Episode 74: A Word Away

Ocean Vuong, who is probably every young Vietnamese American's favorite poet right now, once wrote:

"Every word I write here is a word farther from you, Ma."

At least, that's what I think he wrote. I had trouble finding the real thing in my hazy 1:11 AM self.

Me. Ba. 

It's true.

For every new English word I learn, another Vietnamese word grows hazier or, is lost. Fizzing out. Connections between firing neurons to make the word, a word, snapped. 

And that scares the shit out of me. 

I dread the day that I learn another English word. Which is every day. 

All the history in your heads, is written in the neurons of your minds. Telling my mind. What it knows. What it thinks it knows. 

Memory is selective and self-serving all too many times. I bet your stories are too. Stories often are, but...

I'm trying to put together what it is I'm losing exactly. 

Why does it feel like I'm losing? A lot of little somethings? Trillions of possibilities: many of them I see share the same ending. 

My great great grandkids won't even know. 

Any bit as much as I know. 

Or anything at all of what you both know. 

Me. Ba. 

What will become of all that we know? What's going to happen to the history we fought so hard to protect? What history is left to spell out? My kids and their kids and their kids are going to never, not as much, not as much as we do. And I even can't. I can't even articulate what happened of our ancestors either.

I'm so so so sad. I know it's inevitable but god.

What a hefty goal it is, to desire rememberance.

And with every new English word I use,

like

"rememberance,"

I'm losing it.

It feels like a ticking time bomb that when it explodes, shatters all the time, all the memories, the glass reflecting myself back.

I taught my mother how to play a bit of "For the love of a princess" from Braveheart on the piano tonight.

It's a song I've been playing for years and the one she always requests I play at the end of almost every day.

"Play that song I like, Ngoc."

And it's always "for the love of a princess." 

She tells me it makes her feel nostalgic, wistful, and that all the beauty that ever existed, she's seen before, she sees through this song. 

This song gives her the words to tell me that it makes her feel like she's deeply connected with all the mountains she grew up with. The rivers and the birds and maybe that boy from her past and the yams and all the things that stabbed her bare feet. And me. I'm pulling her heart strings over here haha, and I'm leaving to study abroad soon. In less than a week. My papers aren't even together yet, YIKES, but

I'm leaving super soon.

I wanted to leave her with the memory of how to play this song by herself.

So if she misses all the memories of her youth, or of me, that she can access those feelings through music any time at all. 

Teaching her to memorize it was for naught. She doesn't know how to read music or play any instrument outside of the drums.

It was her idea and a brilliant one too; I taped numbers on the piano keys so she'll know which ones to play in order.

She soon picked it up and eventually, just a tap away from accessing it. 

All it took was being a willing and supportive teacher and she was smilinggg. And she wanted to stay longer and longer to continue practicing the 13 or 14 notes she now learned.

I would have stayed there for as long as she wanted.

I wanted to give her something new, like all the things she's given me. 

There's a lot of words I don't know in Vietnamese.

There's a lot of notes my mom doesn't know how to play.

There's a lot of good memories that slipped my dad's mind. 

And part of preserving memory is making memory. 

I don't think I'll ever forget the way my mom and I danced to Michael Buble's "Sway" tonight or the way we hopped like mad to Careless Whisper even if it was a saaaad song. 

I may not have all the important memories of my ancestors in me, but I do know that I'm a ready student.

Perhaps I'll never truly know enough. Or ask enough or the right questions. But I want to. I want to know enough to at least be a willing and supportive teacher to my kids. Know enough to pique and keep their interest so that they have the initiative to search for answers on their own, should I no longer be alive.

Just as my parents instilled in me.

