Somewhere I belong

My mother is smart. She sometimes proudly recalls being the best student in class throughout her schooling, and even now she enjoys learning new things and is a pretty quick learner. She is hard-working. For over 30 years, ever since she stopped going to school, she has been working seven days a week, usually from 7am to 5pm, with no vacations (except for the one weeks of Tet, which she is even busier with all the cooking and cleaning), no sick leave, and no complaints. She is very committed. She holds a strong conviction that whatever someone else can do, she can do too, because we are all humans. This belief was applied to bearing a son as well. Until recently, I have no idea how much time, money and efforts my mother invested in making my younger brother possible. She worked on her diet, her exercise, her period, her routine, her inner thoughts, and who knows what not. Fortunately, she succeeded.

Yet my mother has no friends of her own besides my father's friends and business partners. After she got married, she lost contact with her childhood friends, who also married and departed their natal homes. She has no secure pension for her retirement because she has never been employed by anyone but herself. She has no real property under her name. I remember distinctively one day when I was quite young, my mother frustratingly told my father who somehow really upset her that everything, the house, the motorbike, the bank account, and even the children bear his name, and nothing, nothing is really hers. Now and forever.

My mother is caring. She stayed up all night long in the hospital for a week straight to look after of my grandmother, and of course, never complained. She is as good as, if not even better, than my grandmother's own daughters (aka my mother's sisters in law). I realized for the first time what love is when my father wanted to eat noodle, and my mother got right up from underneath her thick blanket in a cold winter day to cook noodle for him. She cares for us, her children. My older sister, who has been married for over four years now, called my mother in the middle of the night, and few minutes later, my mother was already out on the street going to a hospital because my sister's divorced aunt in law got an accident while her mother in law and her husband were not home.

Yet my mother has no commitment, no priorities, no interest besides those of her family. She never understands why I always insist that she must inform me in advance if she wants me to go somewhere with her because I might be busy doing other things with other people. She has no time for herself, and wouldn't even take a day off when she suffers from a terrible cough, because not opening her kiosk for one day means some money is lost solely for tax. She has no power in decision making in my family, when my house was rebuilt in 2001, even the curtains she picked was turned down by my grandfather. She feels helpless, and maybe indeed she is, as her husband gradually sinks further into the pit of alcoholism, and her son turns into an aimless young man.

As far as I can remember, my mother always tells me and my siblings to study, because only by studying we will get a stable salary, weekends, and independence. She dares not take a day off because no one pays her for a sick day. She is often eaten by guilt as she can't visit her own mother as often as she likes because she has no break, and on a Sunday evening, she is no less tired than a Monday evening. And because she was dependent on her in-laws for a trade in her early 20s, she is always burdened by the fact that her income is never separated from that of the family. She often refers to my aunts and uses them as good examples of how studying can lead women to a good path. They can visit my grandmother every Sunday. They can afford vacations and not to worry constantly about the weather (my mother sells clothes, and a change in temperature can greatly affect revenue for a given week). They can purchase things they like because they have their own money. From what I was told, my three aunts were not as good students as my mother was, but my paternal grandparents were doing well enough to send them to universities. My maternal grandfather fought for the French (he said it was purely for the high wages they paid) and accordingly was considered politically wrong which made university admission impossible for my mother. And my aunts took for granted all the things that my mother yearns for, but can never achieve herself.

So she transferred her wishes to us. I unconsciously learnt to look up to my aunts and uncles, and look down on small traders like my parents. For years, I secretly wished that my friends would see me with my uncles and aunts, those intellectual looking folks, and not my parents. I associated myself with the image of a good student, even of a bookworm, because it seemed noble to me. My early attempt to earn money through small trading (I bought cakes at a bakery I passed by on the way to school and sell them to my classmates who got up too late to eat breakfast) was severely discouraged by my mother. She imprints her message on my mind: "Never be someone like me. Study. Get a decent job. Earn good money. Be independent. Make your voice counts."

