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Chapter Sixteen

VIVI

A couple more days pass, and Lan and I settle into a routine: We meet each other at noon to continue tossing ideas back and forth (the norm here, I’ve learned, is for street food stalls and businesses to take a lunch break or nap). Something changed in Lan after our last visit to the street food alleyway. She’s writing a lot more, sharing a lot more, and overall seems… happy . I can see it in how she moves, how her eyebrows have stopped their deep scrunching, and how she lights up when she sees me.

“Random question for research: On a scale of never-visiting-again to must-absolutely-visit, where would you rank Sài Gòn?” I ask Lan, who’s busy slicing baguettes open while I scribble down our brainstorming notes.

She dabs at the sweat on her temple. I swallow, hoping my hair is enough to cover the blush creeping to my ears. “Can’t rank, ’cause it’s the only place I’ve ever known. I’d love to go outside of this city though, try visiting somewhere else. Live abroad for a while.”

“ Really? You want to leave Sài Gòn? I could live here forever.” It’s the truth. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of Sài Gòn’s noise, and I’d rather live in it than drown it out.

“You’re only saying that because you’re a tourist. Would you want to live in California for the rest of your life?”

I shrug. “It is a big state. But probably not. There’s a lot to see outside of California, a lot more to experience. I see your point now.”

“But you have beaches… Hollywood, the Golden Gate?”

I snort. “I can’t tell you how many times people think San Francisco and Los Angeles are right next to each other. And Hollywood is kind of grimy. The real treat is the immigrant-owned restaurants in Southern California and the Bay Area. So much good food. Still, there’s something about Sài Gòn that just pulls you in.” And once I was pulled, I let this city’s fervor seep into me—all the electrifying chaos, the sweltering humidity, and this girl next to me.

She nods. “I can’t imagine living without the motorbikes, street food vendors, and Sài Gòn’s energy. But Sài Gòn wasn’t always like this. All those corner shops and neighborhood marts outside the alley? Those weren’t there when I was a kid.”

“No way.” I try to imagine a Sài Gòn from the past, and who knows, maybe the buildings I’ve been looking at didn’t exist when Mom was here. Maybe these skyscrapers would be as new to Mom as they are to me. Maybe the place she used to call home… no longer looks like home.

“See that super-tall building ahead?” Lan continues. “That’s Landmark 81. It’s the highest building in Vi ? t Nam. It was built in 2015.”

“That’s so recent.” And definitely way after my parents left. “But to me, Landmark 81 feels like it’s always been part of Sài Gòn. Wherever you stand in this city, you can always see it.”

“It’s crazy to watch the city change.”

“My parents… they’re refugees.” I avoid her gaze, unsure of how to approach the word—the topic. “I really don’t know much about what it was like for them living here—leaving here. We’ve never had a long talk about their lives before California. All I know is that my dad’s father, or my grandpa, left soon after the war ended when my dad was only three. He grew up in Little Saigon like me. My mom immigrated in the nineties, though. I want to know why they left, especially my mom.”

“Sometimes it’s not easy and there aren’t black-and-white answers,” she says, looking at the dangling mess of electrical wires above us, bird nests poking through. There’s a hint of sadness to her tone, and I wonder if Lan ever thinks about leaving this city. “I wasn’t born yet, but everyone told me how hard it was back then.”

“I know, but why run away?” Across an entire ocean, too, no less.

“Maybe that’s all they knew, all they could do: Run to survive. I’m from a family of immigrants, too. My great-grandma is ng ?? i Hoa.”

Confused, I cock an eyebrow. I didn’t know that there were other types of Vietnamese people. “Ng ?? i Hoa?”

Lan nods. “Vietnamese people who are ethnically Chinese. My great-grandma emigrated from China and built our family with my great-grandpa, who’s Vietnamese. My dad grew up speaking Vietnamese and practicing Vietnamese culture in Sài Gòn. Most Ng ?? i Hoa, though, are from Ch ? L ? n, our Chinatown.”

“I never knew that!” A rush of adrenaline courses through my body. This is exactly what I wanted from this trip. Everything my parents never told me.

What would Mom think?

“The Kinh group is the dominant ethnicity of this country, but there’s Tày, H’M?ng, Ch ? m, Lào, and many more. Some still practice their traditions and culture, but for me, I’ve always called myself Vietnamese.”

“Wow.” I watch her in awe, how she moves with such precision while dressing bánh mìs and talking to me. I want to bottle up this moment between us—two girls on the streets under the beating sun, learning… and unlearning. “For the longest time, I didn’t know how to label myself. Still don’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Growing up in the States, even though I was surrounded by other Vietnamese people in Little Saigon, I always felt out of place. Walking outside of my own bubble was an experience… I didn’t know the world could be so white . I thought that maybe I wasn’t American enough and that my family would never be accepted despite being there for so long—despite America literally being my home.”

“But does that matter?” She turns toward me, her eyes firmly locked on mine, and I almost forget her question.

“What do you mean?” I breathe out, feeling my cheeks warming.

She shrugs, going back to the baguette in her hands. “Maybe it’s okay to not be anything. To not have to label yourself as anything. You can be both Vietnamese and American.”

