Saigon Still Follows Me
Tuong Vy Le. That was the name etched on my birth certificate when I was born in Saigon. My mom chose the name, it meant “blooming rose.” But in America, it meant relentless teasing in the lunch line. “Hi TouOng,” other kids would say, waiting for a reaction. In first grade, my mom and sister came up with the name “Vivienne.” My sister had also assumed a new identity. She was formerly Uyen, my sweet, playful, older sister. She then became Gina. Maybe it was her age, learning a new language, or having her life torn from its roots; she became cold and rigid even to my six-year-old self. She now goes by Veronica, I don’t know much about her anymore, but I’m proud of the person she grew into. The name Vivienne stuck, and just like my sister, I changed too.
Behind
Growing up, I had always experienced a lack of food. I remember being physically and mentally behind the rest of my classmates because I never ate. I was almost sent home in kindergarten because the sandwich my mom had packed was too small. The first time I began experiencing issues was in third grade, I had brushed my hand against the side of my shirt and noticed how all of my ribs were sticking out. Things became especially prevalent in middle school when I would run even the slightest bit, and get painful stabs in my heart and lungs. My friends would make fun of me, and it began to seem normal when unfamiliar male classmates made comments about how flat I was.
New Year’s Eve, 2020
2020 had been an especially rough year for me, but how it ended solidified that. My mom had finally recovered from COVID, after months of hospital trips and phone calls while holding back tears. I was worried she wouldn’t live, but she was here now, still a sickly green but she was there nonetheless. That year we had a huge Halloween, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve party to make up for all the holidays she had missed.
I was upstairs with my older sister in our shared bedroom, slipping on a black dress. Music permeated the air as I sat on my bed watching her brush her flowing hair. Ever since I was little, I’ve always considered her to be the most beautiful person I knew. In our hazy bathroom light, covered in cobwebs, her skin glowed like the surface of Venus.
“It’s bad luck to wear black on New Year’s.” She says, turning her head to look at me. I learned to know when she’s having a bad day, when her voice turns sharp and painful like nails dragging against your back when I know I should avoid her.
“No, I didn’t,” I respond, it’s as if the sun suddenly jolted towards Earth and is shining all of its rays on me.
“Go change.”
“But I like-”
“You know you’ve always been a burden on mom, right? Our family would be better off if you weren’t here.”
And that was that. She said more but this was all I remembered when I crept downstairs, my head facing the floor. I didn’t cry at the time because I didn’t understand. But I do now when it’s late in the night and I’m alone, when the only thing to soak up my tears is my pillowcase. She was only 16 when she said that, and it shouldn’t have mattered… but I remember it like the way I remember her curling my hair for picture day, or playing games on her Nintendo DS, or the tone her voice takes on when I know she’s about to yell.
First… and Probably Last
It happened so quickly that I couldn’t react. I should have felt happy but instead, I knew something was wrong. It was my first school dance and I had gone out with a classmate who I exchanged glances with from time to time. I probably should have known when he asked me out and left right after. We sat in the corner of a small theater with a group, all of them being his friends except for one. They were too busy talking to each other to notice when he swung his body over, completely engulfing me. When he kissed me I was so startled that I pulled back almost immediately. The corner of his lips curl into a smug grin, “Can I tell my friends?” he says. Paralyzed with shock, the word “yes,” escaped my mouth. I felt my entire body stiffen as I asked my one friend to come to the restroom with me. There, I alternated between silence and such extreme nausea that I felt like I was going to throw up. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t form my thoughts into words and when I tried to tell her what happened, it all spilled out of me uncontrollably.
We went back to her house that night, not exchanging many words except for her knowing eyes as I cried on her couch. I remember telling her that of course I wanted to have my first kiss, but not like this. I felt bad for making us leave early but she understood, she always understands. In my symphony of sobs, I could only mumble about how dirty I felt and I didn’t know why. Like he had only used me to get his first kiss.
Pillow
Pillow was first my eldest sister’s and then mine ten years later. Pillow was a stuffed cat made of a thin cotton fabric that had been hugged thoroughly. He had been with me since I was brought home from the hospital and immediately, he was the only toy I wanted to play with. When my dad was arrested, I clung to Pillow like he could undo all the things my father had done, like he could fix my parent’s broken and tarnished marriage. With Pillow’s soft head resting on my chest, I peeped out the bedroom door as the police officer took my dad away. The memory of my father left with him when he was sent back to our home country. The years we had with him were swept under the rug, never spoken of again. Sometimes it felt like Pillow was the only one who remembered what my family had stashed away in the back of our memories.
I slept with Pillow in my arms as I waited for Santa on Christmas Eve, or when my mom came home from her factory job late at night. Pillow was the only thing I brought when I boarded the plane to the United States and clung to him on my first day of kindergarten. He was the only thing that truly belonged to me, the only thing I knew in a brand-new world. Through the seven homes I’ve moved into, I knew I could count on Pillow to accompany me.
After almost 20 years of love, my mom had done everything possible to stitch him back together year after year. But when she had fallen ill, when I held Pillow the tightest, he gradually began to fall apart. Her stitches no longer held, his body slumped from constantly being embraced, filled with gaping holes. His stuffing falls out of him as if he was gutted, just as I was when I hesitated on my father’s name, or couldn’t remember the last time we spoke. Pillow’s eyes reflect the unspoken words in my mind, a plea for my childhood to never end, to always have each other. It’s silly but I’m afraid that I won’t have Pillow for much longer, that I’ll never know the comfort he brought me ever again. Who, or what, will give me the guidance Pillow has so faithfully provided when I face adulthood?
Write Our World 