I didn't start to examine these assumptions (i.e. earning money as a small business owner is not a good way) when I was in high school already. It was too late to revert the effects. I knew nothing about my family's business and had lost all desire to know because my mother never let us children help her. I was bad at maths and had acquired a fear of numbers. I was no longer interested in trading and never wandered anywhere near an Economics class. My mother told stories and read to me when I started learning to read in grade 1 (something Im not sure if my aunts do for their sons). I seemed good at language, and by then have developed not interest, but at least a sense of duty towards learning and earning good marks. My identity was attached to being a good student. My mother was pleased at the fruits of her labour.

I ventured further on the path of learning, and further detached myself from my parents' working class, this time actively from my own efforts. I felt closer to things my mother no longer understands, such as computers and the Internet. I mapped out ways to raise my own kids someday that resemble nothing the way my mother has raised me. I started wondering why, why a kid born out of a working class like me has such a great desire to grow out of her parents' class. Where does my aspiration come from, and where will it lead me to? Until one day my brother told me he might want to take up the family business and I realized such thought has never occurred to me. Why? Because as my mother's daughter, I have always held dear to my heart the idea that being a woman managing a petite business will never bring me a secure, independent, and fulfilling life.

Or to be more exact, a woman with no formal, paid job, thus no power within her husband's family, thus no life outside of it. Her life-long, greatest project is me. I said so because both my older sister and younger brother are not interested in becoming middle-class intellectuals as much as I am. I absorb her message, and I live her legacy. If one day someone asks me why I am passionate about women and empowerment of women, perhaps I will not tell them this long story, but I will know the answer in my heart. It is because my mother embodies everything I want to be as a woman, and everything I don't want to get out of life as a woman.

I don't like beer and I can't drink wine. Being a girl growing up in a traditional family and conservative society, this fact hasn't really bothered me or people surrounding me much. There are always soft drinks for family gatherings and when I hang out with friends, I order fruit shakes. My father is a heavy drinker, but obviously he doesn't fancy his daughter to be his drinking buddy. My boyfriend doesn't consume alcohol. So never before in my life do I have to face with the question of "to drink or not to drink", until I started this new job 10 days ago.

Not really. During my time in Canada, the conscious decision not to drink robbed me of many opportunities to make friends. University students in Canada, and probably other Western countries, socialize at bars and parties, where alcohol consumption is a must. No one really talks with each other during class, unless you have a group assignment or presentation. I was surprised at first, coming from 12 years of schooling where all my friendship developed inside the classroom. At Trent, I arrived at a class 10 minutes early only to find other classmates gluing their eyes to screens, be it laptop screens, cell phone screens, ipod screens, some read over notebooks, listen to music, and very few talk to one friend or another. Very quiet, very little chatting, very unlike a typical scene of classroom I knew so well where everyone talked and laughed with and at each other. It goes without saying that people make their first contact at social occasions, in a large groups. Both my uneasiness of staying in a big unfamiliar group and my inability to drink drove me away from those occasions. I ran away to seek refuge in another friend's when my house mates threw a party. I knew what I was doing to myself. I didn't have Canadian friends my age throughout the whole 4 years. I was certainly bothered by that for the first 1-2 years, but after that I came to accept the fact. And I was firm to myself, I don't drink, if I don't make friends as a consequence of that, it's fine.

Of course I have been in situations where I was offered to drink. I would cheer, lift the cup to my lips, and put it down without sipping a big amount. It has been ok to do that. I think the fact that I am not a man helps, but not now.

The very first moment I started this new job, my colleagues already talked about how I need to drink. To drink wine specifically, and a lot. "Van, you need to practice drinking". "Van, to work with Thai people, you have to drink". "If you don't drink, it will be very difficult for all of us". "The whole team won't be able to proceed if you refuse to drink". "They drink a cup of wine first thing in the morning". "Drinking is their custom, if you don't drink, they won't like you, and if they won't like you, they won't talk". "You only need to learn how to drink, then you will be good." "If you don't drink, you will be isolated". "You can vomit, someone else will take care of cleaning, don't worry". "You can be drunk for 10 times, and you will be fine the 11th time". "It's ok, you can learn, everyone can learn to drink". "You just have to do it". The talk went on and on and on. At some point, I told my supervisor "If the ability to drink is such a crucial element to this job, why didn't you put it in the job advertisement, or tell me straightaway during the interview?". He said he wanted to, but the highest boss didn't let him. I irritatedly replied that I wouldn't have applied had I known what is required of me. The only thing they asked me to prepare for the coming field trip is to drink wine.

