Con Bò

Food is a staple in many homes. Wooden-shaped apples hang on the shutters of my window and scrumptious scents linger around my house. My Mom is the chef of Apple street– the street I call home. She cooks traditional Vietnamese dishes reserved only for us– Mom, Dad, Brother and Me. My favorite is bò lúc lắc– which literally translates to shaking beef. My mom makes this for me whenever she can. Just some fish sauce, ribeye steak, wine and a dash of love. My mother’s hands work wonders. The same hands she uses to cook with love are the same ones that used to wipe away the tears whenever I cried over my English homework when I couldn’t understand the language. Yet, my Mom’s hands are dry and callous from the weed she pulls from the garden to keep it pretty, or from the long, overtime hours she works to pay the bills, or from the sacrifices of her stable life and pretty, slim hands from Vietnam when immigrating to America. I do not get to see my Mom often– unless I stay up late. A part of me feels missing when she is long and far.

But rib eye steak is the key to a broken heart. Only someone who loves you truly will make sure the steak is juicy, tender, and rich. Mom would tease, 

If you eat a lot of beef, you will be dumb like a cow.

Love and laughing spirit always linger around the house. I always remind my Mom that I love her before I leave for school and before I go to bed. But still, I never get to hear her say

I love you.

Until I learned actions speak louder than three simple words.

Chopsticks 

In the heart of a small yet crowded restaurant, we sit in the middle of a ramen restaurant at a table for two underneath a warm, dim light as we wait patiently for our food. The air is warm as the heater howls aloud, its melody harmonizing beneath the tunes of peach eyes by wave to earth– 

After all, it’s just a hangout, right?

He smiles with all his perfect, aligned teeth shimmering against the bright light above us and his brown, golden hair reflecting the ceiling. I don’t even know how I got here. The devil must’ve texted him back after he asked me out. I can’t help but smile, but all I want to do is explode internally– limbs, intestines… blasted off. 

Our Tonkotsu Ramen arrives steaming hot with vibrant, distant hues of scallions and meats, differentiating from the murky broth.

I take a pair of wooden chopsticks from the packaging, breaking them apart into two. He does the same, yet his chopsticks do not split into two but are uneven in two different lengths, and with enough force, one flies out of his hand, diving onto the floor.

Oh my goodness, he laughs embarrassingly. He looks to his left and realizes it is the last pair of chopsticks. Oh well, he sighs as his hand glides over to a stainless steel straw.

This will do,

And there an inventor was born– Straw-sticks, that’s what he called it, Straw-sticks– one straw, one chopstick– two sticks durable enough to pick up the food and one to sip the broth. 

Gosh, he’s creative, 

This is dumb. 

That’s what I love about him.

An Ode to Time

Ears, plugged, turbulence, peace– Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Vietnam.

Beyond the water-stained window illuminated sunbeams that bathed my sun-kissed skin beneath Vietnam’s warm embrace. 

Yet, my mind was under a constant state of thunderous storms as the voices echoed in my head. 

All I could think about was being jet-lagged, the smoke-filled air of smokers gambling in local restaurants just for one extra meal, and the fact I have to miss the experience of sipping rich, comforting hot chocolate in cold December with my classmates as we tease one another for our marshmallow-mustaches while watching Home Alone on the bean bags before winter break.

I felt missing– A little kid that ran away from home.

All I wanted to do now was to run back home. 

Mom was already getting interrogated for our Styrofoam boxes filled with frozen meat and Dad was already being questioned for Visas, documents, and passports by Vietnamese officials. Fifty dollars into their pockets and disputes were settled–  If money can’t buy you happiness, it can buy you freedom. 

Across the room stood a grand opening leading outdoors, where thousands gathered behind barricades, reuniting with their loved ones.

Ông ngoại and bà ngoại cannot make it… Call a taxi, sighed Mom as she tucked her phone back into her pocket.

