CONG HUYEN TON NU NHA TRANG

GRANDMOTHER ^©

In May 1947, after having saved some money and being assured of a steady income, Father moved us to 5A Nguyen Thi Giang, a rented terraced house right in the city of Hue where he worked.

Our house,was the end unit of a row of four townhouses. It was flanked by a narrow strip of land about six meters in width, which Grandmother gradually turned into a vegetable garden. A long wall separated this piece of land from the back side of the handsome house where lived one of my best childhood friends, Nga My. Lying squarely in front of our townhouses was a rice field. Beyond it was a dirt road whose one end led directly to a semi-rural community and whose other end, about five minutes' walk from my house, joined an intersection of five paved streets. To reach the dirt road, people from the terraced houses took the small path that ran along the left side of the rice field. This path, which was not wide enough for two people to walk abreast, was also used by a low-income family whose thatched hut was stuck in a corner behind our houses.

This physical setting alleviated any anxiety or timidity my sister and I might have had, coming from months of rural living, so we soon had almost all the children in the neighborhood for friends and playmates. Several friends of mine, including Nga My, were waiting to go to the popular public school for girls called Dong Khanh, where Vietnamese was the medium of instruction as opposed to some other school where French was being used. These girls were of my age group, from five to seven years old, and they would be in a kindergarten class. The war, poverty, or both had made many of us late to begin school, which was not even compulsory. I was told that we had to pass five years of elementary level above and beyond kindergarten, before we could enter high school.

By the time my family was settled in the new place, it was too late for me, almost six years old, to get admitted to a kindergarten class at Dong Khanh. All the classes had been filled to capacity long before summer 1947 began.

“When does this school year end, Nga My?” I asked, after this friend had enjoyed school for a month or so.

“Oh, many more months. My mother told me it would end in June of next year. Then we will have three months of summer holiday.”

Many more months, and each month has thirty days to count, I exclaimed to myself. What am I going to do in the meantime? I must have looked miserable, for Nga My patted me on the shoulder immediately. “Don't worry. Next year will come soon. I'll show you what I learn each day, so you won't miss much.”

Thus, anxiously, I waited for the following school year, dreaming of the time when I could share directly with my new friends exciting events which they related to me at the end of each day. The time we had for play and socialization was from around four thirty in the afternoon, when they returned from school, until sunset, or until “the sun goes to sleep” as my sister said. We would gather in a corner of the front yard or under a veranda, depending on the kind of games we chose to play, usually some distance away from where the boys in the neighborhood had their own games going. My friends taught me all the games popular to little girls in the area. I did not like very much those that demanded strenuous physical exertion. The games I enjoyed thoroughly, almost with a passion, and was very good at, involved some calculation and coordination of the limbs.

It seemed as though we never had enough time for both games and talk. An ongoing game was sometimes interrupted when one of the girls happened to mention an event of the day. They told me of their strict teacher who punished her pupils for failing to do their homework, for being late for classes, for talking to each other while a class was in session. They told of the misbehaved girls who were ordered to stand or kneel down in a corner of the classroom facing the wall for ten minutes, or during a break. I absorbed all this and did not feel completely left out. Moreover, Father brought me the primer that Nga My had shown me, which I read again and again until I knew each line by heart. When Nga My learned to write numbers, Father made me copy and practice pages full of figures. When she practiced how to draw circles, squares and triangles, I also began to experiment with the rudiments of geometry.

While preparing myself to walk the path which the learned had chosen to tread, I was by no means oblivious of people and things that made up the small world in which I lived. In the main, I simply took note of whatever transpired around me. It was not so nice for a girl to ask too many questions, I was told. Quiet little girls were always preferred to noisy talkative ones. I only posed a question when I could not figure out for myself the relationships between people, things, and actions that adults seemed to take for granted.

Mother was again with child -- the fourth time -- and I was not supposed to bother her with any trifling matters. She actually could afford to have more rest this time, as we had a maid, Gai, to help out with household chores. Gai was a rather plain looking girl of sixteen. She was in charge of washing, cleaning, fetching water from a well in the neighborhood, and shopping for foodstuffs.

