Life's Too Short

I just can’t help myself. I want it so bad. I stooped to taking the kids to a Pizza Hut in Saigon. Pizza Hut. I don’t think they’d ever been to Pizza Hut in their entire lives. But I was walking down a high traffic street with a kid in each hand, trying to navigate an inconsistent and sometimes non-existent sidewalk, sharing the road with passing vehicles, dodging puddles and other pedestrians, maneuvering around parked motorcycles and business store fronts, all while looking for a place to eat lunch. We had just come from a park playground and the kids were hot and sweaty, as was I. I needed to find an air-conditioned facility that sold food, and I needed to find it fast. The boy had already started whining about having to walk too far even though we’d only been walking for about 30 seconds. Our options were extremely limited. I saw a KFC on the next block but decided to press on. Then I saw a Pizza Hut across the street. It beckoned to me, with the promise of air conditioning, clean tables, ice cold beverages, slices of greasy, cheesy, doughy goodness, a slice of America. The kids assented and in no time we were behind the glass doors ordering a medium pepperoni, sausage, onion and bell pepper supreme with two sodas. It was terrible. The crust was soggy, the pepperoni dry and burnt, and the ground meat tasted rotten. And it was tiny. Ordinarily that might have been a problem but two small slices per person of this awful stuff was plenty enough. Never again. From now on I’m holding out for Grimaldi’s. The kids, having unrefined and undiscerning palates, didn’t mind the pizza at all and wolfed down their slices.

 

I took the kids to eat pho for lunch. We were sitting at one of those casual outdoor eateries that are so common in VN, on a side street about half a block down from the main thoroughfare where my aunt’s apartment building is located. As I was spooning noodles and broth into the kids, I looked up and saw something moving on the ground several yards from us. It was a man lying on his side at the corner of the intersection, dragging himself across the street to the next corner. He was propped up on his right elbow, which was cushioned by some sort of thinly padded shield, and his shriveled, limp legs dragged uselessly behind him. It must have taken him a full five minutes to cross the street, all the while lying almost completely prone on a high traffic street, with motorcycles, cars, and trucks whizzing by or turning the corner barely inches away from his head or his feet. I was horrified. My first thought was, Oh my God, it’s so hot! It was a little after noon, the hottest part of the day, and we were baking under the shade of an awning. Whenever we had to walk anywhere, we would race as quickly as possible to our destination because anything more than a few minutes of exposure to heavy pollution and direct sunlight was unbearable. This man’s entire body was laying on hot black asphalt, the merciless midday sun beating down on him as he inhaled exhaust fumes from passing vehicles. I can barely tolerate breathing exhaust fumes while walking around, but this man’s head was only a few inches from the ground, putting his face directly in the path of countless exhaust pipes. It was a miracle that he wasn’t run over or mutilated even though he was literally lying on the side of a busy street with vehicles moving dangerously close to him. What was more astonishing was the fact that, although drivers must have been taking care to avoid hitting him, no one seemed to notice him. I felt like I was the only one staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed. To everyone else, he was ordinary. He didn’t garner any lingering looks, any double takes. Motorcyclists who were turning at the intersection he was trying to cross came so close to him that they could have touched him with their feet, yet none of them gave him a second glance. He was utterly mundane.

I didn’t get a good look at his face because he was laying with his back toward us, but I could see that he wasn’t an old man. He might have been my age, perhaps younger. His feet were bare. He was wearing what once, long ago, might have been a nice pair of dark slacks and a white button down shirt, but which were so old and tattered that they were little more than rags. Maybe a decade or two ago, in much better circumstances, his outfit would have been presentable in a business casual office. The idea that at some point he had wanted and tried to be dignified, to look respectable, struck me as tragic. The sight of him was so shocking that I stared at him the entire time he was dragging his body across the street, unable to tear my eyes away. Eventually the kids noticed him too, and the girl pointed and asked, “What is that?” I could see her trying to process what she was seeing and her confusion over why anyone would be doing what he was doing. The boy looked at him and then looked at me, his baby eyebrows furrowed in genuine concern, and asked, “Momma, why isn’t anyone helping him?”