 I miss my grandparents. I want to be like those people out there. I remember gripping my grandparents’ stomachs as we rode on motorcycles in bustling streets to sneak out for some ice cream at the market. 

Tap

I turned around, and there they stood, ông ngoại and bà ngoại. The sun shined upon their fair, wrinkled skin as their eyes glistened like stars. Their eyes and presence comforted me already, let alone their words. I felt at peace, complete, at home. That is when I knew, this is more than what I wished for earlier.

Lunch Time

Twas the somber night, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. 

At six in the morning, the alarm rang and my Mom got up as me and my brother were sound asleep. The rice cooker beeped and the eggs crackled above the countertop as the flame engulfed the heat. The house smelled good. My mom picks me rice with Kim-chi and Vietnamese baby shrimps, and a pack of seaweed for lunch in a thermal box to keep it fresh and warm. It was my first day bringing lunch to school, yet my last first day of elementary school. I couldn’t wait to skip the long lunch line and not starve with stale, school food.

However, as I ate my lunch with my friends, they had their fingers clipped onto their nose as they ran out of breath before finishing their sentences. I knew it. It was all because of me– the smell of tangy seafood. I wrapped the tin foil back onto my food before even finishing– I was only 5 bites in. 

I walked back home in the cold, misty, somber air, walking on every crack I saw on the sidewalk. Why can’t I be respected for what I eat?

My mom questioned my attitude when walking,

She knew.

Oh, she knew.

The next day, my lunch box didn’t have the food I ate at home, or the craft-sushi meal I brought from home yesterday.

It was a pack of lunchables.

And suddenly my friends started asking for some crackers, cheese, and ham. 

Miss Understanding

Dear Diary,

They do not understand. They have no discipline. They are only hurting themselves– bless them.

Me and my dad stood in line at Walmart– it was a busy day. The line behind us was crowded with families hoarding their carts with toilet paper, huge packages of water, and canned foods. My dad gripped tightly on a huge bottle of hand sanitizer and some tylenol as I held onto a Hershey bar of cookies n’ cream. In front of me and a few others stood a blonde, disturbed woman without a mask tapping her feet excessively whilst judging and giving disgusted looks to those around her– we all had masks. 

The lady stirred a conversation with a Vietnamese, elderly man with wrinkles detailing his days of existence, with his granddaughter hand in hand,

You Asians…, your Kung-Flu virus…, mumble mumble, 

Go back to your own country… stop ruining America. We were better off without you, scoffed the lady.

He stood there confused as spit flew onto his face. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. Sometimes, you don’t need to understand English. 

One thing led to another, and security came. 

Just because we are Asian, they say whatever they see on the internet and think it is cool. They think I am a threat by the shape of my almond eyes and monolids. They think evicting us will resolve their problems.

My dad’s face turned white and scared, as his first instinct was to cover my ears with his two palms, dropping the bottle of hand sanitizer onto the floor. Thud. 

The more I tried not to listen, the more I listened. 

All We Share Is a Last Name

When Ông Nội died, it rained for weeks non-stop, from the day of his passing until the day of his funeral. Like pouring rain, tears poured relentlessly. The air was somber, carrying a weight of melancholy, and home was a place of detention. Mom and Dad were almost never home from when the sun rose until it died. I was home alone with my brother, who did not seem to care. All he focused on was playing Minecraft and the fact he could finally hoard the chocolates Mom hid in the kitchen cabinet. But all sweet things come to an end. 

When the door clicked and Dad returned home, he would pop another beer bottle and would slumber quietly into his sleep. I was only seven. 

However, when it was bedtime, I would sneak to my dad’s bed and lie right next to his warm embrace. Underneath the darkness, I could see crystal tears forming in the corner of his eyes– it was his way of saying sorry. We don’t say sorry in this house. It simply does not exist in our vocabulary. 

I can’t understand what he’s going through right now. I’m sobbing, but I don’t know why. 

I know it is my dad’s first time living, too, and I know he had it harder when he was little. 

But I was once little, too.