Vietnam Gives You Wings

There are things that happened in Vietnam which had nothing to do with the course program (or perhaps they had everything to do with it) from which I learned more about myself. There are many other things to do in the world that wouldn't do as much, like drinking nightly mightily with friends and mates. Fun perhaps, but probably wouldn't lead to as much personal reflection.

If I wasn't directly participating in one of the many trips, events, and classes that were provided in the program, I was likely thinking or preparing for it, or simply spending time with the people in the program. I have mixed feelings about this, but one thing is for sure: I lived as as a study abroad student and I was nothing else for the entire time. I did field work, homework, work in English, and of course, simply work. I may have studied a little Vietnamese too.

What I'm trying to say is that my experience in Vietnam was wholly "an experience," and by that mean a holistic experience, each moment contiguous with the next in theme and function. I'm sad to say that it was mostly in English, but through English we learned a very large amount about Vietnam in academic literature, such as through Jonathan Rigg's reader on South East Asia and development. It had all the insights an undergrad could want and expect, complete with figures and case studies, and almost none of the answers. Our projects asked us to do fieldwork with the workers of Vietnam, and that we did. It would be hard to say that my experiences with these various men, women, and children did not color the way I see my own entrance into the working world. As our professor suggested in our last class on Vietnam's society in transition, perhaps it wasn't what job you had or what you did for work that makes you happy, it's why you do it that could make you happy. Happiness, it seems, is what we Americans are in pursuit of, along with liberty and independence. It is also what Vietnam wants, as is apparent from the heading of every government resume: "Độc lập - Tự do - Hạnh phi," meaning independence, happiness, and freedom. These themes for life will always be with me, and Vietnam has only made their force stronger.

Knowing that Vietnam shares its aspirations with the rest of the world, wanting to develop and modernize to compete on equal grounds makes me think that it would be okay to come back and help it along on its path. This year, our class helped start an NGO, christening it with a 300 jackets for the students of a poor village in Nghê An, the birthplace of Hò Chí Minh. Our professor, the founding member of this NGO, is looking to help the country a lot more. The other day I read on the University of Indiana's philanthropy website that volunteer work really does affect people's perceptions of their happiness. It is good to know that his work will always be here for me to come back to, and perhaps, the wonderfully gifted students at Hanoi University.

Colllaborative Era

Group work is a theme I've seen often throughout my time at Berkeley. All classes now seem to have a group work component in which one's grade is heavily dependent on a collaborative work. It's very clear that collaboration is heavily needed for our future, as has always been the case for humanity, but it's only now that we're getting rid of the idea of single-handed genius. Modern American culture emphasizes the need for working together, perhaps in view of the threat of climate change and the "perfect storm" of crises headed our way, and this is reflected in how classes at Berkeley are. Grades are no longer based on your sole performance, but can only be reflected in the performance of others.

For instance, our grade this semester for our class on Vietnamese society is based on group work we've done collecting interviews and writing the transcriptions. The general problem here was that the work load was doomed to be asymmetrical, and to be done by mostly two out of the five members of the team due to the unequal language ability. The assignment was to collect and translate interviews of workers in Vietnam. Only two of the members could speak both Vietnamese and English well enough to do justice, both of whom were Vietnamese. There was one American who knew fluent Vietnamese, but only conversationally as she was never formally trained. That left two members who were nearly useless, having only editing work to contribute in English. The challenge for me personally, being one of the useless English speakers, was to contribute to the work without slowing down the other members. It was difficult because I felt my contributions in general were only slowing down the execution of project, although the arbitrary nature of the grading system made it so that "participation" was mandatory. And participate I did as much as I could.

