Somewhere I belong

Sáng nay đi đưa rau củ giúp Bloom Food cùng Loan. Lúc loạng choạng gửi xe để giao một giỏ rau quả to tướng cho một gia đình người nước ngoài ở khu Ciputra*, mình đã vướng víu với một đống đu đủ bập bùng trên giỏ xe, đến nỗi một quả rơi đánh bốp xuống chân, đu đủ chín làm mũi giày vàng nhoe nhoét. Tòa nhà sáng trưng bóng lộn, mình kệ nệ bê giỏ rau vào thang máy, không bấm được để lên tầng 11.Đến lúc lên được rồi thì không tìm được số nhà cần giao. Rất nhiều bối rối và băn khoăn diễn ra, nên khi quay xuống để về thì mình đã bị mất vé xe.

Bạn trai trông xe và bạn gái đứng bấm thang máy ở tầng 1 đều trẻ, có lẽ kém tuổi mình. Hai bạn không thân thiện đến mức vồn vã, có lẽ làm ở chỗ ai nấy đều một bước lên xe, các bạn không có ai để cười nói hàng ngày, rồi bị chai đi. Nhưng hai bạn cũng không mặt lạnh như tiền, hay ngao ngán chán chường mặt bị gột sạch các cảm xúc khác như những nhân viên quanh năm trong các khu nhà cao tầng của người giàu có. Hai bạn ra sức động viên mình đi tìm vé xe. Bạn trai đi qua đi lại mấy vòng trong khu nhà để xe, bạn gái giục mình đi lên tầng 11 để tìm lại, bạn sẽ đứng đó canh các thang máy khác xem có thấy không. Lúc đấy mình đầu tóc xõa xượi (đầu bết vì hôm thứ 6 mới hấp tóc), mặt chắc hơi tím tái vì lạnh, áo quần luộm thuộm, và hấp tấp vụng về như mọi khi. Cái kết có hậu là mình đã tìm được cái vé xe bị rơi ngay trước cửa gia đình mình giao hàng, chắc lúc rút ví ra nhận tiền thì cái vé cũng rơi theo. Nhưng mình nhớ câu nói của bạn gái trông cầu thang máy "cố mà tìm, mất vé xe phải đền năm mươi nghìn là mất cả buổi giao hàng đấy".

Lúc đấy mình nửa muốn thanh minh là mình không kiếm sống bằng nghề giao hàng, nửa muốn để bạn ý nghĩ rằng bạn ý đang thực sự giúp cho một con người khốn khổ. Mình rất cảm động, nên mình đã không nói gì, và lại lúi húi chằng đu đủ và buộc giỏ lóng ngóng như một người chở hàng thuê mới vào nghề.

Những trăn trở của mình về một công việc có ý nghĩa, một công việc mình đam mê, rồi mình lại phải có thời gian để học, để xây đắp kiến thức, chưa kể gặp những người thú vị, có những tương tác đậm chất nhân văn,  thêm vào đó lương phải ngon và chỗ làm cũng phải có tên tuổi. Mình đau khổ vì không có được một công việc vừa làm thỏa mãn những câu hỏi tọc mạch "cháu đi làm ở đâu? lương tháng bao nhiêu triệu?" vừa đáp ứng đủ các thể loại nhu cầu cá nhân của mình.

Những người bán xăng thì sao? Cả ngày chỉ bơm xăng, lấy tiền, trả lại tiền, bơm xăng. Những người trông xe ô tô buổi đêm thì sao? Tám tiếng chỉ ngồi vật vờ ngoài đường, trong bóng đêm, không có ai để nói chuyện, ánh đèn đường vàng vọt hắt xuống không đủ để nhìn xa quá 2m. Những người đưa rau chỉ làm rơi một cái vé xe cũng mất một ngày làm việc, hay những người bán hàng rong chỉ chậm một bước chân bị công an bắt hết gánh hàng là mất vài tháng làm việc, thì sao? Họ có chết vì không có một công việc như mong muốn đâu.

Thế nhưng bảo mình phải biết tự hài lòng với những gì đang có, cụ thể là an phận với công việc hiện tại và không nghĩ gì đến khả năng mình sẽ vui vẻ hơn ở một chỗ khác thì lại quá khó. Nếu bây giờ không sống cho mình, thì còn lúc nào nữa đây?

