Nan’s Papaya
My Mother who was pregnant with me fled North Vietnam by boat on a bitter cold December night in 1968. She left from the port of Hai Phong located along the Red river. The only belongings she took with her were stuffed inside a pillow case, except for the gold Buddhist medallion that she wore around her neck. Everyday life was difficult for Ma in the north. Ma was an orphan until the age of nine. At that time she was adopted by a family who worked a rice field. She suffered much abuse from her adoptive family. Her story of being beaten and having her head shoved into boiling rice water while cooking in the field was testament to her abuse. My Ma’s only happiness came when she met and fell in love with a soldier from Hanoi. Of the few times they met privately, I was conceived. He soon left her and she never saw him again. She said he was killed in the war, but I think that is just her way of making him a hero in a story she tells me to this day. That young North Vietnamese soldier was my Father who I never met. Upon stepping onto the boat at the dock of the Red river, my mother never looked back. She was leaving the country of her birth, but there was no sadness. She knew she must find a new life for the both of us if we were to survive. My Ma arrived in South Vietnam with me insider her belly in January 1969. Even before I was born I knew she did it for me. So, on a cool February night in the Province of Ba Xuyen, South Vietnam, I was born. The story goes that I was born upon a full moon, an omen of beauty and independence. Omens are strong medicine in Vietnam, so I became what I was intended to be. My name is Nan and I grew into a beautiful and headstrong young girl.
My first memory of life with Ma was when I was around three or four years of age. I recall living in a small white cinder block home located on the second floor of a retail building. Later I would learn that the first floor sold fine silks to the ladies of the town. The silk would be sewn into beautiful Ao Dais, the traditional dress worn by the fine women of Vietnam. My Ma would pay our rent by sewing these dresses for our landlord’s customers. My Ma was a wonderful seamstress. Although she could not afford the silk, she made her own Ao Dai out of cotton, and I recall the delicate beauty and lightness of Ma’s Ao Dai as we walked to the market on the weekend. Even with the loud noises and the strong smells of the market, I felt special as I walked along side of this beautiful and proud woman. In my mind, I wanted to grow up and be just like her.
When I turned five years of age, Mr. Nguyen, our landlord offered Ma a small plot of his backyard to plant flowers and herbs. He made it very clear this was not to be for anything but flowers and herbs. No vegetables, no trees, nothing else. He did not want any plant that spread their vines to the sky crowding out the precious sunlight in his garden. My Ma agreed enthusiastically, and then all the more emphatically Mr. Nguyen repeated, “No vegetables, no trees!” That night I took pencil and paper and drew out a garden diagram with a papaya tree. One little papaya tree couldn’t hurt. I was so delighted! I would find the right spot, plant the seeds, and from my account I would enjoy the taste of green papaya salad by next year. When Ma would make the papaya salad, she would top it off with boiled shrimp, peanuts, chili peppers, and mint. I thought about the taste of it as I gave Ma the garden diagram that night. I made her sign it saying “I promise to plant my daughter Nan a papaya tree in the garden, love Ma.” I took the promissory note, neatly folded it up and put it away with all that was valuable to me. I wanted that papaya tree and Ma’s promise would make it so.
1974 was a turbulent time in South Vietnam. The American soldiers had left, and the Regular South Vietnamese Army didn’t want to fight the ever advancing Viet Minh army from the North. I didn’t understand all of this as a young five year old, but I could tell things were different in our province. I could hear the sound of shells exploding in the night. I could see the worry on the faces of Mr. Nguyen’s customers. Ma’s backlog in work began to dry up and an air of gloom filled the eyes of those that Ma did business with. The garden went unplanted that year, with promises to plant the best garden ever next spring, complete with a papaya tree whether Mr. Nguyen liked it or not.
For the remainder of the year we lived meagerly on rice, a vegetable dish, and occasionally a piece of fish, or a piece of fruit. Soon it was 1975 and time for Tet celebration, which is our Vietnamese lunar new year. It is the most important festival in Vietnam. Ma surprised me with a beautiful Ao Dai that she had made from scraps of silk from the past year. It was a pair of white silk pants, with a blue tunic. I didn’t have shoes to wear with it so I found my best pair of rubber soled sandals and put them on. As I modeled it for Ma I felt like a butterfly princess. As I fell asleep in Ma’s arms that night, I felt loved. She carried me to bed and tucked me in still wearing my new outfit. The next morning I delighted in knowing this wasn’t just a dream, and I was still a beautiful princess.
