I crossed the ocean twice just to become it. 

Vietnam was supposed to be this surreal, visceral, place of peace. Two months since, my soul is still roaring 

into its body.

I think I like to get as dark as I can so that I can see my mother’s manual labor on my back. Chi tells me that 

Me is out of the hospital and that she is asking about when I am coming back. Christine says I should write for 
pages in Viet. 

I am at dinner with another transracial adoptee. I wonder if she has ever felt the same pain. Waiter refills my 

$6 drink. My mother lives off of $1.50 a day. I choke the guilt down my throat.

I am reading poetry by Ocean Vuong. Maybe this will bring me peace. 

Me, I hope you named me Ocean because you knew I would be restless. My mother tells me I was an absolute 

terror. 

9

Thursday, July 13, 2017

The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com MICHIGAN IN COLOR

Reflections from an Ocean away

By ADAM BRODNAX

Michigan in Color Senior Editor

Reflective fragments, excerpts, bits from my journals, both paper and 

electronic since meeting my birth family.

Waking up in a hostel in Hà Nôi with sweat on your face, or maybe 

it was tears, is never the best way to start the voyage to Ha Long Bay. 
Good thing I’m on the top bunk and no one can see me. I am wilting on 
the inside. 

— the morning after 

Circumstances gave us 20 minutes to fit an entirety of a life. You cried 

for 19 of them. You couldn’t look at me for eight of them. You yelled at 
me for not knowing Viet for three of them. You’re still crying. You turn 
away from me. You tell me you could only care for me for 10 days. I ask 
you about my name. Ocean. You say it was because I was so big. It took 
me 20 years to come back. Security puts his hand on my shoulder. That 
was unfair.

On the way to meet my sister in Long An. She’s a Buddhist nun. She 

comes out from the monastery living quarters to meet me. I see so much 
of myself in her. She puts her hand in mine. Her smile is contagious, 
her laugh is synonymous with joy. She bugs me about not knowing my 
mother’s tongue. She calls me “Em” so I call her “Chi”. She tells me Me 
gave her up when she was seven.1 So I wasn’t the only one. She is grate-
ful that I am not mad at our mother. She assumed I never came back 
because I was mad. 

The language barrier created beauty in smiles, embraces, shared 

stares, synchronized breaths, communal meals. Language isn’t just spo-
ken.

You named me Ocean because I was so big. Who would have fucking 

thought. 

Once someone in Vietnam learned my birth name, they would only 

call me that. Đai Duong.2 It gave me life. 

My sister messages me over Facebook that my oldest brother dreamed 

of finding me one day. He adds me on Facebook. 

In Saigon’s airport — I spent 34 days in the country of my birth. I 
spent 14 hours in the village of my birth. I spent 20 minutes with the 
mother of my birth.

In O’hare’s airport — I schedule a flight to go back to Texas, because I 
 

 miss the mother who raised me. 

At Chipotle, I placed my fork down, full from eating three-quarters of 

a bowl. Naturally got up to throw it away before the weight of knowing 
my Me lives off of a $1.50 a day choked the guilt down my throat. I sat 
back down and finished the rest of the bowl. 

I still feel empty. I thought my harrowed heart would be filled with 

peace after we met. Not sure if consciously choosing to leave the second 
time broke her more. Detachment is a form of trauma.

Vietnam was supposed to be this surreal, visceral, place of peace. 

unfair.

To the mother who birthed me,
I am sorry I am your wound. 
You are the reason I have my almond shaped eyes, 
burning heart, and brave spine
I am the reason you are blistered and broken
For 10 days, you rose with the sun anyway

To the mother who raised me,
I am sorry that I did not come to America a blank canvas
I am sorry you did not get to have the first brush stroke
I am scribbled on, crumpled up and slightly torn
but
you painted around it. You picked up right where Me left off
You became the setting sun

1 “Chi” means “elder sister”, “Em” means “younger sibling”, “Me” means “mother”
2 Translates to Ocean. It is an ancestral way to say Ocean, not used as common as 
the term, “biên” when referring to the ocean. 