There is an enormous pressure to conform to the drinking norm of the team. I don't see an exception, it almost seems like it's a rule no one dares to challenge. The very first welcome party for myself, I was offered a drink by the oldest and most powerful man in the whole team. He ordered me to bottom up the cup of beer. Everyone was expecting that I would swallow and swallow the liquid until it was gone, even if I would throw up right afterwards. But I didn't. I took two sips, the most I can, and put the cup down. Everyone at the table gave me that how-dare-you look , and it was awkward. Especially because I am a newbie.

The other three women could drink. I don't know if they truly enjoy the taste of wine and beer, but being so beauty conscious, they must have a sense of how alcohol could interfere with their skins and hairs. They would spend hours surfing the internet to find articles on what fruits to eat, how to make face masks from yogurts, etc, so I doubt if they don't know alcohol can ruin the positive effects of all the beauty methods they practice. Yet they kept drinking, cheering, laughing. That moment I tasted the bitter sense of loneliness, and yes, isolation.

Why would men be interested in women's drinking? Why would that man with the most authority need me to finish that cup of beer? Does it bring him any joy or happiness? What is the point of drinking if I don't like it? Many people tell me they drink to socialize, what if I don't want to socialize, or to be exact, socialize with people who force me to drink, to be like them? Then, I realize that it is not necessary about beer per se, it is also about power. When someone of higher authority offers you a drink, if you refuse, you are challenging his  power as a boss. When a man orders a woman to drink, if you don't obey, you are challenging his power as a man. That's why other people were feeling uncomfortable. There is no precedents, no one has ever put down a drink when it comes from the boss's hands. It's no longer a personal choice of consuming alcohol, it has become a social pressure of conforming. Probably my supervisor was worried that he might be blamed or affected for having a stubborn subordinate.

When I was in Canada and chose not to drink, it was a personal choice. I might let go of lots of opportunities to expand my network and get to know people, but still, it was my own business, and I accepted the consequences. But now, as I am in Vietnam and working in a context where drinking brings about a cultural and political intonation, it doesn't affect me alone. My choice of not to drink not only can limit my potential development, but it can also damage existing ones. The boss might or did feel offended at the table because I dared not to drink, thus didn't leave a good impression on him. Other colleagues might avoid associating with me because I don't play the game with their rules, and I reject the norm everyone else was following. No one likes the strange, particularly when it comes from among their own group. I can foresee desolation.

It is time for the question "should I conform to get along, because after all I am new, and I need social approval in order to work effectively or should I stand fast to my own standard and stick to what I am comfortable with rather than replace it with the group norm?". A deeper version of that is "how much I should insist on my own boundary and how much I should be willing to negotiate it?"  I have been tempted to bend, to go with the flow, and the thought that "I might as well try once, try twice, then I should be fine" is appealing in its own right. Yet I hate being pressured into doing things I don't want to, and luckily, at the moment, I am still strong and free enough to choose the latter. Hire me or fire me, you won't change what I am. If I don't like drinking, so what?

If the personal is really political, my struggle has just begun.

Bạn Nấm 23 tuổi, có lẽ cao khoảng 1m30. Thường mỗi khi gặp chỉ thấy cái đầu bạn lấp ló sau chùm bóng  lúc nào cũng như sắp tuột khỏi tay để bay lên trời, nên cũng không cảm thấy bạn thấp lắm. Sau khi biết là bằng tuổi nhau, tôi chuyển sang xưng hô "bạn - tớ", nhưng không biết vì quen hay để thể hiện sự tôn trọng mà bạn vẫn tiếp tục gọi tôi là "chị".