Haha, I don't have kids yet, but say 10 years from now, when they exist--

I want them to feel as proud, as I do, about the Nguyen Khoa family line. About the Huynhs and their great-grand father who died plowing the infertile dirt, hopeful for food -- the ultimate act of love. About their grandma's resilience and courage and kindness, how she forgives even the most unkind of people. How she prefers Popeyes to Canes, and how their mom and aunt would quickly agree to disagree. About their grandpa who's always retelling the same stories because he wants to keep the conversation going. How he once fought and lost a war. How he drove their mom and aunt to mostly anywhere they wanted, as long as they were with their girlfriends. And their great grandma who would cook anything they wanted, perhaps the same egg and rice dish that their mom loved eating after school in her elementary school years.

I'm tearing up. 

I really am. I can't believe that there's going to be a day when I'm going to be a mother. And though these darn kids don't exist yet, I love them already. I want so much for them. I want for them all the things I had and more. I want them to know about the history I lived with, was surrounded with, was choked with. 

I can hardly believe that as I write this, that I'm going on to do some amazing things. I'm super proud and scared for myself. Study abroad in Singapore (AND IM ROOMING WITH ONE OF MY BEST FRIENDS AHHH). Internship with the State Department in the bureau I've always wanted. And.. finishing my last year at Smith. And hopefully, back to Houston.

Back to home. To the mall. To the dress shopping and the book shopping and my favorite underground curry place.

Having kids is going to be amazing, I'm just not ready for the sharing. Would I ever tell the stories well enough? Would I have enough words, no, the right words? To relay it. Would I inspire the same curiosity my parents inspired in me? 

To look up at the moon and say, "I want to stay out here, stay and stare and wonder about all these things I don't know about. So let's make a wish."

I do know they're probably going to be super cute, if they look anything like me when I was a toddler. Pft.

There's a lot to remember but I'll do well to remember it all too well.

At least for myself.

"Why doesn't grandma eat meat when there's a full moon out?" my grandkids would whisper.

"Something about her dad doing the same. Buddhist stuff," the eldest grandkid would reply.

"hehe, Bootyism," the other grandkid would snicker. That one's definitely mine.

(I'll make them Taylor Swift fans too.)

Your girl,

Ngoc

P.S. This episode was chaOTIC. It started on a fearful note of wth is going to happen to all these things that I know about my family and the history I was taught to value. All this history would just be less and less as future generations exist. AHH. 

I just want my grandparents and parents to live on. If not physically, that they live on in memory. And at some point, I won't have any control over that. We were in no one's memory when we were first born, and then after, we were. Then we die, and...yeah, hah..

okie.

Episode 73: Okay

Okay doesn't mean "okay" anymore.

It's two weeks from finals and

the state of okay

is laced with the toothiness of tiredness. 

The sluggish movements we all make from not staying in bed long enough.

Something about snow coming

and it's stark dark and not even 4:30. 

Slouching in all of Smith's couches,

I find myself

being smart enough to find a chair, hard and sturdy, instead

to keep awake.

Awake to do and think and express all these okay things keeping me awake.

The new status quo 

is exhausting yourself from constantly producing and producing shit

and being wedged between

this feeling of mediocrity

and plain bad.

And it's not even 2 pm yet. 

Am I even going to be awake enough to 

produce a shitty coherent thought

at 2 pm?

Honestly.

The little stamina I have 

is spinning

on absolute fear.

Of not finishing

not submitting

not writing and reading enough to

finish and submit.

How do we manage to freaking breathe?

And when I do, finally, do as my body does

and breathe,

I'm scared that I'm breathing for too long.

For laughing too much like we enjoy being crispy and burnt.

So cheers to today.

Another day when I tell my cute friends and my cute housemates

that I'm okay

only to proceed quickly with the word "fuck" 

in a long exhale

the kind that communicates, 

"I'm not okay at all. In fact, you probably knew that already. Maybe you're going through this too. Maybe we're both not alone in feeling this diluted version of 'okay.' Maybe we're too scared to map out everything we have to do, because if we think hard enough, that list starts to grow. 

out of control."

Is what I'm going through right now

even okay?

I'm going to start answering people with

"It's great to see you."

Instead of "how are you?"

from now on. 

Because I'd rather see people, see anyone,

than see myself 

engulfed.