* Cho các bạn không biết: Ciputra là khu đô thị quốc tế, nhà ở trong đó tầm 30 tỉ trở lên, các trường học quốc tế danh giá nhất Hà Nội đều có chi nhánh và các mặt đều được bao bằng cửa sắt cao kiên cố có bảo vệ túc trực 24/7

It felt funny to hear a professor confess that she is a big procrastinator. On the one hand, I was glad to realize that after all, you can be professor and still procrastinate, a combination I have always thought impossible. I have condemned myself many times for my bad time-management skill, and bad self discipline. I knew I lost trust in a few people because I didn't deliver what I promised on time. Because of that, I have always suspected my ability to conduct independent research, when I would not be working for someone else, I might just dump it all and play some stupid games on the Internet. I have been considered myself unsuitable to the great world of the great academic, where everyone is so passionate about what they study that they can forget everything else while they are seeking new knowledge, or a tiny piece of truth. Until I heard with my own ears from a professor that she has been asking another professor for extension on a paper for a few times, that she has not done any literature review on the topic, and yet she is the chair, the president of this committee and that association. Well, a huge relief, perhaps I am capable of being the same too.

One the other hand, I felt like something has just broken. This reminds me of a story I read a long time ago, about a girl who idolized her teacher so much that when she saw the teacher eating noodle on the sidewalk, she sat down and wept, because she couldn't digest the fact that her teacher would eat like everyone else. In her mind, her teacher was everything beautiful, and that beauty shines so bright that the fragility of being human dilutes her image. I am no longer a child, and I have always thought I never idolize any other person. Worse still, I keep a treasured little box where I kept all the good stereotypes of professors. Little by little, I got to know more professors as people rather than absolute figures of authority in the realm of knowledge. The closer I come into contact with them, the more my eyes were open to their weakness and strengths, noble motivations and not so noble ones as they walk on their intellectual paths. Piece by piece, my box has been torn down. After all, professors are people, not sages.

I used to admire volunteers, and then NGO workers. My admiration was beaten hard with facts and gossips of corruption, of false pride, of concealment and cheating, of ignorance and snobbishness. At first I was motivated to be like them, later I only wished to not be like the bad ones among them. I am not saying all volunteers or NGO workers are disappointing. But as a Vietnamese saying goes "one worm ruins the whole pot of soup", I have known enough to no longer look at them with naive eyes. It is bad for them, and sad for me. To be able to hold some people up as role models, to admire them wholeheartedly and get inspired to be better than myself is a luxury I cannot afford anymore.

Young people are supposed to dream, and dream big. Years in my early 20s so far have been a string of disillusions, about myself, people I used to look up to, and the world I thought was nice enough to strive for. Perhaps you call it the process of getting mature. Somehow I find it quite bitter.

But I guess, after all, a naive optimism and a blind trust is easy. What is much more difficult is to experience the lowest pit of disappointment, but still find something to hope for and believe in. I have been yearning for a mentor, or a wise friend who I could come to for any questions, but such a fortune is no where to be found. So I am left alone to pick up the shattered pieces of my once sparkling little world with great people and great plans in it, and put them together despite the desire to just let go.

I hope I will have enough courage, patience and faith to build back my little world again.

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.

or the Standardization of weddings

Wedding is the occasion when a couple make their life-time commitment in front of people who matter to them. I don't know about weddings in other provinces, but here in Ha Noi, I have attended enough weddings to know by heart all the proceedings. First, the bride and the groom and their parents stand at the door to greet coming guests. These guests shake hands, say congratulations, put their envelope in 2 red, heart-shaped boxes depending on whether they are associated with the bride or the groom. All movements take a few seconds, or half a minutes at most, because if they don't move continuously, they will block many others behind . After entering the hall, the guesses will be shuffled to tables by the couple's relatives based on one unspoken rule: only when a table is completely filled will people be arranged to sit at the next one and no seat should be left empty because price is per-determined and paid upon the number of tables, not people. As soon as people sit down, they will start eating. After all expected guests have arrived, a MC will start the ceremony. Then music fills the air, 2 sets of parents enter on a red carpet. Next come the couple themselves. Meanwhile people keep eating and chatting with each other.The couple will exchange rings (or in most cases, the groom puts his ring on the bride's finger), then they open a bottle of champagne, pour the champagne on a set of cups, present the cups to their respective parents to thank them for having raised the couple. Afterwards, this same group of 6 people slowly move around the hall to toast with each table as someone would sing love songs on the stage. Not everyone at a table know each other, and no one really has time to exchange words with the bride and the groom. When the group has finished its round, some guests have finished eating too. They stand up to leave, and the couple and their parents again stand at the door to thank and say goodbye to people. Close friends and relatives can stay behind to take pictures with the couple but most will leave promptly. The whole event takes about one hour.

