my fingers traced her scar.
I love you.... <3
Love,
Ngoc
P.s. Part 2 will come out. I don't know how. I don't know when. I just know it will. There's so many imperfections with this episode. There is so much... uncompleteness.
There's so much more to her story that I want to write about, so that in case anything happens, she lives here, on this little blog.
I also just wrote this episode out of homesickness but... it's been long-awaited. And too deserved not to be written about.
P.p.s. To all the moms out there, this episode and my heart goes out to you. Thank you for all that you do and continue to do. <3
P.p.p.s. Mom, I know you'll read this and have trouble understanding and will probably make me call you to explain what I wrote.
Just know, Mom.
I wish with all my heart to turn back time and be more the daughter you deserve.
Despite all my faults, thank you for bringing me into the world. Thank you for your sacrifices. I am more complete because of you. I am you, your flesh and blood. Thank you for.. everything.
