A neatly creased white muslin sheet with large blue roses served as a tablecloth and my platform. I am two or almost two--the date on the back of the photograph says “Dalat 8|1 89” in my father’s cursive (I’m not sure if that means january 8 or august 8). Having been in the military his entire adolescent and adult life, his handwriting is efficient, but also romantic in the way the loops softly connect each character.
Everything is round: the beautiful pink birthday cake; brightly colored donut shaped candles; my pink cheeks and brown black eyes; the mound of shiny, amost wax-like fruit--apples, grapes, plums, strawberries, and persimmon.
My grandparents sold fruit, which explains their abundance in many of our pictures. From what I’ve been told, our family imported fresh fruits, made confections, and produced wines. I love listening to my mother describe all of the responsibilities she had when it came to the family business: she’d have to skip school on some afternoons to pick strawberries for preserves; she’d run the fruit stall, selling exotic, sweet orbs called “pommes” (apples) imported from “the West”; and to my unexpected delight, taste test the effervescent berry-infused wines my grandfather concocted (my mother is not a drinker).
There were so many siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles that it seemed like birthdays were a regular occurrence in my grandparents’ home. We don’t have any pictures of the ordinary, quotidien things my family and I experienced in Vietnam--our photo albums are filled with moments from weddings, baptisms, trips to the beach or hydrangea gardens, and of course, birthdays. All I have that connects me to the first three years of my life and to my birthplace are these images and my parents’ stories, which I know will one day be lost, forgotten, and gone.
“Remember the time you climbed the guava tree and fell into a ditch?”
“You and your cousin Ni fought like cats and dogs. You even scratched her face once.”
“You were not a pretty baby, everyone said you looked like a little monkey!”
Sometimes I’ll catch the scent of annato oil and my mind will reach deep into my memory and I can see a dusty street, low wooden stools, and a bowl of My Quang--rice noodles in an orange colored, aromatic pork broth. I’m not sure I could even properly chew slices of pork belly or if all I ate were the noodles--but I can taste all of it.
Everything is round: the beautiful pink birthday cake; brightly colored donut shaped candles; my pink cheeks and brown black eyes; the mound of shiny, amost wax-like fruit--apples, grapes, plums, strawberries, and persimmon.
My grandparents sold fruit, which explains their abundance in many of our pictures. From what I’ve been told, our family imported fresh fruits, made confections, and produced wines. I love listening to my mother describe all of the responsibilities she had when it came to the family business: she’d have to skip school on some afternoons to pick strawberries for preserves; she’d run the fruit stall, selling exotic, sweet orbs called “pommes” (apples) imported from “the West”; and to my unexpected delight, taste test the effervescent berry-infused wines my grandfather concocted (my mother is not a drinker).
There were so many siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles that it seemed like birthdays were a regular occurrence in my grandparents’ home. We don’t have any pictures of the ordinary, quotidien things my family and I experienced in Vietnam--our photo albums are filled with moments from weddings, baptisms, trips to the beach or hydrangea gardens, and of course, birthdays. All I have that connects me to the first three years of my life and to my birthplace are these images and my parents’ stories, which I know will one day be lost, forgotten, and gone.
“Remember the time you climbed the guava tree and fell into a ditch?”
“You and your cousin Ni fought like cats and dogs. You even scratched her face once.”
“You were not a pretty baby, everyone said you looked like a little monkey!”
Sometimes I’ll catch the scent of annato oil and my mind will reach deep into my memory and I can see a dusty street, low wooden stools, and a bowl of My Quang--rice noodles in an orange colored, aromatic pork broth. I’m not sure I could even properly chew slices of pork belly or if all I ate were the noodles--but I can taste all of it.