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Thursday, May 3, 2018
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
MICHIGAN IN COLOR
On the Words I Can Never Tell My Mother
There exists this word, or
sentiment,
in
Vietnamese:
“đau khổ.” Individually, the
words translate to “pain” and
“suffering”, yet together, they
form something along the
sense of an intense anguish
that transcends any attempt
at a linguistic description. It’s
more than just the sum of both
pain and suffering, but rather,
it’s this profoundly unsettling
and deep-rooted unhappiness;
it is a pain without promise.
The phrase carries with it this
intensity even in how it is pro-
nounced; the harshness of the
first letter in “đau” followed
by the hauntingly questionable
nature of the tone mark that is
placed on “khổ”. Đau khổ is
something best felt, rather than
described, but I can’t really
comment on how efficacious it
would be to write this piece to
serve as an avenue towards the
feeling of this sentiment, so for
now, my descriptive explana-
tions will have to suffice.
My mother grew up as the
eldest and least appreciated of
five children. She was never
supposed to have moved any
further than the steps outside
of her parent’s home. She had
every expectation to stay back
and care for her own parents
and live a life of ennui in the
same town she was born in,
and yet somehow, some hap-
penstance chain of events inev-
itably allowed her to come to
America. She wasn’t expected
to amount to anything more
than just a simple woman liv-
ing a simple life, but here she
is, living with her husband and
children in a home that nobody
from her family back in Viet-
nam could ever dream of own-
ing.
As a child of war, my moth-
er was born in the midst of the
most violent events to occur
in Vietnamese history. She
came of age during these grue-
some years, and it was as if she
was never able to live a child-
hood independent of đau khổ.
All she ever knew from the
moment she was brought into
this world was both pain and
suffering.
I remember stories that
she would tell me while I was
growing up; stories of how she
saw the decayed corpses of
soldiers being driven back en
masse to her small town all to
be redistributed back to their
respective families. These sol-
diers weren’t people anymore.
They were just vessels of rot-
ting flesh waiting to be returned
like property. She would tell
me that she still remembers the
stench, that disgustingly famil-
iar aroma of death and decay.
These things never really left
her. I can’t imagine how things
like that could ever leave a per-
son, but despite these hardships
and horrors, she endured and
overcome so much.
There is so much of her life
that I don’t know about. There
is so much about my own
mother that I still don’t know
about. I want to understand her
on a deeper level as I continue
to grow into adulthood, but I
have to come to terms with the
fact that by doing so, I would
be forcing her to revisit some
of the most traumatic events
she has ever witnessed. I don’t
want to hurt her. I don’t want to
pry. She saw so many horrific
things during this war. She was
only six years old then.
To say that I can empathize
with my mother’s own đau khổ
would be a stretch of the truth.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to
comprehend the magnitude of
pain and suffering she has so
carefully kept hidden from me.
The horrors of war, the tragedy
and loss of seeing her entire
country crumble before her
eyes, the despair and discrimi-
nation she faced at the hands
of the communist government;
these were all kept a secret
from me until I was taught
about them in school.
I understand that people
choose to cope in different
ways, but I don’t really know
what to even call this. I can’t
blame her for anything she
chooses to do, or rather, not
do. It would be unfair of me to
decide on how my own mother
chooses to cope with trauma
I could never even begin to
grasp.
In 1998, my parents were
given the opportunity to immi-
grate to the States. This was a
pretty late time to come to the
United States in comparison
to the Vietnamese refugees
who came here after the Fall of
Saigon on the 30th of April in
1975. While a community was
being built in Grand Rapids by
refugees who had been able to
make a living and thrive, my
parents would be thrown into
it with nothing to their names
except the ill-fitting clothing
given to them by others who
had come here first.
Neither
of
my
parents
attained anything above a high
school education in Vietnam.
The communist government
barred my family from obtain-
ing any form of higher educa-
tion. It was a punishment they
felt fit the “crime” of my grand-
father holding a major position
in the South Vietnamese army.
My mother left behind the only
life she ever knew in a blind
attempt toward the promise of
a brighter future. She boarded
the plane en route to the US,
cradling me in her arms, not
knowing when she would ever
see her family again. Not being
able to speak English, she
would do her best to find any
work in order to support us.
I don’t have it left in me any-
more to try and mask the trag-
edy she has had to face with
beautiful words. My mother
has suffered through so much
for me.
My mother is still afraid
to go to stores alone. She’s
been living in this country for
almost two decades, but she
is still so flustered whenever
she has to speak in English. I
don’t want anyone to judge her.
I love her so much. I still go
with her to the bank and Mei-
jer to translate for her when-
ever I am home because of the
stares. People don’t look at her
how I look at her. They see
her as somebody burdened by
the inability to speak English.
She tells me about their tone;
the glares of disapproval and
the judgment she hears when
she stumbles on simple ques-
tions while grocery shopping.
If only they knew how bright,
wonderful and loving she was
in Vietnamese.
These are all things I would
like to tell my mother some-
day. I think it’s a combination
of a language barrier and an
emotional barrier. I don’t have
the vocabulary necessary to
tell her these things, and she
doesn’t have the emotional
capacity to liberate herself
from past trauma. It always
brings her to tears. I take after
my mother a whole lot. Every-
one around her has always told
her that I was born in the exact
image of her. Sometimes I look
at pictures of myself as a child
and I can really see the resem-
blance.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve
come to realize that my cop-
ing mechanisms mirror those
of my mother in exactly the
same way that my face mir-
rors hers. My mother internal-
izes so much of the pain she
has encountered and continues
to encounter in her life. She
builds walls around this pain
so that, while she won’t be able
to see them, they continue to
exist. I wish I could explain to
her the concept of closure or at
least the semblance of such an
idea in a way she could under-
stand.
My whole life has been built
around a series of these walls.
All of my life I’ve dealt with
the inability to connect with
my parents in the same way
others did. Friends would often
complain about how overbear-
ing their parents were, but I
distinctly remember longing
for a life in which over-com-
munication with my parents
was a burden. It’s something
I’ve learned to internalize as
well. I wish things were dif-
ferent.
As selfish as this may sound,
I’ve found that one of the major
reasons why I want to under-
stand my mother’s struggles
and trauma is that in doing so,
I believe that I can begin to
understand myself on a deeper
level as well. I always won-
der why I am the way that I
am. Perhaps my mother could
answer these things for me on
the off chance that we can find
a mutual avenue of communi-
cation that lacks the barriers
and obstacles we currently
face.
Despite these difficulties, I
know that the most significant
piece of knowledge that we
share with one another is the
mutual understanding that I
love her very much. I will never
be able to thank her for the lit-
eral life she has given me and
the life I continue to live to this
day. Her story teaches me that
even in the deepest trenches
of đau khổ, there always exists
some form of hope.
PHOTO COURTESY OF AUTHOR
By KHANG HUYNH
MiC Contributor