I found in the end that if you cannot contribute to a group with work, the best thing to do is to act as a social lubricant. I don't mean you should bring alcohol to the meetings, but that you should try your best to get everyone on good terms. Icebreakers and such are always contrived and awkward, and it's the rare person who can seamlessly move from introductions to icebreaker without it seeming gimmicky, so the best thing to do is to make conversation and to offer little surprises that would make a meeting more pleasant to be at. The best way to do this, of course, is to bring good food. Another option is simply to have the meeting at a nice cafe, but this often creates a tension between prices and those who can afford it. The idea is to have everyone comfortable, and to have people enjoy the feeling of going to a meeting. The other way one can contribute, is simply to keep people to the agenda. To keep them focused, and to perhaps even offer a little comedic relief when needed, and to not over do it.

These are the important lessons I learned dealing with my group, and they're useful even when one has an important contribution to make.

Fundraising in Hanoi

Right before our trip to Saigon, it was announced that we were to participate in a fundraising exercise to help a poor village in Nghe An, the birthplace of Ho Chi Minh. We had a week and a half to raise $1500 for 200 jackets to donate to the children of a particularly depraved village. So, when we arrived in Phu Quoc, we spent an hour brainstorming about how to tackle the problem of raising enough money to keep 200 children warm. For some reason, I thought of finding some sort of corporate sponsorship, neglecting the ethical issues of branding a village with, for instance, blue coats with "Swiss Miss" branded on the breastpocket. Other people had more pragmatic solutions. After a bit of discussion, we decided to hold an information table on campus; ask for donations from friends in family; and to establish a miniature casino so people could gamble for a good cause. A friend and I decided to go ahead and sell coffee at any event that might arise between then and the deadline.

Although I had my doubts about how much we could actually make from selling coffee, especially after the startup costs of getting everything from a water boiler to condensed milk, our first day was a success. Supplies were donated by some of our classmates whose parents owned a coffee shop, and other people helped with odds and ends like an ice chest and extension cords. Our only real costs were the coffee and the milk, along with some tea we bought in order to serve the Hanoian demand for "Tra Da," or iced tea. At the end of the day, we made enough to buy 7 jackets, and that was with limited supplies.

Seven jackets doesn't seem like much when you have to clothe a school of children, but it was still nice to see what 40 college students could do when the came together to raise money for a cause. I'm interested in any ideas people have on raising money in more effective ways, especially in Vietnam. The best example I could think of would be presidential campaigns.

Good Morning, Saigon

Last week we went on our Southern trip. This included Ho Chi Minh City (aka Saigon), a floating village in Can Tho, and what else? Oh yeah, a huge island off the south coast of Vietnam, Phu Quoc (aka paradise). We spent about three days in each spot. By far the most adventurous part of the trip was on the island. There I found a jungle with vines I could swing from into a clear stream. I found secluded beaches with clear water and little fisheys that would scatter as you came close. And of course, there was the seafood, perhaps the best you can find in Vietnam.

We started the trip in Saigon and everyone one was very happy when we arrived. People understood us much easier and the food was everything we'd hoped for. Also, it was Halloween the day after we arrived, and so it was a party packed weekend complete with clubs and costumes. We all seemed to have a great time in Saigon and things were good. I met up with my cousin and we had lunch, and I was glad I had someone in Vietnam I could call my family.

The worst part of the trip was in Can Tho. We stayed in a river village which had an especially itchy breed of mosquito. It was interesting to see freshly caught fish smoked in a traditional twig pit, and also to visit an isolated Muslim community at their Mosque, but the trip soured when I lost my cell phone. After this, we came back to the river house for our last dinner. At first I thought it was quail, and began devouring the little charred carcasses we were served. I love jerkied meat. Right after I said, "This is the best chicken I've had in while," it was announced that we had been fed rat meat. Our teacher's assistant insisted that he thought we had known, but it was clear he had planned it from the start. I figured as much, and I have to say that the meat was pretty good. It was tender, juicy, and the skin grilled just right. To be fair, the meat was actually field mice that nest in the plains surrounding the river. A notch or two above the sewer rat, I'm sure.