Mr. Nguyen invited us that New Year’s Day to come to his home early to visit and pay respects. Mr. Nguyen greeted us at the front door and presented me with lucky money stuffed inside a red envelope. I gave him a traditional greeting my Ma taught me. I practiced it many times to make sure I would get it correct. “I hope you live for one hundred years Mr. Nguyen.” With that greeting all the pleasantries were complete. Now we could eat all the special foods that were placed on the table by the Nguyen family. We were the guests today and it was Mr. Nguyen who was the host and servant. I saw a side of Mr. Nguyen that I had never seen before. I saw him smile, and heard his laugh for the first time in my life. I wish I would have known that this was going to be the last time I would see him. I would have told him thank you for allowing us to live above his store for the past few years. He had offered us a home. Something he didn't have to do. I think he was a good man at heart and I still think about him and his family to this day. I was told that Mr. Nguyen was taken from his home by the insurgent North Vietnamese army that week. He was never to be seen again by his family. His wife continued to run the store until April of that year.
April 29, 1975 was my last day in South Vietnam. The North Vietnamese army rolled in to our province that morning with their tanks, each one sporting a flag with a large yellow star upon a red background. It was the flag of the Viet Minh. That morning Ma gathered all she could in a pillowcase, and we both left our home not looking back. Ma cried on our journey down to the Saigon River harbor. Ma's gold buddhist medallion was the price she paid for our passage on a small overcrowded shrimp boat, a boat that would ultimately take us out into the South China Sea. As we both sat on the deck of that tiny boat Ma looked at me and told me how sorry she was, and apologized to me for how difficult our life was. She cried and said she missed her sewing machine. I told her something that she still remembers to this day, and we both laugh about it still. I told her I knew we would be fine. When she asked me how I knew this, I pulled out the small folded diagram of our garden that she had signed with her promise. I held it close to her weary face in the dimming light of the evening. “Ma, remember you told me you would plant me a papaya tree? You promised ma, and I’m going to make you keep that promise."
After being rescued by a United States Navy ship a few days later we were given sandwiches and a cold glass of milk. I still remember how good the milk tasted, and I still to this day think of milk as a luxury. That was thirty three years ago. And yes, Ma did plant me that tree. Only it was in Florida. A promise is a promise.
Post Script: My Ma passed away two weeks after I wrote this. Ma never got to hear me read this story to her. She went to sleep and never awoke. Now she can finally get the rest she so deserves. We had a beautiful Buddhist ceremony in Houston, Texas last month at the temple in her honor. Afterwards all the children gathered to remember Ma. We celebrated her life as she would have wanted us to. That night I prepared green papaya salad for my family and wept.
My first memory of life with Ma was when I was around three or four years of age. I recall living in a small white cinder block home located on the second floor of a retail building. Later I would learn that the first floor sold fine silks to the ladies of the town. The silk would be sewn into beautiful Ao Dais, the traditional dress worn by the fine women of Vietnam. My Ma would pay our rent by sewing these dresses for our landlord’s customers. My Ma was a wonderful seamstress. Although she could not afford the silk, she made her own Ao Dai out of cotton, and I recall the delicate beauty and lightness of Ma’s Ao Dai as we walked to the market on the weekend. Even with the loud noises and the strong smells of the market, I felt special as I walked along side of this beautiful and proud woman. In my mind, I wanted to grow up and be just like her.
When I turned five years of age, Mr. Nguyen, our landlord offered Ma a small plot of his backyard to plant flowers and herbs. He made it very clear this was not to be for anything but flowers and herbs. No vegetables, no trees, nothing else. He did not want any plant that spread their vines to the sky crowding out the precious sunlight in his garden. My Ma agreed enthusiastically, and then all the more emphatically Mr. Nguyen repeated, “No vegetables, no trees!” That night I took pencil and paper and drew out a garden diagram with a papaya tree. One little papaya tree couldn’t hurt. I was so delighted! I would find the right spot, plant the seeds, and from my account I would enjoy the taste of green papaya salad by next year. When Ma would make the papaya salad, she would top it off with boiled shrimp, peanuts, chili peppers, and mint. I thought about the taste of it as I gave Ma the garden diagram that night. I made her sign it saying “I promise to plant my daughter Nan a papaya tree in the garden, love Ma.” I took the promissory note, neatly folded it up and put it away with all that was valuable to me. I wanted that papaya tree and Ma’s promise would make it so.