Bạn Nấm hay đứng bán bóng ở đài phun nước bờ Hồ. Cứ đi qua hay đứng lại một chút mà nghe bạn nói chuyện và cười đùa với những người bán bóng bay khác thì tưởng bạn chỉ là một cô bé 16 tuổi vô lo nhất trần gian. Cá heo nhé, hay là ăng ri bớt, em có cả con chim màu xanh, chị có lấy không? Sự hiền lành và trong trẻo của cô gái ấy vẫn chưa bị việc bán buôn nơi góc đường làm lu mờ thì phải, nên bạn không chèo kéo, không nài ép, không nói thách, chỉ mời khách khi họ hỏi, và cười.

Một tay lúc nào cũng giơ thẳng đứng lên trời vì bị chùm bóng đủ cả siêu nhân công chúa Pikachu trái tim xanh đỏ kéo. Tay kia nắm lấy một thanh tre, đầu thanh tre buộc một chùm bóng cầm tay, bóng này không bay nhưng mà có buộc quả chuông nên kêu leng keng, trẻ con rất thích cầm chơi. Bạn người Bắc Ninh, lên Hà Nội từ năm 16 tuổi và cũng bán bóng được gần 6 năm rồi.


Em chắc là có duyên bán bóng bay ý chị ạ. Hồi đầu tiên em lên đây là đi giúp việc cho một nhà chủ, vì ở quê em là chị cả, còn 5 đứa em nữa cơ, nên bố mẹ em bảo đi làm còn phụ bố mẹ nuôi các em. Đợt đấy cứ mỗi lần ra ngoài đường em thấy cái gì cũng lạ lắm, sao mà lắm người lắm xe thế. Rồi em nhìn thấy những người ta cầm bóng bay đi bán ngoài đường này này, em cứ nghĩ bụng cầm thế nhỡ chẳng may bóng bay lên trời thì sao, rồi cầm lắm thế bán đến bao giờ mới hết. Nhưng mà em cứ hay ngắm vì bóng bay vừa nhiều màu, lại nhiều hình, có lần em thấy một cô công chúa mặc váy xòe bay lên trời đấy.

Có cả một đội quân bán bóng bay đứng ở đài phun nước bờ Hồ. Cứ mỗi lần có người dừng lại, hoặc có vẻ muốn mua bóng, là ít nhất hai ba người sẽ xúm lại hỏi han. Tôi cũng chẳng nhớ tại sao tôi đã mua bóng của bạn Nấm, hôm đấy tôi mua một con Angry Bird màu đỏ, ba mươi nghìn về cho cháu Nhím, mà lúc mang về thì cháu đã về mất, một tuần sau là bóng xịt, chim đỏ không bay lơ lửng được nữa bị tống vào thùng rác.


Đi làm, xa nhà lần đầu tiên nên em rất nhớ bố mẹ và các em. Em cứ đợi nhà chủ đi là em lại lấy điện thoại gọi điện về nhà. Đến cuối tháng em bị mắng té tát, và bị trừ lương vì gọi điện nhiều quá. Một thời gian sau em đánh vỡ một cái bát, mà nhà chủ nói mãi, còn xúc phạm đến bố mẹ em ở quê, lúc đấy em xin nghỉ việc, nhưng không dám về nhà mà cứ đi lang thang ở ngoài đường cả buổi chiều. Đến chập tối thì có một chị đi qua, chị ý hỏi em có chỗ ngủ chưa, không thì về chỗ chị ý ngủ. Chỗ chị ý có bao nhiêu là bóng. Ai cũng bảo con bé này bé tí thế thì có làm nổi việc nặng không? Cuối cùng em xin các chị ý cho đi bán bóng cùng.