Plastic Factory in Ninh Binh

Last Saturday I sat in traffic for four hours on my way to Ninh Binh, a beautiful land of jagged cliffs and fantastic landscapes with space shuttle structures juxtaposed against ancient mountains. I was there helping my friend take footage of a plastic bag factory, which she promised was only an hour and a half away. We were going to make an industrial film for her company, an intermediary between foreign plastic buyers and the Chinese-owned factory in Vietnam.

When we arrived, the smell of plastic was strong and the inks they used to print graphics were left in tubs that were fuming into the air. The workers were 90% women and a few men working on the maintaining the machines, the average wage being around $100 a month. All functions involving detail work, such as punching holes for handles or reinforcing bags with cardboard, were done by women.  The atmosphere, fumes everpresent, was relaxed enough. Though facemasks nor any other protective gear was used, there wasn’t too much wide-eyed intensity nor sweat inching down the cheak of the overworked proletariat. Everything seemed quite normal in the everyday Vietnamese fashion.

In one room of the factory you could see how they took recycled plastic collected from the local neighborhood and reconstituted them into plastic handles and other functional goods. The whole process took place in that one room. Recycled plastic scraps were somehow turned into plastic pellets, then poured into a machine from which plastic bag handles came. Apparently, plastics could be recycled in this was up to five times though out the lifetime of the plastic. It was all very fascinating to see in the moment.

After we were done taking footage, we rode back to Hanoi properly inebriated on plastic fumes. Back home, I heard my friends had visited two other factories, Yamaha and Hanoisimex, which are automotive and textile factories, respectively. I might have missed out, and could help but feel a little regret. It’s hard to say if I’ll ever find myself in a true factory again.

The Mountain Women of Sapa

Last Thursday, I left with about fifteen other study abroaders for Sapa. We got on a train at 10pm, with seats a tad bigger than one on airplanes. I wrapped a silk scarf I got from Hoi An around my head to keep the light out, but I still didn’t get any sleep that night. We arrived in Lao Cai, a small city that borders China, around eight in the morning and got on a bus to Sapa.

The ride up there was foggy but what we could see was still amazing. Terraced rice farming is always impressive, especially in person. We checked into the Pinnochio Hotel and got ready to hike to Dragon’s Mouth. I had to wait for my friend Jake, who was to arrive a little later, and so decided to have breakfast instead of going on the hike. As I walked around, I found a great many stores stocked fool of North Face jackets and other mountain gear, along with an abnormal number of foot massage parlours, at least three every block. There were also groups of ethnic minorities, primarly girls, who dressed in their traditional garb and sold bracelets and finely woven bags in brilliant colors. The girls and women were of all ages, from 6 to 90 years of age, and they all chanted “You buy from me?” At first I tried to teach them how to be more polite with, “Would you like one?” but it didn’t seem to stick.

I walked around a bit for the rest of the day and had some pizza for dinner. There was a market or two, but each stall had the exact same collection of things: mostly northface jackets, knives, lighters, machetes, and wallets. There were of course the usual scarfs and woven bags. As for the restaurants in town, most are European or American fusion, and in general the place is pretty much a tourist trap. That is not to say one can’t have an “authentic” experience.

That night I decided to have a drink with my friend Jake, who had just finished touring China and had come to Vietnam to visit me. We decided to start at the Hmong bar because someone had given us a free beer pass. When we arrived we found a couple of expats, some frenchmen, and about twelve Hmong girls laughing and screaming around a pool table. They were pretty good, and so I decided to write my name on the board. It was a fun night, and I won and lost some. Those Hmong girls were pros, and they had some nasty mouths on them too. Still, they were a fun bunch who knew how to have a good time. Talking to a few of them, I found that many of them lived together, and a few had their own apartments. During the day, they dress up in traditional garb to sell souvenirs, but at night, they dress like the rest of us and they like to get shitty just like the rest of us.  

So we all got pretty drunk and there were a couple of tussles and what not but all ended well. I almost found myself going to a discoteque with them after the bar kicked us out at twelve, but I suppose I hadn’t drunk enough. So as Jake an I passed our hotel, we bid farewell to the enchanting mountain women of Sapa and went to bed.