It was such a simple and forthright and obvious question coming from an innocent three-year-old, and it broke my heart. The girl chimed in as well so that both children were inquiring again and again, “Why isn’t anyone helping him?” I had no response for them other than to repeat, “I don’t know, I don’t know.” At one point a motorcyclist pulled over and bent down to him and relief flooded through me. Finally, I thought, someone’s here to get him. I wondered if it was a family member, maybe a brother or a cousin, and briefly resented this person. What kind of person leaves a crippled relative lying in the street to drag himself around? Why wasn’t this poor man’s family taking better care of him? Then I noticed the crippled man and the motorcyclist exchanging what looked like money or pieces of paper. Maybe the motorcyclist wasn’t a relative after all, maybe he was one of those motorcycle taxi drivers (xe om) that a lone passenger can rent instead of a taxicab. Maybe he took pity on the crippled man and pulled over to give him a ride, or maybe they had an understanding and the crippled man was a regular customer. But then the motorcyclist climbed back on his motorcycle and rode off. What was that about? It happened twice more while I watched, and I realized that the motorcyclists were pulling over to buy lottery tickets from the crippled man, who dispensed them from a black cloth satchel slung over his shoulder. Street beggars rarely beg for money outright anymore; they sell lottery tickets instead. I don’t remember lottery tickets being so ubiquitous the first time we came to VN almost 14 years ago, but now they’re offered to us every time we sit down at an eatery, sometimes multiple times over the course of a meal. We automatically shake our heads at solicitors offering lottery tickets, always avoiding eye contact with them, and turn them away so often that we’ve become indifferent to all beggars and solicitors, if for no reason other than not wanting to trouble ourselves with pulling out our money all the time. Although initially it struck me as callous of the motorcyclists to leave a crippled man lying prostrate in the street after they had purchased their lotto tickets, I realized they were at least helping him. I don’t know why I had expected/hoped that they would pick him up and carry him away. They were doing more than other motorists who sped by without glancing at him, and they were doing more for him than I was.

I felt miserable. I wanted to run over to the man and give him all the cash I was carrying. I wanted to hail a taxi and help him into it so he could get out of the glaring sun. I wanted to put him up in some sort of a hostel or inn and tell him he didn’t need to drag himself around on the street anymore, beg him not to do it because I couldn’t bear to see it. There were so many things I wanted to do and felt like I should do, and yet a part of me knew that I wasn’t going to do any of them. I could say that I didn’t want to leave my kids at an outdoor pho shop while I ran down the block to execute good samaritan deeds, but the real reason was that I didn’t want to see this man up close. As riveted as I was watching him from afar, it pained me. I didn’t want to see him at all, let alone approach him and talk to him. I didn’t want him to exist, because his very existence was forcing me to acknowledge that he was real, his suffering was real, his poverty was real, and there were other people in the world like him. Even though there are homeless people in the U.S. who are disabled, the sight of this man would be shocking to Americans. This level of destitution would be hard for most Americans to imagine. If I had had my phone with me, I would have taken a picture of him, as exploitative as that sounds. There’s American poverty, and then there’s Vietnamese poverty, which is in a class of its own. I don’t like to think that this man and people like him are part of a legacy that my children will inherit. We live in an age in which things like wifi are possible, why can’t we as a society figure out how to eradicate this level of human suffering? Why not eliminate unnecessary animal suffering while we’re at it? How can I live with myself knowing that this man is out there, living the life he’s living, while I go on feeding pho to my kids and planning vacations at four star resorts? How on earth could I possibly care about things like plush bath towels and artisan cheese? These are all rhetorical questions because I know I have the capacity to get over it and continue living my life as I always have. As distraught as I was, the memory of him will fade; the sensation of shocked horror has already begun to wane.