Episode 72: Skunk

11.19.21.

12 AM. Three losing League games until we won. I was a tree and you were a swordsman. I threw my sapling bits that exploded on the enemy. You spun into the fray, brave and true, until they all descended on you. Hungry for kills. 

1 AM. I told you about a lunar eclipse happening tonight, holding onto the edge of my chair and peering hard out our window. You asked if I'd want to go on the balcony to witness it for real. A place I've never been. "Let's pick a chair. Yours or mine?" 

"We're going to smuggle a chair onto the balcony?" I asked, wide-eyed.

"Haha no. To reach the window!" 

You grinned with homework heavy in hand. 

That's how you show me you care. 

So you carried my chair ahead, figured out how to pull down the window screen, as I pulled on pants and boots. We kept giggling as we struggled to fit through the window. My inner thighs hurt a lot. My boots were in the way. Your slipper was in the way. But we managed to see the other side. To witness the moon we were promised.

"Allison, we're on the wrong side to see it, aren't we?" 

"We definitely aren't. Plus it's so cloudy tonight. How are we supposed to see the moon?" you pondered with your astrology knowledge.

Haha oop. 

Astronomy. 

Moon or not, it really didn't matter. The view before me was fresh. The air was chilly. My nose was chilly. My hands were getting cold but the glow of the campus center, the way my bike looked from above, tips of trees I never knew to be so tall suddenly realized, and not a star in the sky.

It was wet. A streak of thin white cloud in the dark ass sky. 

"Is that the milky way?" I asked, truly not knowing. I was in that late-night sleepy daze where too many questions came to mind. And you never minded answering them.

Not without laughing out loud this time, "We're in the milky way, silly."

"Ah... hahahahaXD"

We laughed and talked about anything again. The tips of my boots began to feel cold and I wondered how cold wearing slippers only felt. I started walking back towards the window, thinking maybe it was cold enough to go in, but you were reluctant. No way did we go through all that trouble for just 10 minutes of balcony time. So we stayed for longer, happily chilling in the chill.

Then I spotted a scurrying creature by the side of the empty campus center. Pitter pattering on top of orange-yellow leaves and illuminated by the bright lights of the white building. Squeezing and stopping below the black steel benches. We kept on moving to get a better angle. 

This was the first time in my life that I saw a skunk so clearly. The first time I saw a skunk that wasn't in Curious George.

It looked like a raccoon panda. 

so FLUFFY. AND CUTE. AND SQUISHY. 

I bet its cute paws would pat pat on me if I held it. TOE BEANS.

But its ass would make me a mess.

"We're going to need all the homemade marinara from Tyler to get that stink off us," I commented.

"Or ketchup and water for days," you added. I could feel your cheeky grin. I could feel my own cheeky grin. I COULD FEEL MY CHEEKS.

I've been smiling too much lately. But today, or tonight haha, I couldn't stop pointing and be awed. 

By the deft way the skunk knew where to go. Up the concrete stairs instead of hedging through the grass. So quick and sure and human. 

I wonder if this skunk could hear us tonight. Saying stupid shit like "woah, it's so cute." 

Or "woah, it's ACTUALLY so cute." 

I'm 21 years old. And I've finally seen a skunk.

Your city girl can't get more domesticated than this.

Am I even using domesticated correctly?

Tonight, I was awed by that simple, pretty feeling. Tonight was so pretty. 

Pretty like the smiles on our faces. Pretty like all the laughter we couldn't stop holding back as we realized all our efforts were for naught, with no moon in sight. Pretty like the warmth in my belly as we witnessed this skunk doing skunky things. 

I wasn't at all disappointed that I couldn't see the moon. I was with you, my awesome friend.

You and I eventually turned towards the window after a series of yawns. I went after you, your long legs reaching the chair long before mine could. Then, mine came after. I was unsure, unsteady, but you held the chair. I was just fine. 

You have my back.

Last week, I teared up on the middle of the street, walking to a fancy dinner I was in no way well-dressed for. Thinking about things I wish I could turn back time on, but before I lingered on regret, you and Luna appeared before me in the dark. 