Hanoi's Millennial Anniversary

Hanoi’s 1000 year anniversary was anti-climatic at best. A couple days before the final night, the huge tanks storing the fireworks exploded. There were enough explosives to light the night sky for a full hour, in 19 seperate but it all exploded at once.

Offically,  two Germans, a Singaporean, and presumably a Vietnamese person was killed in the explosion, but there were many more reported by the locals. The unofficial count is 37 people. The Vietnamese government have tried their best to keep this a secret, and in the aftermath immediately bought replacement fireworks. The led to outrage in the community due to the recent floods in the central region of Vietnam. The official budget for Hanoi’s 1000 year anniversary was $4 billion dollars, and before the explosion, not a penny went to central.

In response to public criticism, the government cut back on the fireworks, leaving only enough for one location in Hanoi, a staudium, as opposed the originally 19 planned. Instead, each region in central affected by the floods was given $100,000, enough to buy a back of cheetos for each person in the region.

The mayor was quoted complaining about having to give the money to central instead of spending more on firewords, which I’ll paraphrase: “In central, floods happen every year,” he said, “but Hanoi's 1000 year anniversary only happens once a millenium.”

Cooking with Rice

Over the weekend, the study abroad group and I went to a small rice-farming village to experience the agrarian lifestyle. The objective of the day was to harvest rice from the fields. We all woke up at early and met at the front gate of our university at 6:30 to arrive at the village by 7:30. When we arrived we found an idyllic village with a pond next to the main red-brick gate, complete with an old tree to sit under.

We all shuffled into our the large house of our host, Mr Coi. His two daughters helped us ready for the fields. Unfortunately for me, I had signed up to cook, and so didn't have the experience of harvesting the rice. I volunteered because I had promised myself that I would learn how to cook traditional vietnamese dishes, and this seemed like a unique opportunity to do so for about 50 people.

While I had missed out on scything and threshing rice, I actually enjoyed preparing the vegetables, mushrooms, other items needed in our dishes. We sat in the concrete courtyard under a banana tree, sitting on small wooden stools while cleaning our vegetables. We got the water from a faucet jutting out from a moss covered wall. All of this made me think of life in a home, the feeling of purpose in working diligently to have lunch in time for all our hungry rice-harvesters in the fields. It was interesting to imagine the life of the homesteader. At the same time, I was wondering about what I was missing in the fields.

We finally finished the meal around 11:30, and the spread was impressive. The meals were arranged on two floors of the house, a total of 50 people with  6 people per set. The meal included morning glories (greens), tofu and tomato, pork slices with shrimp sweet and sour sauce, and of course, some rice. There were so many people that we ate on two separate floors of the house.

After we finished, we all slumped over full and satisfied, napping for an hour before we explored the village to interview the locals about their lives and livelihoods. I met a man who was renovating his house, and I watched as his workers helped pulley a water tank from the ground floor to the roof with a single twine rope. He said that everything would take about 2-3 months and about $80,000 dollars.

It was interesting to see the village moving from a small rice-producing village to an outer-suburb, complete with corner stores and its own small outdoor market. There was an organized soccer game with oxes and calfs for spectators, along with some of the locals boys sitting around the pond. I wondered if the pond would still be there in 10 years, and I couldn't bear the thought.

Mieng Trung aka Central Vietnam

Hoi An is an old city in Vietnam that was a center of trading among countries like Japan and China beginning in the 1600s. Walking around down there is, as one of my classmates described, like walking around in a Hollywood set from Crouching Tiger. The town isn’t too big and the main drag huddles around a section of the Thu Bon river for a stretch of only a few blocks. The town seems dedicated to creating custom made clothes for tourists, and you’ll find a good 15 different stores all displaying the same items, from the latest fashion in men’s p-coats to women’s sarongs and silk blouses. Just about any item in one’s personal wardrobe can be made in this small city, and for a fraction of the price, a facsimile of any piece of clothing in Vogue can be made for around 100$ or less, much less.