Nghe chuyện của bạn mà tôi rùng cả mình. Có bao nhiêu cô gái như thế, đi theo một người phụ nữ tốt bụng như thế, và đã bị rơi vào nhà chứa, bị ép thành gái bán dâm, và vĩnh viễn bị cướp mất con đường làm người lương thiện? Từ tốt đến xấu có xa xôi gì đâu. Chỉ cần là một cô gái trẻ, bơ vơ, bối rối, và không có chỗ để quay về. Cô gái đang cười rất tươi đứng trước mặt tôi đã có một ngã rẽ may mắn, và đang kiếm tiền chân chính bằng những trái bóng đủ màu đã từng khiến cô ngẩn người đứng ngắm đến nỗi suýt bị xe đâm, nhưng cuộc đời cô cũng hoàn toàn có thể đã rẽ sang ngả khác.

Nấm chọn nghề bán bóng vì nó nhẹ, phù hợp với khổ người hạt tiêu vì bạn không thể gánh những thúng hoa quả nặng đến năm sáu chục cân như các chị các cô khác. Còn một lý do nữa, là đi làm thế này bạn có nhiều tự do hơn so với đi làm nhà máy hay giúp việc gia đình. Bạn Nấm không thích về quê, và khi tôi hỏi đã bị giục lấy chồng chưa, bạn chỉ lắc đầu lè lưỡi. Lựa chọn của cô gái ấy cũng có thể là sự phản kháng lại một tương lai cố định: lấy chồng, đẻ con, nuôi con, nuôi cháu. Mỗi ngày bạn đếm từng người khách mua bóng, biết là hôm nay mình bán được mấy con Kitty, mấy con cá mập, và mỗi buổi chiều sớm, khi đứng xếp hàng bơm bóng ở chủ lò, bạn lại nhìn mây đoán trời nắng hay mưa, vì nếu bơm nhiều mà bị mưa bất chợt, bóng bị ngấm nước sẽ hỏng hết.

Buổi sáng bạn Nấm đi dọn nhà thuê, tiền công được vài chục. Buổi chiều đi bơm bóng, chiều muộn đi rong vài phố rồi tối đứng ở đài phun nước. Đêm khuya, tầm 11h, mới rảo bước đi về. Trưa nào cũng ăn mì, đến nỗi mấy chị ở cạnh phải thốt lên khen ngợi tài ăn mì gói ngày này qua ngày khác. Tối ăn linh tinh, hàng gì đi qua thì ăn hàng nấy. Lâu lâu về thăm nhà một lần. Thinh thoảng đang đứng lại có một đôi cô dâu chú rể cùng đoàn tùy tùng ra chụp ở đài phun nước, tiện thể mượn chùm bóng bay làm nền, trêu chọc nhau cười rộn rã.

Có một lần em đang mải bán hàng cho một chú mua bóng cho con gái, thì có một ông hỏi "bóng bán thế nào đây". Em ngước lên thì nhận ra là ông phó phường Hàng Bài. Ông ý túm lấy tay em rồi giằng bóng. Em giằng co một lúc nhưng vì ông ý là đàn ông nên không giật lại được. Mọi người ai cũng xin tha nhưng ông ý không nghe. Bóng của em bị thả lên trời hết. Lúc đấy người em như không còn tí sức lực nào, chẳng biết làm gì nữa. Em ngồi bệt xuống đường, nước mắt trào ra như suối. Có người cho em năm chục, người cho một trăm. Lúc đấy em vừa ra, còn chưa kịp ăn gì, mà miệng đắng nghét chẳng ăn nổi nữa. Em thất thểu đi về, hôm sau lên cơn sốt. Chỗ bóng bị thả mất em phải trả nợ đến mấy tuần sau mới hết.

Bạn Nấm có hàm răng rất đều, mỗi tuần tự cho phép mình đi đắp mặt một lần, hay mua kem đãi các chị bán bóng cùng nếu là người mở hàng đầu tiên, và đã nói chắc như đinh đóng cột với tôi rằng "em tin vào lựa chọn của mình".