1974 was a turbulent time in South Vietnam. The American soldiers had left, and the Regular South Vietnamese Army didn’t want to fight the ever advancing Viet Minh army from the North. I didn’t understand all of this as a young five year old, but I could tell things were different in our province. I could hear the sound of shells exploding in the night. I could see the worry on the faces of Mr. Nguyen’s customers. Ma’s backlog in work began to dry up and an air of gloom filled the eyes of those that Ma did business with. The garden went unplanted that year, with promises to plant the best garden ever next spring, complete with a papaya tree whether Mr. Nguyen liked it or not.
For the remainder of the year we lived meagerly on rice, a vegetable dish, and occasionally a piece of fish, or a piece of fruit. Soon it was 1975 and time for Tet celebration, which is our Vietnamese lunar new year. It is the most important festival in Vietnam. Ma surprised me with a beautiful Ao Dai that she had made from scraps of silk from the past year. It was a pair of white silk pants, with a blue tunic. I didn’t have shoes to wear with it so I found my best pair of rubber soled sandals and put them on. As I modeled it for Ma I felt like a butterfly princess. As I fell asleep in Ma’s arms that night, I felt loved. She carried me to bed and tucked me in still wearing my new outfit. The next morning I delighted in knowing this wasn’t just a dream, and I was still a beautiful princess.
Mr. Nguyen invited us that New Year’s Day to come to his home early to visit and pay respects. Mr. Nguyen greeted us at the front door and presented me with lucky money stuffed inside a red envelope. I gave him a traditional greeting my Ma taught me. I practiced it many times to make sure I would get it correct. “I hope you live for one hundred years Mr. Nguyen.” With that greeting all the pleasantries were complete. Now we could eat all the special foods that were placed on the table by the Nguyen family. We were the guests today and it was Mr. Nguyen who was the host and servant. I saw a side of Mr. Nguyen that I had never seen before. I saw him smile, and heard his laugh for the first time in my life. I wish I would have known that this was going to be the last time I would see him. I would have told him thank you for allowing us to live above his store for the past few years. He had offered us a home. Something he didn't have to do. I think he was a good man at heart and I still think about him and his family to this day. I was told that Mr. Nguyen was taken from his home by the insurgent North Vietnamese army that week. He was never to be seen again by his family. His wife continued to run the store until April of that year.
April 29, 1975 was my last day in South Vietnam. The North Vietnamese army rolled in to our province that morning with their tanks, each one sporting a flag with a large yellow star upon a red background. It was the flag of the Viet Minh. That morning Ma gathered all she could in a pillowcase, and we both left our home not looking back. Ma cried on our journey down to the Saigon River harbor. Ma's gold buddhist medallion was the price she paid for our passage on a small overcrowded shrimp boat, a boat that would ultimately take us out into the South China Sea. As we both sat on the deck of that tiny boat Ma looked at me and told me how sorry she was, and apologized to me for how difficult our life was. She cried and said she missed her sewing machine. I told her something that she still remembers to this day, and we both laugh about it still. I told her I knew we would be fine. When she asked me how I knew this, I pulled out the small folded diagram of our garden that she had signed with her promise. I held it close to her weary face in the dimming light of the evening. “Ma, remember you told me you would plant me a papaya tree? You promised ma, and I’m going to make you keep that promise."
After being rescued by a United States Navy ship a few days later we were given sandwiches and a cold glass of milk. I still remember how good the milk tasted, and I still to this day think of milk as a luxury. That was thirty three years ago. And yes, Ma did plant me that tree. Only it was in Florida. A promise is a promise.
Post Script: My Ma passed away two weeks after I wrote this. Ma never got to hear me read this story to her. She went to sleep and never awoke. Now she can finally get the rest she so deserves. We had a beautiful Buddhist ceremony in Houston, Texas last month at the temple in her honor. Afterwards all the children gathered to remember Ma. We celebrated her life as she would have wanted us to. That night I prepared green papaya salad for my family and wept.
nice story. I love it :)
ReplyDeleteThank you very much Sam.
ReplyDeletehi Kim! Have you stopped writing? I deleted my blogspot.blog and created a new one in Wordpress. Feel free to check it out: http://bucketofblessings.wordpress.com See you around!
ReplyDelete