Other than learning Vietnamese, Hoi An was the main thing on my mind before coming to Vietnam. I figured the reality of our study abroad program would be keeping us busy engaging the more serious aspects of Vietnam: culture, history, politics, and the language. As of yet I haven’t been surprised. I found my time in Hoi An to be something quite different—Disneyland, only with more mannequins. Upon speaking to the clerks, I found that just about anything I wanted could be made in a couple hours, but not without alteration. The process truly takes two days. One could expect a suit in an afternoon, but the result is hit or miss.

I intend to fashion a whole wardrobe and it will be good. I need a week there to do it justice, but I can’t help but feel a little guilt in all of this. Here I am, just a tourist looking for a cheap way to live the American dream. My mother grew up in this country, but is this the country she remembers?

Vincom Towers near Hanoi's Old Quarter

I was walking through Vincom today and it reminded me of when I was small walking through Finsherman’s Wharf as a 12 year old biking down Embarcadero alone. It’s an odd feeling, somewhat liberating and yet somewhat predictable. Walking around in a Vietnamese shopping mall made me feel—as much as I hate to admit it—at home. There’s the sense of something new waiting for you just around the corner, in a foreign country’s mall, just like I feel walking past street performers in the Wharf. You’ve seen a man get out of a straight jacket, ride a unicycle, swallow a sword, and hold a one-armed handstand at least once before, and yet it never gets old. There’s always the expectation of seeing something new in the personality of the performer, akin to seeing a novel shoe design or smelling a new fragrance on the displays in storefronts. The Vincom towers also made me feel like I belonged, somehow, to this place, this new pocket of gentrification in an ancient city. The escalators and bright lights were old friends whose tricks never failed to pique a small grin on my cheek.

But I only feel like this in Vietnam. This doesn’t happen to me when I walk through some suburban mall. Back home, in America, I pass by food courts and see all the bastaradizations of ethnic cuisine: orange chicken, margarhita pizza, burritos. In Vietnam, there’s the structure common to all malls, and yet with an extra feeling of exclusivity that hasn’t existed in America since the 40s, if not the 30s. The vast majority of Vietnam still hasn’t experienced consumerism on this level, even after hosting these corporate flagships for over a decade. Only a small proportion of people in Vietnam will ever find it reasonable to pay almost two million dong (US $100) on a striped dress shirt. They cost at most US $5 at any normal suit-and-tie store on some busy street. And so here I am, looking at prices and thinking about how outrageously expensive these items are, and then realizing that these prices are quite average for clothing back in the states. They are in fact nothing near the prices you’ll find walking through Westfield mall on a Tuesday afternoon.

And so it makes me feel big to meander through aisles of goods that I probably would never buy, but tell myself I could…if I wanted to. Pay the same price back home.

Interview with the Art Forger

            In the fumes of acrylics, the painter sat with his legs crossed, palette encrusted with a months worth of colors placed conveniently to side. When he’s not sleeping, eating, or having cigarette, Hoan spends time forging paintings on commission. For a mere 40 to 50 dollars per canvas, Hoan and a team of five others create forged paintings for sale in the heart of the Old Quarter. Passing the store front, you’ll find Gustav Klimt’s “The Kiss,” a public display of affection which you’ll find is common around Hoa Kiem’s lake, only steps away. Hoan named his store after his wife, and the business has been afloat for 4 years.

            Ask any curator, selling art is difficult. No artist wants to be part of the buying and selling of their work. Some describe it as akin to selling ones child. Hoan didn’t seem to have any qualms in this respect. At least two hundred of his paintings surround him in stacks against the wall and on the sidewalk, waiting for someone to choose one like albums in a used music store. Hoan acknowledges that his storage method may not be best for the paintings. He says he’s saving up to rent a bigger place so that he can properly store his paintings. As it is now, the paintings are exposed to the hot and humid Hanoian streets, crowded with honking motorbikes and tour busses.