Ngay lúc đấy, tôi đã ước giá mình có một chiếc máy quay ở trong tay để ghi lại những bước chân thoăn thoắt của bà cụ. Chúng tôi đi phía sau bà dọc phố Cầu Gỗ. Bà lão nhỏ thó, nhăn nhúm, cong queo, đẩy một cái túi có gắn bánh, bên trong chất đầy những thứ hàng lỉnh kỉnh, mà đi không cần nhìn trước sau. Trong khi chúng tôi ngó ngang ngó ngửa vì đường rất chật, thì bà cứ đi băng băng như đang bay trên mây. Có lúc tôi tưởng  bà là nước, len lỏi vào những khe hẹp giữa một chiếc ô tô và vài người đi xe máy, mất hút trong một đám đông những người trẻ tuổi nhuộm tóc xanh đỏ lênh khênh trên những đôi giầy cao chót vót, rồi thoắt một cái bà lại hiện ra từ đằng sau họ, và mải miết đi. Tôi cắm cúi đi theo, tự hỏi không biết đến bao giờ bà mới dừng lại.

Trong ấn tượng của tôi, những người già hoặc đi khoan thai, chậm rãi, hoặc bước khó nhọc nặng nề. Nhưng cách bà bước đi rất đặc biệt, vì bà tập tễnh, tưởng như chân này nhấc lên là có thể dẫm đè lên chân kia ngay lập tức. Vậy mà không, cái lưng cong và đôi chân đã rất yếu ấy không hiểu lấy sức mạnh ở đâu ra mà cứ điềm nhiêm rảo bước, đẩy cái xe hàng ở phía trước, và lách rất khéo qua những con phố ken dầy người một tối cuối tuần.

Cuối cùng, bà dừng lại ở dưới chân một cửa hàng bán trang sức và đồ lưu niệm ngay cạnh bờ Hồ, rồi tỉ mẩn nhặt những thứ hàng từ trong túi ra xếp lên hai cái mẹt tre. Vài chai nước khoáng, C2, vài phong kẹo cao su, vài túi hạt hướng dương, vài thỏi kẹo ngọt, vài bao thuốc lá, và vài quả mận đựng trong một cái rổ nhựa con màu xanh. Bà sắp xếp khoảng nửa tiếng, trong thời gian ấy chúng tôi trò chuyện với một cô bán mã thầy bên cạnh, vì cứ đứng giương mắt nhìn khi bà đang bận bày hàng thì cũng thật kì cục. Ở cái tuổi mà người ta được phép run rẩy và vụng về, cái mẹt trước mặt bà vẫn đâu ra đấy. Tóc bạc, răng đen, lưng còng, da tay như không còn bám vào xương nữa mà gập lại thành bao nhiêu nếp gấp, bà bó gối ngồi dựa lưng vào khoảng tường trước cửa hiệu đèn sáng lóa.

Ngày nào bà cũng bán hàng ở đây từ 8h đến 3h sáng, đẩy hàng ra rồi lại tấp tểnh đẩy xe hàng 3km để về chỗ ở trọ. Bà đã ngoài 80, quê ở Nam Định, và hiện giờ không còn người thân nào ngoài cô con gái ở quê đã túng bấn lại còn đông con. Câu chuyện bà kể cho chúng tôi là về ba người con trai, họ đều nghiện rượu, bà đều cố gắng vun đắp rất nhiều cơ hội để những cậu con trai ấy thay đổi, nhưng họ đều lần lượt chết. "Tất cả tiền tôi làm ra cô ạ, chúng nó đem đi uống rượu hết, rồi chết hết." Bà rời quê ra Hà Nội để làm ăn, vì con mà lụi bại, bám trụ lại đất này để mong con sẽ nghĩ khôn ra, nhưng rồi những cậu trai ấy đều đốt đời mình vào rượu.

Tôi hỏi bà về nhiều thứ khác, nhưng dường như chẳng có câu từ nào lọt vào tai bà, ngoài những cái thở dài
"chúng nó nghiện rượu, tôi cũng cố gắng, nhưng mà cũng hết". Bà có một cái đài cũ, do một cậu bán bóng bay biếu, để ngồi nghe những lúc bán hàng. Thỉnh thoảng có một bác xe ôm mua một điếu Vina lẻ, tự bỏ một nghìn vào cái mẹt của bà, tự lấy thuốc lá, tự châm. Một người khách du lịch mua chai nước, có lẽ muốn hỏi chuyện gì đó, nhưng bà chỉ móm mém cười.