It hadn’t occurred to me that I could be both before. That I shouldn’t force myself to fit into one definition of what it means to be Vietnamese, or what being an American looks like. It feels validating to know I shouldn’t—can’t—be put in a box, that it’s okay to float in this in-betweenness… to be everything at once. I don’t have to compromise my identity. I can be so many different things.

“You’re right. Thanks, Lan.”

The corners of her mouth turn upward, and she smiles brightly, eclipsing the sun’s rays. Her braid sways with the wind, the strands of hair framing her sun-kissed cheeks. Half of me wants to reach toward her, to tuck in those strands behind her ear, and to run my fingers through her soft hair.

“I’m just glad I could help,” she says.

It’s past my lunch break now, and I know Cindy’s going to blow up my phone if I don’t come back to the dormitory soon. Still, I find myself dragging my own feet, not wanting to tear myself from her. “I have to head back now, but I’ll… see you tomorrow?”

She nods. “Don’t forget we’re going to Ch ? B ? n Thành tomorrow!”

“I can’t wait!” I wave at her as I cross the street—with much more confidence than my first day here.

The dormitory looks more homey now than it did when I first arrived, too. Books, backpacks, and someone’s consoles are strewn on the tables in the living room. The ceiling fan buzzes from above, struggling to cast away the heavy air even with the windows open.

But instead of going up the stairs, I venture into Bà Hai’s kitchen, following the smell of bún hò hu ? . I spot the giant vat of soup immediately, the spices and pork simmering inside.

“What are you doing, Vivi?”

I jump, not fully registering the small elderly lady crouching behind tall kitchen shelves. “Hi, Bà Hai! Sorry—I know you don’t like people coming in here. The bún hò hu ? just smells so good.” I trail off, realizing how awkward I sound.

She blinks, then cackles, her laugh vibrating through the tight space and rattling the cabinets full of spices. “Don’t be silly, you all are more than welcome here. Although I do tend to be cranky if anyone touches my food. Only I can make it taste good.”

My nerves loosen with her laugh. Sometimes I wonder about the people that raised my parents. Some nights, I find Dad in the kitchen alone at 3:00 a.m., fumbling through old photographs of his parents, who I never got to meet. Mom’s family… I hope Lan and I can find them, but still, it feels impossible.

Bà Hai motions for me to come near her, and I tiptoe toward the kitchen counter, which has been invaded by every single brand of fish sauce, and of course, condensed milk. “Here.” She presses a colorful cup into my hand. “Go on, try it. Let me know how it tastes.”

I eye the dessert curiously, noting the red bean paste at the bottom of the cup. “Is this chè?”

“Yes, it is!” She beams, her face looking proud . “It’s chè ba màu. It has three layers: red beans on the bottom, mung bean in the middle, and the top is green pandan jelly with coconut milk and shaved ice.”

Taking my spoon, I scoop up all the different layers at once, bringing the red beans, mung beans, pandan jelly, coconut milk, and shaved ice to my mouth. My mind explodes with vibrant colors, the sweetness tingling my tongue. “This tastes just like halo-halo!” There’s a mom-and-pop Filipino restaurant near my house in Little Saigon where Cindy and I would order halo-halo almost every day after school.

Bà Hai grins, the wrinkles on her face curving upward. “Unlike halo-halo, there’s no ube. It’s all in the rich flavor of the mung beans.”

“It’s really fascinating how similar some foods are between different cultures,” I comment, still digging through my chè ba màu.

“You’re really passionate about food, aren’t you?”

I blush. Maybe I’ve been thinking too much about food lately because of Lan. Definitely because of Lan.

“Oh right,” Bà Hai says while reaching for a pot. I step forward to help, but she swats my arm away. “How are you and Lan getting along? Her and her mother make great bánh mì. I always cater from their business.”

My jaw goes slack. “You were watching me?” If there’s one thing about older Vietnamese women, it’s that they always know what’s going on.

Bà Hai scoffs, throwing her arms in the air. “Of course! Have to make sure my students are staying clear of trouble.”

I lean farther into the countertop, my hands wandering to the nearest bottles of spices—they’ll reach for anything when I’m nervous.

“Lan is great. We’re hanging out a lot together because… well, I’m helping her with something”—that sounds super shady—“but she’s showing me all these cool things about the city.” I feel myself instinctively smiling, like I always do when I think of her. “I really like being around her.”

Bà Hai ruffles my hair and swats me away from the countertop, prying the bottles from my hands. “Be a good friend to her. That girl works the hardest.”

Bà Hai doesn’t need to tell me twice. I know Lan works the hardest, I know she’s always trying her best. So with a nod, I say, “I will.”

“Here, take these lychees for yourself, I just cut them up.” Even with my protests, Bà Hai presses the plate of fruits into my hand and ushers me out of the kitchen.

The plump fruits stare back at me, their juice glistening under the hallway light, and suddenly, I see Mom’s face in the shape of the plate. I see her skinning each lychee with care, fingers pressed on the husk and peeling it away to reveal the white flesh. I see Mom smiling, her face full of warmth as she gestures for me.

But the memory fades, and I’m reminded of all my lies and what’s left unsaid between us.