            Hoan says he loves painting and he always has since he was a small child. He only wishes that some day his business will make him enough money to start painting original works, but he admits this will be sometime from now. I hope he gets the opportunity soon. 

Welcome to The Manor

I remember there being a mother and her barely-walking toddler, a cute little girl with a red backpack and necklegth hair, still puffy from her earlier nap in the crib. The two were just going through a strolling the open air, on the wide streets of the amnor’s luxury blvds. The five of us would come to see the whole family as we completed our tour of the area. We later found the father at K-mart, the Manor’s local Korean goods market which doubled as a generic kwikie-mart, taking inventory and directing the delivery man where to drop the boxes of ramen and potato chips. We passed Louis Vuitton quick-stops and the orthodontist, the local Korean BBQ restaurant and the Manor’s own personal Big C, what we now call the mini Big C due to the fact that the big Big C is only two bus stops away. 

In general, the Manor was a luxurious housing complex that is nearly self-contained. No one must leave its perimeter to live a comfortable and rich existence. I would have been satisfied with just the local pool bar that also served pho, nearly everything I need for my existence. I would live at the Manor for this reason alone, but I couldn’t help shake the feeling that the Manor was in a state of decay. We arrived to find mountains of dirt, a hint of the further efforts for development in the area, but at the same time, I would look up at the sides of the apartments only to find leaky air-conditioners staining the concrete walls of each Manor apartment unit. Vietnam’s humidity is no timid creature, and it’s violent monsoons return every year to remind the people of The Manor that they too are subject to the whims of nature. The Manor is in open defiance of nature. It’s clearly unsustainable with its mass of air-conditioners and single bathrooms. These are reasons I wouldn’t live there. Besides that, it seems designed for isolation and privacy, not for community. This can’t be good for quality of life, and that’s ultimately why the Manor wouldn’t be my choice for a place to settle down.

A Vietnamese Village: Mapping Den Hai Ba Trung’s Community Scape in Hanoi

We got of the 33 bus and walked a short distance down a peaceful road circling a small lake—or a large pond. Trees surrounded the entire lake leaving a cool shade for an easy stroll or some chess on the stone benches. We began our tour of the area at the pagoda, where we saw 65 year olds playing badminton next to children peddling their tricycles. Men sat in cliques against plastered brick walls, waiting for their pho, and women sat outside their vending stands, gossiping and peeling fruit. None of the buildings in Hai Ba Trung are over two stories, which gave a chance for the sky to shed a nice diffuse light over the narrow streets and alleys. People were friendly and calm in the area, and there was a cheery feeling of general health in the daily life of the village district. Having no reason to leave a 4 block radius, the inhabitants seemed like a close-nit community, content and self-reliant with only the occasional need for outside help. I would be wonderful to grow up in this community, along with café and a wifi connection to say hi to the outside world once in a while.

Getting a Gig

I read about Tamara Jenkins, the director behind Beverly Hills Slums. The interview in the book seems to be well chosen. I’ve read many interviews involving first-time directors, and Tamara Jenkins seems to have hit all the right notes in her interview. She covered her personal story, her development, and then her claim to fame, dropping names like Coppola and Peter Bogdonovich along the way. She also made sure to add those tips that every budding filmmaker want to hear, as if she was secretly conducting some lecture at NYU.

When I took some film classes in San Francisco, the technical aspects were or course dry, but film was in general a rather dry subject. It’s essentially chemistry, which may be exciting when you’re looking at a finished product, like a picture of a sunset or that moment in time when a raindrop enters a puddle, but in general it’s all just numbers, curves, and conventions. The real beauty with filmmaking is in the finished product. Sometimes the beauty shines through in the script, but it’s the collaboration among all the moving parts of that machine that is Hollywood which may come across as something beautiful, perhaps elegant.

Tamara Jenkin’s story really exposes the pitfalls of collaboration, or rather, the awkward mixture of private funding and artistic endeavor. She described her first feature film experience as having “too many cooks in the kitchen.” To her, making the film was like making spaghetti with chocolate sauce—a novel idea that sours when you share it.