But it was Grandmother who planned the menu for each meal, and cooked all the dishes on two firewood stoves. She also took care of my brother Duyen, the heir of the family whose every whimper would distract her from whatever she was doing at the time. Grandmother was always around the house, and she would talk and explain things to me while tending her garden, mending and darning our clothes, showing me how to shell and devein shrimps, how to peel and cut vegetables. In my childhood's fantasy, Grandmother often appeared like a kind and gentle fairy in folktales, who knew the mysterious way that nature works. One of her convictions had to do with the sex of the baby Mother was carrying.

“Male on the left, female on the right,” she confidently said. “Your mother's belly seems tilting a little to the right, so the baby is inclined toward that side. It must be a girl. Moreover, I have noticed many times when someone called her from behind, your mother turned her head over her right shoulder to look back. If it was to be a boy, she would have automatically turned her head around to the left instead.”

Mother had a different theory. If she craved sour foods while pregnant, the baby had to be a girl. If she very often longed for sweet things, she was certainly carrying a baby boy. The former was the case this time, she declared. Mother's belief was based on her past experiences, I gathered. Between Grandmother's old wisdom and Mother's first-hand feelings, we were all convinced that the coming member of the family would be a being of the weaker or beautiful sex.

Grandmother was also very sure that one could predict what a child would grow up to be when he or she was one year old. My parents seemed to be in complete agreement with her, that in the celebration of thoi noi, 'taking leave of the cradle', which falls on a child's first birthday, an old custom should not be omitted. According to this custom, after a ceremony meant to offer thanks to benevolent spirits for having protected the child through the early tender stage of infancy, a test is to be administered. Various items representing different occupations and potentials are to be placed in front of the birthday child who would pick and choose one or two items from among them. Grandmother said that in her time, boys and girls had always been presented with two distinct sets of items, for it was known that men and women were born for different purposes and different tasks in life. If a baby boy picked a pen and a piece of paper, he would grow up being a scholar; if a toy sword or bow and arrow attracted his attention, he would likely be pursuing a military career. On the other hand, his election of a hammer would foretell his inclination to carpentry, while his choice of an abacus would surely make his family expect to see him go into commerce. As for a baby girl, if she chose thread and needle, chances were that she would turn out to be a good diligent housewife. If she picked a basket instead, she was bound to be engaged in trade of some kind, such as being among women in a marketplace who had their wares displayed in baskets.

I never thought of asking my parents, born in modern times, if they also strongly believed in the validity of this traditional practice, which was fun-filled. Perhaps the question never occurred to me as they went about this business quite faithfully and enthusiastically. My parents however did not think that their sons and daughters had to be presented with different sets of objects to choose from.

“Grandmother, do you remember what I picked on my thoi noi?” I asked, full of anxious anticipation.

“You picked a ruler and a comb.”

“What does that mean? What do you think I am going to be when I grow up?”

“We think you will be a teacher as you picked a ruler. In the old times, teachers used a rattan rod to discipline pupils. Nowadays, teachers use a ruler to strike the hands of naughty and lazy school children.”

“How about the comb?”

“Well, it may mean that you will be having a rather carefree life, so that the only thing you have to do is comb your hair or take care of your appearance. Or, you will be one who makes things smooth, keeps them in order, just as one uses a comb to keep one's hair neat, not all tangled up.”

It would be fantastic if I will become a teacher, a smart person, I smiled inwardly. That means I will be a good student to begin with. I don't know if I could smooth things out for other people, but I myself do prefer peace and harmony above all. I have not got into any fight with other children, including my younger siblings, either in words or physically. Grandmother's explanation may very well turn out to be correct, I thought to myself.

Indeed, there seemed always some truth in what Grandmother declared. She had said that I would have better and more even teeth than my sister Diem since I had followed her instructions to the letter. Every time a milk tooth had become loose, I had entrusted it to the deft gentle hand of Mother to extract it from my gum. After that, I had confirmed with Grandmother as to what I should do next to properly complete the ritual.