I could tell it was you anyway. You could be walking a mile away but if I ever saw anyone that walked like you, "it's her" I'd say. 

And it was you. That happy, jaunty walk. You're like the main character of a coming-of-age movie. The protagonist everyone roots for, because your positive energy is magnetic. Radiant. Warm. You make people ask if all comp sci majors walk like that.

You walked up to me and I greeted you both into a hug. 

I was about to break down crying. Maybe I almost did and the glow of the streetlights reflected the truth of what I felt, maybe all the cars driving past us knew I was emitting sad girl vibes, but before I could tear up any more, you said, "Hey. Whenever you get back to our room, look out for a little something, because I got you something. :)" 

That's one of the moments I knew. 

That I'll remember most. 

I'll be okay, because my friends are rooting for me. You're rooting for me.

You want to see me happy and well. :)

Whoever I'll become in the future, wherever I'll be, I'm probably going to cry.

A lot.

But being with you makes me smile. 

Friends, I thank you for being my homemade marinara sauce. ^-^

Cuz sometimes life fucking stinks and I fucking suck.

Like.

Skunk.

And I'll need to smell nice things again.

the afterthought

am i supposed to

get used to

silence?

your presence 

only nighttime

when its convenient

when you're too tired

to talk about anything

sufficient.

anything real. 

are we real? really? in a realationship? 

relationship.

is this how it's supposed to feel?

you tell me it's going to change. 

it. or you? 

or when you say that, you're asking me to change? 

my expectations? 

but why is it, that no matter how much i concede,

how much i want to believe

that i can handle the little we have

the little you give me, 

why does it feel wrong? 

can two people really be this busy for each other?

or just one is too busy for the other?

i'd rather do as i've done before,

keep a foot out the door,

but the part of me that remembers your steady gaze, 

the words you spilled, the drives you made,

doesn't mind the silence.

doesn't mind the waiting. 

but someone once

taught me,

that it shouldn't feel like waiting

for things to change.

because my time is precious

and so is yours.

you tell me you are satisfied with 5 minutes of talking. 

"a glass half full," you said.  

i think not. 

i'm not looking for a glass half full.

im looking for one glass full

of satisfaction, depth, speed, care. 

it's not about how much time we spend, 

babe.

i don't want 

to feel as i do now -- unnatural, uncomfortable, left, unread -- 

like an afterthought. 

maybe i don't understand you.

maybe you don't understand me. 

but that's what it feels right now

that's what it appears to be.

the misplaced pencil pooch

i have a hunch that i left my beautiful gray, flowered pencil pouch out on the kickball field, last week. when my house played kickball against another house for lawn-naming rights. i had biked out to Cutter-Ziskind to pack brunch into my backpack and then on my bike, i raced down the hill, the one that takes me straight to the sports fields. on any decline, my bike can fly. i felt like flying, flying, flying until my bike lock fell off loudly behind me. It’s okie. Was worth. 

when i walked to the field, my housemates were warming up, waving to me. i found a spot on the bench to sit down and pull my brunch from my backpack. Eating and smiling and cold.

the kickball game began. allison and i applauded and screamed. she rested her notepad on her lap, meaning to study but i knew we'd only have eyes for the game. 

"H-W Lawn" has always been the hope. we lost by a point. we lent the opposing team our best players because they didn’t have enough. Haha, again. It’s okay. The grass was green and the sky was sunny and my nose was chilly and the view of smith, beautiful.

