This Place My Parents Called Home
By Loan Kim Ly

When the airplane began landing procedures, each and every cell in my body tingled with excitement. Everything, except the clouds against the curtain of blue sky, oddly had a new familiarity to it. I saw the plots of red dirt that stretched out in smooth rectangles on the ground, the aluminum shacks scattered about near the landing area, and the orange-red water that at one time or another flowed through the great rivers.

The airplane stopped and for once during my trip I saw the other passengers faces light up as if they had just found a lost puppy. For most of them, I guess, that’s exactly how it felt to be back at home. I, on the other hand, felt a million miles away from home. I missed my mom the most. Although I was born in Thailand, my parents are from Vietnam, so part of me felt as if I had visited a home I once knew even though it was the first time there.

As I headed toward the exit, the effects of the air conditioner gradually wore off. Suddenly, a tidal wave of sunlight, heat and humidity consumed my entire being. I felt lost for a moment, but watching all the people busily scampering about like ants in panic reminded me I was at the Ho Chi Minh Airport. “Whoa…this should be fun,” I laughed to myself, “red dirt and wet air.”

My original notions of having fun, exploring a new, yet familiar land and eating more coconuts than I could count, quickly changed. Inside the airport I saw my uncle quickly folding up five-dollar bills and stacking them between each of our passports and handing them to the man behind the counter. “The Ho Chi Min Airport,” I thought, “corruption at its peak.”

Making our exit from the airport was even worse. “Be careful when we walk out that door, people are going to try to snatch your necklaces and don’t trust those cabbies in the blue uniform.”

I could have sworn someone tried take the raggedy old fisherman hat I was wearing to block the sun. But there was no way I was going to let anyone snatch my Buddha necklaces. Hurriedly, we managed to hop into two vans that waited for us by the edge of the parking lot.

Those were my first experiences in this place my parents called home. This place was different from the American landscapes I knew and grew up in. Meeting strangers who said they were my family was the hardest part.

I remember meeting my father’s mother -- my grandmother -- for the first time. She lives in a city called Can Tho, which resembled a mini version of Ho Chi Minh City. When I first saw her, I thought I was looking at the female version of my uncle Ty, my dad’s second youngest sibling. She told me stories about my parents and made fun of me for being so dark. You see, in Vietnam they think all Americans are light skinned because to them, being light skinned means you don’t have to work hard and are rich. Even though it was all in good fun, being teased for something I couldn’t control was sort of annoying. But at the same time, it made me realize how hard everyone worked since almost everyone is dark in Vietnam.

My next stop was a place called Chau Doc, which is a temple located in the southwest. We took the vans there and I don’t quite remember how long we traveled, but I do remember the bumpy ride. Since then, I’ve never complained about the condition of American roads.

Visiting this temple was far from spiritual. To me, it was nothing but a tourist attraction that stimulated business for the pig roasters, incense makers, fruit stands and beggars who flocked to the temple everyday to earn a living. I couldn’t help feeling sympathetic. In Vietnam, the climb up the social ladder is long and hard. For the most part, Americans work to support themselves and to buy nice things. Vietnamese people live to pay for their daily meal, usually nothing more than a bowl of rice and vegetables.

I remember when one of my uncles gave a little boy a section of the roasted pig we brought to our ancestors. I saw my other uncle laughing hysterically and wondered why. The answer came sooner than I expected. Just as my cousin tugged on my collar and told me to run for the van, I saw a mass of thin arms and legs rushing toward us.

I’ve never seen my uncle run so fast in his whole life. We all ditched the pig, thanked the gods, and boarded the van. That ended our visit to Chau Doc.

My next and final stop was Phu Quoc. Here I met my mom’s mother -- my other grandmother. Every morning from sun up to sun down, all I smelled was fish, but for some odd reason, probably because the heat combined with humidity, my sense of smell was distorted, and I didn’t mind it at all.

My grandmother and aunts treated me like a princess, but I still had a hard time accepting the fact that they were my family. I guess that was natural since I had never seen them before. Still, I could not help but feel an obligation of one day taking care of my family in Vietnam.

That was a responsibility my mom had accepted a long time ago, not by choice but because her older brothers had refused. Obligations cost a lot of money. I saw how hard my uncles’ lives were, but there were times when I didn’t know if they were sincere. I couldn’t decipher the lies, or exaggerations rather, from the truths about all the things they needed. I knew life wasn’t easy for them, but my family in America was struggling by as well.

My trip to my mother’s homeland was one I will never forget. It has taught me to appreciate what we have here in the United States. There are times when I can still feel the mud squish between my toes, like it did on the days I would go swimming in the river that flowed through the backyard of the family home. I plan to go back there soon, and hopefully take my little sister. What better lesson could I teach her?