No minute is left bare. Everyone involved knows what they are supposed to do and when to do it. There is no space for confusion or spontaneous decision making. Guests know they need to bring envelops, the content depends on various things: how close they are to the families, how much the couple or the couple's parents give at their or their children's wedding, how subordinate they are to the couple or their parents, how big a favour they have received or want to ask from the concerned group, or even how much they want to show off or compete with the latter. Couple know they need to smile all the time, appear pleasant, not complain about tired legs or hungry stomachs. All emotions are closely monitored. The general atmosphere is that of a cheerful mode, but it is also crystal clear that there is a strong sense of social obligation. Guests know clearly why they are there, even though they neither know the name or age of the couple. But they still come, because they are tied with the families by different bonding. Kinship is one, they may be related by blood, which compels them to be present. Social responsibility is another, they are friends or colleagues of any person in the group of six (couple and 4 parents). Very few, indeed, come to a wedding to celebrate love between two people. And I doubt if anyone thinks of it as a scared ceremony. You come, give the money, eat quickly, talk to someone you know or sit quiet, pay attention to no one else and leave as soon as you finish. What is the difference between a wedding and the transaction taking place at a fast food restaurant?

Weddings in Ha Noi adopts half-way the traditional ceremony held by Christian couples. The parents and the couples do enter the hall in music. They do stand in front of everyone for a little bit. They do exchange rings, although no kisses. What they leave out is the vow, the kiss, and most importantly the attention and the sincere feelings. When a couple enter a church and say their vow in front of a candle and a priest, they are making their commitment not only official but holy. And everyone watches them in silence, wishing the best for them. I have seen tears in eyes of people who are moved by love and devotion of lovers for each other. But here, as a couple stand on the stage, everyone keeps on eating, drinking, as if the most cherished people of the night are no more than mere entertainment. The music that goes after serves to fill in any gaps brought about by awkward moments when guests are seated with people they don't know, have nothing in common, and are not familiar with the basic facts about the couple to really feel happy for them. Deafened by loud music, everyone just focuses on the dishes right within the reach, pay hardly enough attention to the surrounding until the couple and their parents approach with cups of wine to toast. After a brief interval of standing up, cheers, and smile, they are back to the business of shoving food down their throats and clearing out plates.

It is time-efficient, no doubt. A wedding can be conveniently wrapped up within the hour of a lunch break, and all guests hurry back to their offices with a filled stomach. It is worry-free, because the families run small risks of unexpected incidents. It buffers and offsets social awkwardness when a large group of people (several hundreds) who have little in common come together and share a meal. It makes it easier for everyone because unnecessary interactions are eliminated to maximum. Guests present their wish by the cash inside envelops, and families present their thank by the food on tables. Fair game for all.

Yet, this standardization of an important life-event such as wedding leaves an impact on all parties involved. Everyone becomes a little less humane because they are one layer removed from interpersonal connections. Even if guests are sincerely happy for the couple, they have no chance to say so, because no time is allowed for intimate conversations. Both the hosts and the guests are constantly  pushed by a fixed line of tasks that need to be done. No one can go astray, otherwise all others will run into a mess. If the bride's feet all of sudden get too sore and she is in too much pain to stand and greet the guests, or the singer can't sing all the songs she has been contracted to perform, holes will appear and that will leave everyone at a loss. Couple feel less grateful for guest's presence, because they either will face with a notebook filled with names so they know whose weddings or whose children's weddings they need to attend later, or mentally note faces so they can return the favour another  time. For the guests, it is just another wedding, where they pay a great amount to eat a meal.

The food is served fast, exactly alike or with little variation from one wedding to another, music is played in the background, you pay in advance and then leave as soon as you stop chewing. I came out of a wedding and wondered why it matters if McDonald's request to enter Vietnam has been repeatedly rejected, since its much treasured backbone principle of standardization has penetrated so deep into Vietnamese cultural life (at least in big cities) and is attacking its very root.

sometimes i wonder
why people can't be a litter nicer
to each other?

like when i crossed the street
wet, cold, in a hurry
to buy a monthly bus ticket
the lady inside slammed the glass door
and pretended she couldn't hear
"please, just sell me this one, will you?"
"we are close, please go, no more"
does it hurt to be nice
to someone once in a while?

like when i drove in the rain
wet, cold, a man behind crushed on my feet
didn't apologize
he wanted to move forward a little bit
i said to myself, fine
but actually, my feet seemed to cry

(will add more if I can recall more incidents when people are bad to me)