So we technically won by default. i had so much fun cheering on the sidelines. enjoying my egg quiche and the company. ^-^

if not the kickball field, then the pouch is in josten library, in that study room full of old, rare books behind glass bookshelves. i remember opening the door and almost yelped when i saw the shape of a person studying in such dim lighting. it was Loren, an acquaintance that always said hi back. the kind of person i know deep down i could vibe with had we had more encounters.

it's the room with a keyboard you can play with headsets on. I played some of my favorite songs while Loren studied. after i finished, we conversed about international politics, wine and parties, and rap. two girls who enjoyed boardgames and watching kpop dancing videos. that one UMass frat party I walked in on. We listened to August D’s Daechwita and bopped along. laughed about the silly and the serious. before I left, we promised we'd meet again.

if the pouch was not at josten, then it might have fallen out at the boat house. i had biked there immediately after leaving the library to meet with Naina. we made last minute plans to kayak haha. i got there first, sat down on the steps as i waited, enjoyed the view of the pond, the trees, the scattered yellow and red leaves on the ever-shifting pond surface. it was chilly. i dug my heels into the concrete steps. not too long, i heard foot steps behind me. 

maybe it's from walking with her lots but i knew those steps were hers. 

Naina and i went into the boathouse. it was my first time. god. that boat house felt and smelled…? like a movie. the strong smell of wet wood and earth. wooden desks. wood everything. a life vest was fitted on us both before we each got our own kayaks and were pushed into the water.

everything feels different when i was in the water. the paddling. the calm. the conversation. the way the surface of the water moved and shined under the sun and with the wind. if i had anything to say, it was an observation. 

"beautiful."

"gosh."

"woah! haha"

"i can't breathe"

Naina looked so cute paddling pft. sometimes she would struggle to push herself forward or her kayak was stuck on a log hahaha and i keep saying this and it's so weird but she's the cutest daughter. if i had a daughter like her, i would be blessed. forever. our paddling wasn't synchronous but the sight of her silhouette against the shine of the water and the trees was absolutely gorgeous. i wonder what i'd see if i was paddling behind myself. how do i look? 

all in a sunday. all these beautiful, peaceful feelings i felt. somewhere in me, somewhere deep, i felt warm. warm from how such a normal sunday could already feel so extraordinary because of the people in it. the nature in it. the flight i felt in my heart.

i was making memories that i'd remember for the rest of my life. as I write this, I can still see it all. 

i used to be the kid who stayed in, studying hard for that extra letter grade. who based her self-worth on her academic performance and achievement. 

it was my everything. it was me. and i allowed it to be. 

however, that meant i left a lot of life behind. 

fomo. 

fear of missing out. my beautiful friend Elise first introduced this to me in our penpal letters. i realized then how that was everything. everything i had feared. perfectly condensed.

i feared i had lost. had i lost years? lost it to nothing at all. nothing i'd remember or recall. downing and memorizing and swallowing information i'd barely touch. for the sake of recognition. someone else's. not mine. 

it's as if i could only be real if someone else noticed me and my efforts. not that i did. i lived for others. and i loved it. i hated it. i thrived and i burned and i was quiet. never voicing it. crying only in the middle of the night as i stared down my computer screen. another essay to conquer. another concept to master.

i never did much. not for fun. 

Like The Band Perry's song "If I Die Young" -- "all i never did is done." 

on a night out to a jazz concert with someone i really like (this was a month ago) i was epically excited about funnel cakes, having never had them before. on our way back from getting a plate, as we sought a place to eat it, he asked me, "do you ever have fomo? is this fomo for you?" 

it was painful to admit it. the funnel cake plate was warm in my hands as we walked. his eyes, earnest. 

"yes. god, yes i do. but im here tonight aren't i? im in the exact place my parents would never have allowed me to go, with the exact person they'd never want me to be with at night: a boy. haha."

we ate the cake together, fingers and all. amazing music floating through the chilly air. the highway beneath us. i felt safe. flying. like a bike in decline. i felt easy.

so where was the damn pencil pouch? it wasn't in any of these places.

two days had passed after that sunday. i dug around my backpack for an umbrella and there it was.

with me all along. it was with me everywhere. this trusty pencil pouch.

not lost.

i didn't lose it after all.

i hope you'll find what you've felt you've lost. and if you don't, that you can create it :)

yes.

best,

Ngoc

P.S. haha. cheesy.

i am a cheese about my own life.

am i perfectly happy? definitely not! i just... i've come to learn where i like putting in my time. 

we got this heh ^-^

Episode 71: our drunken ship

In the past few years, I've learned what is absolutely true, the hard way. Each time after the next, it gets easier to accept. 