“It's a lower tooth this time, right? Fine, then throw it up to the rats living in the eaves. An upper tooth should be thrown to the rats living under your bed. And remember to chant what I taught you.”

And I had faithfully chanted. “Big rats and small rats! Your teeth are long and sharp. My teeth are short and dull. In seven days let me grow a new tooth.”

I had such confidence in Grandmother's wisdom that I never questioned beliefs and practices of this kind which she observed to protect the children of her only son from illnesses and bad luck. The don'ts formed the majority of her advice.

“Child, don't wear your hat indoors. You won't be able to grow.

“Don't eat chicken feet. Your hands will be shaky and your handwriting will be terrible.

“Don't eat too much burnt rice crust sticking to the bottom of the pot. You will become thick-headed."”

Grandmother cured a baby's hiccup by sticking the tip of a betel leaf on his forehead. This item was something always at hand. Many women of her generation chewed a betel leaf spread with lime together with a segment of areca nut, the two items that appeared indispensable in all social and ceremonial occasions. During a meal, if one of us children happened to swallow a fishbone and have it stuck in the throat, Grandmother would quietly walk into the kitchen. She would then rap on one of the three pan-support knobs of one of the charcoal stoves with a big flat chopstick designed for stirring rice. It seemed to help, or so we believed.

A person like Grandmother who had an answer to almost everything must feel secure and content, I thought.

“No, I don't like this. It's only half full. You gave my brother Duyen more than that.” Crying and screaming, Diem, the five-year-old girl, angrily set down a small bowl on the divan in the kitchen, then shoved it away. The bowl turned on its side and from it spilled che dau do, red beans cooked in syrup, one of our favorite snack-and-dessert dishes.

While the maid cleaned up the mess, Grandmother gently tried to pacify Diem. “Child, calm yourself. I will give you more when you have finished that. Too much of sweets is not good for your teeth.”

Diem would not listen. She slammed down onto the floor, thrashed her legs back and forth, and cried even louder. “I don't like you. I don't like you. You are not fair.”

Throwing a tantrum was something Diem did frequently. Pretty as she was, she usually ended up having her way. Grandmother pulled her up, but the little girl resisted. The commotion woke Father up from his nap on this Saturday afternoon, his first rest in the week after five and a half days of work.

“Diem, stop it,” Father said. “It's impolite to scream at Grandmother and to say things like that to her. Say you are sorry, then eat what is given to you, or you will have nothing.”

Diem looked up. The stern expression on the face of Father who was usually gentle and lenient seemed to have conveyed the message effectively. Diem wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, and sulkily apologized to Grandmother. In her habitual quiet manner, Grandmother helped my sister to her feet, then wiped the child's face with a damp cool towel. She then proceeded with distributing the rest of che dau do from the pot into several individual bowls. Throughout the episode, there was not the slightest change of expression on her face. I always respected the power of tolerance in the diminutive frame of Grandmother, then fifty-nine years of age. I wondered if she ever raised her voice.

“Trang,” Grandmother said when I had had my snack, “I heard the baby crying. Go and see if your mother needs anything.”

I left the kitchen, which was joined to the living section of the house by a short roofed passage.

Mother was nursing Hong, her fourth child. The baby was a girl. Grandmother and Mother had been right again in their prediction. The time of Hong's birth, January of 1949, witnessed increasing activities of the Viet Minh against the French. A midnight curfew was being imposed. My baby sister had decided to “open her eyes and greet the world”, as the saying goes, in the dark of night. Mother had begun to feel the contractions shortly after midnight. With cases of emergency like this being no exception to the rules imposed by the authorities, Grandmother and Father had had to put their heads together to prepare for the arrival of the child, probably before the curfew ended. Hong in fact had come to greet life an hour or so before that. At the crack of dawn, Father had sent Gai to fetch a midwife from a maternity ward in the neighborhood. The midwife had found everything in perfect order.

“Do you want me to fetch anything for you, Mother?” I asked.

“Yes, bring me a clean diaper. Tell Diem and Duyen they can come to see their baby sister now.”

