My Vietnam

When I used to think of Vietnam, I would think of teenagers with flowers in their hair and leather miniskirts, arm in arm with boys in bell bottoms and fists in the air, marching against the Vietnam War. I would start humming “Aquarius” and sigh at the idea of “our young men” dying in war. Last summer I was fortunate enough to go backpacking with my mom and explore the real Vietnam.

Now when I think of Vietnam I think of the smile that spreads across my face when I successfully bring spring rolls to my mouth using chopsticks. I feel my backpack thumping on my back as I trekked in the hill-tribes in the Hoa Binh province. My fingers twitch, wishing to peel away the bright pink curls of dragon-fruit skin and slurp the white fruits insides. I look to see a faded billboard of wartime propaganda in the distance, muffled by swarms of conical hats.

I still tense up at the idea of crossing the street, dense with motorcycles, some with families of five piled on nonchalantly, while other motorcycles sport office women in heels. It wasn’t uncommon to see a man with a basket full of pigs strapped on to the back of his bike or another’s overflowing with woven baskets.

When I walk out of my house in the early morning, sleep still in my eyes, I can faintly smell fresh fish from the market. I search for teetering steps in front of me shadowed by the baskets balanced on a wooden beam on a tired shoulder to show me the way. I can see the golden yellow robes of a pair of Buddhist monks huddled together out of the corner of my eye. I can squat for hours in the same position leaning on the backs of my heels.

When I am startled by the loud sounds of garbage trucks, I am reminded of the loudest sound I’ve ever heard, the booming of the M16s from the Cuchi Tunnels. In the morning trying to remember where I am, while swiping my MetroCard on the way to school, between bites at lunch, and while gazing out the window in math class, these are the images and senses that flood my head. This is how I remember Vietnam.