Tiếng đài kêu rè rè, bà bảo cũng không tốn pin lắm đâu. Mỗi ngày tôi lại đi mua thêm vài thứ, phong kẹo, chai nước, gói hạt dưa. Tôi hỏi đêm khuya như thế bà đi về một mình có sợ không, bà bảo già rồi có gì nữa mà cướp, tôi chẳng sợ gì cả. Thỉnh thoảng có mấy chú nghiện gặp tôi thì tôi đưa bao thuốc, các chú ấy lại đi. Đông cũng như hè, bà ngồi dựa lưng vào bờ tường và hướng mặt đón những nắm bụi và vệt đèn đường vàng vọt hắt lên.

Mỗi ngày tôi ăn một bữa cô ạ, còn đâu thì ăn cái bánh mì cũng đỡ đói. Già rồi cũng không tiêu tốn gì nhiều. Công an cũng không đuổi vì bà già, với lại có cái gì đâu mà bắt. Tôi lại hỏi bà có khi nào về quê không, thì bà chẳng nói gì nữa. Và lại tiếp tục câu chuyện về những cậu con trai.

Tôi nghĩ lúc ấy mắt bà đã không còn nhìn thấy tôi, tai bà cũng chẳng nghe được những lời léo nhéo đang phát ra từ cái đài cũ. Người già sống trong quá khứ, có lẽ chỉ chớp mắt một cái là bà đã thấy ba người con nghiện rượu của mình. Bà ngậm ngùi, nhưng không có vẻ trách, cũng không có vẻ buồn. Ngày xưa bà làm công nhân trong nhà máy của nhà nước, hết bao cấp nhà máy giải tán bà mới lên Hà Nội vừa để kiếm việc, vừa để cho con ăn học, mong là gần chỗ đô hội thì chúng nó sẽ sáng dạ ra. Bà bắt đầu bán hàng từ những năm 90, lúc đấy đường phố còn thưa người lắm.

Bà 84 tuổi, ngày nào cũng đi đi về về gần chục cây số, chân thấp chân cao thoăn thoắt bước trên đường. Chỉ riêng việc bà bán hàng 7 tiếng mỗi ngày, bất kể nắng mưa, không vui, không yêu đời nhưng cũng không nghĩ đến chuyện chết, tôi đã cảm phục lắm.

How painful is it to relive and express your pain in public? How brave do you need to be in order to subject yourself to public judgement?


Contemporary art is catching up in Vietnam. Every month, there would be some events that relate to this specific form of art, be it a painting exhibition, a dance performance, or a play with unusual structure or interactive format. While creating and enjoying contemporary art is becoming more and more trendy, using it to present and tackle social issues is even more fashionable.

"Inviting myself to hope" is a very beautiful translation of the title of a famous song by Trinh Cong Son
Tôi ơi đừng tuyệt vọng" literally means "Hey me, don't despair". While the Vietnamese phrase is an encouragement, resulting from a bad outcome, the English version is a positive attitude. These are the name of a contemporary art performance put together by CSAGA* and a few big sponsors. The actresses are advertised as unprofessional performers and former victims of domestic violence. Now, after participating in a project aiming at supporting domestic violence victims for a few years, they have gathered enough courage to participate in a show about their own sorrow.

The play sent shiver down my spine many times, especially when the actresses expressed their reactions to violence. They crawled, they rolled, they cried, they screamed, they laughed, they became crazy, they froze, they were so frightened that they lost consciousness. Through the medium of play, they were free to act out their pain, and unlike traditional plays, the line between reality and imagination was blurred to a great extent. This play can be scripted, but all actresses have first hand experience of how being beaten days after days feels like, therefore, the performance transforms itself from a pure play to a recounted story of real events and real emotions.