Diem and Duyen, my brother who was now almost two years old, loved to be with Hong. They would touch her soft hands. They would watch her eyes, black like longan seeds, follow the movements of a rattle that Diem would shake energetically. They would laugh happily every time Hong smiled. Mother would let them be part of the daily routine of bathing and dressing the baby. She would ask Diem to spread out the diaper, would have Duyen hold Hong's legs still. They seemed to enjoy this regular participation and sharing in the care of the little girl.

After allowing Diem and Duyen to touch and kiss Hong for awhile, Mother put the baby in a rattan cradle that was slung by ropes from the eaves. Giving it a slight push to make it swing gently to the baby's liking, Mother turned to us.

“What's Grandmother doing?” she asked.

“She is gathering some mint leaves in the garden,” I answered.

“She's always working. Do you children know why? It's because she loves all of us and wants to make us happy. We all should be grateful to her. Diem, suppose your brother Duyen grows up and has a child of his own, and this child shouts and says things not very nice to me. Would you like that?”

“No, of course not,” Diem said firmly. “I'd spank the child for doing that, because I love you very much.”

“I am pleased to hear that. Father also loves Grandmother very much. If you love Father, you should respect Grandmother, otherwise Father will be angry and hurt. You have both Father and me to take care of you. Father was not so lucky. When Grandfather died, Father was only a baby like Duyen, and Grandmother was still a young lady of twenty-nine. She did not get married again, as she wished to devote herself to bringing up Father. Many mothers just sit around and have their daughters-in-law wait upon them. But Grandmother has always treated me as her own daughter, sharing with me the household chores, so that I will have enough rest. She never thinks of herself. She thinks only of us. We must love her as much as she loves us.”

Diem bowed her head, and looked rather pensive. What struck me was not what Mother had said about Grandmother, for I seemed to have known it all along. It only surprised me that I had not thought much about this selfless nature of Grandmother. I felt a lump in my throat when I pondered over the delicate and lonely figure of this dear elderly woman whose quiet existence was at times almost forgotten.

Grandmother would be the first one to get up every morning. She would then go through the same ritual of changing into one of her long dresses, putting up her hair in a neat bun before washing her face and brushing her teeth with a fibered segment of areca nut shell. The dresses she wore were not tight fitting like the attractive modern ao dai that Mother had. Rather, her dress hung loose over her thin body, making her even more tiny and sad.

“Grandmother,” I asked once, “why is it that you always wear black and brown? Why don't you wear some brighter color?”

“Oh, after Grandfather died, I used these dark colors that are suitable for a mourning widow. When the mourning period was over, I had become so accustomed to them that even now I don't feel comfortable in other colors.”

“But the two dresses that you have are faded and worn out at the elbows. Why don't you ask Mother to buy a new one for you?”

“No, dear child.” She smiled her most gentle smile. “I have asked your mother not to worry about such a thing. I am in the kitchen most of the time. I don't go anywhere. So what is the use of wearing good clothes to have them soiled with dirt and soot and grease? Your parents can use the money to buy more clothes for you growing children. When we have visitors, of course, I will wear something nice to receive them.”

I had, indeed, noted that a few times when some elder relatives had come for a visit, Grandmother had changed from her black or brown dress of coarse plain cotton into a black one of thin transparent silk.

Every night, before going to bed, Grandmother would check to make sure that everything was in order in the kitchen. Then she would light some incense sticks and silently pray at the lower altar in the living room on which stood a tablet bearing Grandfather's name. The higher main altar was reserved for the worship of Buddha.

Thus, without much variation, the days would see Grandmother moving from the kitchen to the garden, from the garden to the cradle of my sister. Always quietly, calmly, without complaint. In fact, we would hardly witness any overt display of emotions on her part. I suspected that she only unfolded her own feelings, again in lonely and reserved manner, in her place of withdrawal which was a small divan in the kitchen. A few times I caught sight of her sitting there, smoking a cigarette she herself had rolled, a distant look in her eyes. I wondered whether she was thinking of the very short period of happiness she had shared with Grandfather thirty years before, or dreaming of a more promising future she would enjoy with the growing family of her only son.

Vancouver, B.C., Canada
1981

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