There are some people who are meant to be in your life for a moment, a season, or seasons. 

Forever isn't ever guaranteed.

I was convinced forever worked.

Especially in my friendships.

I was convinced that she would be my ride or die. A girl who slowly opened up to me, but when she did, she was art. I loved her mind. I deeply enjoyed our conversations, wherever they went. We both danced with flowers, one of the last to be on the dance floor, on our prom night. She was my date.

I was convinced what we had could never end. We were too similar in many regards. And wherever we were different, it was something to peacefully notice and accept.

She gets me when I needed to be gotten. And my listening ear was a space for her to vent and explore what went on in that mind of hers. 

It's been years and since covid started, our friendship became harder to maintain. 

At one point, we would call often. Or often enough to feel a semblance of connection. 

She keeps to herself during this pandemic and hates calling. But I love calling. 

It's not that I've lost her. 

I've lost the expectation for her to be here. With me forever.

Tonight, our plans to meet failed through yet...again. I desperately wanted to make them happen.

And she didn't for reasons beyond my control. For reasons unrelated to me. 

But it's disappointing. Frustrating. I'm not her, so I'll can't imagine what she's going through. 

I miss her from time to time. It's nostalgia. Naggy and haunting. And wanting to say hi.

"How easy it was to be 'us'..."

I was happy with our friendship. 

And whenever we caught up, it's as if no time has passed at all.

Keshi's "drunk" is playing in the background again. And how fitting, because our ship, it feels drunk.

Like there's not a straight line from where we are to where we're going. 

She and I are pausing what we have until we can actually meet again. I hope she's in a better place. 

I hope I will be too. And I hope we won't harbor bitterness to each other and if anything, I'm rooting for her. 

Even if it's from afar until we meet again.

I hope our ship isn't drunken enough to sink. Just.. drunk. Swerving and unclear. That's... that's okay. :)

It's one of those nights where I wish I had someone by my side. 

Haha, I say it like I have no one. 

But I do. 

She's just fast asleep two rooms away from mine. I'm waking up with her 6:30 am alarm to cook her some corndogs. That's who I do have.

Yen. I can count on her forever and forever. That's my babe. 

And hey.

Maybe it's not forever that I want.

Maybe it's that feverish feeling I get whenever I'm convinced in forever that matters.

Because right now, I know I might not have forever with some of the people I have in my life. The fact that forever ever crossed my mind when it did-- that makes the hurt of possibly losing them one day all worth it. 

Call me naive.

I'm luckily young enough to screw this part up.

When it gets old, when I get old-- at least I'll have been screwed.

With enough times to reconsider

not counting on all my ships surviving to shore.

Wishful and yours,

Ngoc

P.S. It was poor of me to... uh, screw around with screw jokes. :I sorry. And do you have a drunken ship? or two? 

My metaphors get lost at one point. Forgive my poor taste.

I fucking love ships and whales.

do i?

do i like you or do i like that you like me?

do i want you or do i want you to want me?

do i like convincing you we could make this last 

while both of us are high off the heat? the adrenaline we both get

from saying things we want the other to believe?

do i want you to fall for me? hard.

am i brave enough to return the favor? 

when this is what i've been wanting

and here you are, exactly and not exactly as i wanted

but good for me

all the same.

"i really like you, Ngoc"

words so simple, so short yet endless

you were nervous, shitless. and rightfully so.

"i might have to wait 6 months for you to feel sure about me too?

that feels like im played with... you know?"

you're right. 

do i want to stick it out? 

am i as sure about you as you are about me?

do i want to stick it out and make myself believe?

wait to see what you see? 

would i be at ease

during our time's entirety?

or do i let you go now,

wistful at how early

or continue what we have, 

all confident that we could be "friends" so innocently?