“It might be a crazy idea. To put chocolate in pasta sauce. And you know, it might be like the most amazing pasta sauce or it might suck. But at least you tried this wild thing. Like it was your obsession.”

“But then people are like, ‘Well, you know what, how about just a little chocolate? We don’t want to make it too crazy.’ And you’re like, “No, no, I’m telling you, we need two pounds of chocolate!” So they’re like, “How about a quarter pound of chocolate?’ Da, da, da.”

“So that little chipping away of how much chocolate you’re supposed to put in dilute the original intention of having this crazy chocolate pasta sauce.”

Tamara’s chocolate-spaghetti metaphor is apt for the idea of collaboration. It was the same idea that made me weary of film business. In film theory, there’s an idea of the auteur. An auteur is like the captain of a ship, only for a film. Film directors have the hardest job in filmmaking, and it’s why they garner all the respect. They’re the CEOs, the people who have to deal with the responsibility of getting a movie done. A finished feature is their vision, but unlike Jenkins, it isn’t always their idea. It’s their ability to collaborate that really sets them apart, and what makes Jenkins worthy of King Coppola to invite her to court.

Enter Vietnam

Here I am in the capital city of Vietnam, visiting Uncle Ho resting in his Mausoleum in Hanoi, not in Ho Chi Minh City as one would expect. Either way, I came here to learn the language, my mother tongue. It was my first language, but I quickly left it behind for English, or you might say, Ebonics. Vietnamese had no place at my preschool. It was a nice place with murals celebrating the ethnic leaders, with an upper terrace for a schoolyard. Its amenities included stainless steel tricycles and a fully operational jungle gym. My best friend and I would spend our recesses playing kick-ball if we weren’t whispering about those mysterious beings on the other side of the playground—girls. There was one other Vietnamese girl in my class, although I think her parents were Chinese, if that makes any sense. She seemed confused whenever I spoke to her, so I tried English, which didn’t seem to help much, but at least it got a flinch of recognition before she ran to the tire-swing with the other girls. It was then I decided to concentrate on the class’ lingua franca, English.

It took a while before I became interested again in the language my mother spoke to me as an infant. The few summers of Sunday Vietnamese school traumatized me thoroughly enough to make me wish the language would just die and go to heaven, like every good language should. By the time I could read the vowels in Vietnamese, I was ready to completely leave it behind. By the third weekend of reciting vowels, I cried out of frustration. What could be worth the torture of waking up 7am in the morning to be deserted by mother, placed in cold plastic chair and a cold particleboard desk? I missed the point, but these summers reminded me of the words commonly attributed to Mark Twain: “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.”

It was only until high school when I started valuing my mixed-race heritage, and the fact that I was born speaking two languages. Unfortunately, they didn’t offer Vietnamese at my high school, so it was then I decided I would find an exchange program that would allow me to learn Vietnamese in its natural setting. Besides, I’ve always believed that languages could only be learned through immersion, and so I wasn’t two concerned with wasting my time drudging through practice drills in the school’s language lab in Spanish or French. I wanted to do something a little less common, and so I ended up taking Japanese in high school. I ended up going to Japan through an exchange program because Vietnam wasn’t on the list.

Finally, in my last year of college, I’ve been able to make it here to Vietnam’s capital city, Hanoi, on a study abroad program through UC Berkeley. It’s a very well structured program with trips all over the country, from Ha Long Bay to Saigon, and a program director who is very knowledgeable about the countries history, economics, and politics. While I’m here, I’ll be learning Vietnamese, taking classes on Globalization and International Business, and of course, on Vietnamese culture and society.

In this last class, we’ll each have to interview people of various professions and livelihoods, in Vietnamese and English, and publish it in an anthology I’ll be editing with ten other students. When I’m not doing this, I’ll be backpacking through the Vietnamese countryside and exploring South East Asia on the weekends. I look forward to the rest of the semester.