There is quite clear story line, comparing to other attempts in conveying messages in contemporary art. I am not sure whether the crew wants to make the play as easy to understand as possible (since it aims at the mass audience and to raise awareness, rather than selective cultural elites who like to ponder upon complicated matters) or whether they just have a very urgent message that needs to get through and they can't take the risk of letting the audience draw their own conclusion. Phase one, some women got beaten, they became despaired, the men were shown to be aggressive, addicted to gambling and drinking. Phase two, the women got together, gained strength as a group, reclaimed their power. Phase three, the men realized their mistakes, were sorry for their awful deed, were forgiven by the women, and a happy ending. Everyone danced in the sunlight and the song of Trinh Cong Son was played as background music.

Even though movements and speaking tones were not as refined as those of professionals, I could still recognized some great efforts were made. However, there are two issues that keep coming back to my mind during the play. First, the men were depicted in a very criminal manner, while the women a victim-like manner. The men were all about aggressiveness, cheating, lying, abusing, while the women were only suffering, covering their faces with their hands, crying in the dark and offering their hands, both to their peers and to the men by the end. There was a very hostile distance between the two sexes, as if the men only know how to beat, and the women don't do anything else but crying. Criminalization of the male makes them seem irrational. Why are they the frightening creatures that only beat and abuse, and would why the women stick with them at all? Victimization of the female makes them irrational as well. Why do they only cry and suffer, and why don't they just leave the abusive men? Depicting one sex with all negative traits, namely all the men in the play were abusive and horrifying, makes their violent acts seem innate. They are bad, all of them are bad, nothing else to say. On the other hand, portraying all the women in the play as tolerant and passive make their suffering natural too. More than once, people in the audience commented how Vietnamese women are known and admired for their great tendency to scarify and consider the interest of others before their own. As everyone refers to this virtue as a legacy, it's not a big surprise that women would  internalize the duty to be willing to scarify anything, anytime so much that they forfeit their self-defense system.

However, despite being depicted as evils, the men still didn't bear the responsibility. They were either gambler, drinker or mentally ill. This, to me, is problematic as well, as this portrayal decentres the men from their bad behaviours, providing them a cause to blame. Do only men who drink, gamble and have mental problem beat their wives? Do only these irrational men, who are not always in the best state of their mind, abuse women? Does it mean that men who are in good shape, good mental state will never commit crimes against women? No, absolutely not. Creating a cause to blame is dangerous, because whenever people think of an abusive man, they will think of an external cause that happens to him. A man in the audience actually commented that sometimes men are abusive because they face failure in business, and they vent on their wives. That is a patterned way of getting the men out of the matter, freeing them from guilt, and shifting the blame, if not to the wife, then to an external factor. Then the men play the role of a victim themselves. When they are not seen as a rational being who is in full control of their acts, they can explain away their wrong deeds by claiming victims to their rage, their disappointment, their hot temper, their drunkenness, their greed (to earn money by gambling), or their unstable state of mind.

The play is a nice try in bringing out voices from an usually unheard group in society. I believe that when someone is empowered to speak up about her pain, the pain will subdue. However, a better contextualization is needed. If lots of Vietnamese men beat up their wives, the problem can't be blamed on one or two individual men with drinking or gambling addiction. Yet, they shouldn't be viewed to be bad inside out either. A most humane and sociological way, I think, is to place them among all the norms, beliefs and viewpoints that are so commonplace we forget they contribute a great deal to our daily activities. The men, even when they are perpetrators, shouldn't be separated from their social context. No one would beat their wives if they know, and sincerely believe that it's wrong. They must have some reasons and justifications for their acts. To dig deeper into these underlying assumptions and norms will require even more efforts, time and efforts. Meanwhile, at least the play "Inviting myself to hope" has achieved its main goal of spreading the message, because at the debut show the Youth Theatre's 600 seats were filled.

 * Centre of Studies and Applied Science for Gender - Family - Women and Adolescence