I often feel guilty when reflecting on my good fortune and blessed life. Encountering the less fortunate evokes mixed feelings and reactions, not all of which I’m proud of. Watching this man drag his body across the street made me think of things like “quality of life” and “euthanasia.” What kind of awful person am I to think that his life wasn’t worth living, when he apparently thought it was? I didn’t want him to exist. Why? Because of pity, and empathy for his suffering? Or because the sight of him was so distressing? I was grateful when a massive truck rounded the corner and parked, finally blocking him from my view.

I tend to lump my reactions into three categories: #1) wanting to dedicate my life to charitable and philanthropic causes and leave my children a world that’s in better condition than when I entered it, #2) throwing my hands up in despair at the enormity of the world’s problems and the impossibility of solving them, and being depressed about the unfairness of life, and #3) turning a blind eye to the plight of others and enjoying my life as much as possible while trying not to make things worse, but not making an effort to make things better. I alternate among these reactions all the time. Committing myself solely to one category seems extreme and unworkable, but does dabbling in category #1 exonerate me for devoting most of my time to category #3? Wallowing in category #2 doesn’t do anyone any good but I still waste energy there. Category #1 is the noblest option and seems like the obvious choice, but for me, categories #1 and #2 go hand in hand. Doing pro bono work for underprivileged children has afforded me some of the most rewarding experiences of my life, but at times has also led to soul-crushing disillusionment and hopelessness. The forces of history, poverty, demographics, socioeconomic factors, culture, class, among so many others, seem too powerful to overcome. Struggling against them feels futile, a proverbial drop in a gargantuan bucket of fucked-upness. So if you know you can’t “fix” a systemic problem, should you give up and not try? I’ve posed this question to myself and others from time to time. I think I came to the conclusion that incremental improvements are better than none at all.

When I saw the crippled man, I thought to myself that the money in my wallet could improve his life for several weeks, maybe months. If I withdrew money from an ATM I could change his life for a year. But then what? After my money ran out, what would become of him? Nothing would change in the long-term, would it? He would still be selling lottery tickets while dragging his body on the ground. What was the point of trying to help him? The point was that I could have eased his suffering for a week, a month, perhaps more. But I didn’t. I didn’t do anything.

We decided to head into Saigon after almost a week back at my uncle’s mansion in Long Khanh. My uncle’s household is always bummed when my kids leave. Everyone says the mansion feels empty and lonely without them. My kids are the popular kids. They’re favorites among the younger cousins, even though they seem to prefer playing with each other over playing with their cousins. They’re beloved by and sought out by their playmates, even when they don’t reciprocate those feelings. They definitely have their annoying moments, but on the whole they’re better behaved than their VN cousins. They don’t scream and shriek the way one cousin does, nor do they bully others the way another cousin does, nor are they disrespectful like a couple of their cousins. They’re so beloved because they’re sweet, lovable children. Obviously my judgment is suspect, but when I observe my kids interacting with others, I’m usually filled with pride and only occasionally disappointed or ashamed. They’re kinder, more courteous, and less selfish than their peers. They don’t hit (at least, that’s not how they automatically react). They come when they’re called. They *generally* do as they’re told (which sometimes requires coercive persuasion). They pick up after themselves (with reminders and guidance). They’re smart, incredibly verbal, fun-loving, and almost always in a good mood. Sometimes too good — their constant giggling and horseplay can grate on your nerves when you just want some peace and quiet. But that’s a minor complaint considering how well-mannered they are at ages 3 and 4. They’re not perfect by any means; sometimes I worry that we’re conditioning them to be too submissive and they won’t be able to stand up for themselves or resolve conflicts without running to us and whining about every grievance. They tend to whine a lot. But more than once I’ve felt justified in whispering to their father, “Our kids are better than everyone else’s.”

I tend to whine about taking care of them, but I wouldn’t want anyone else doing it. Childcare isn’t exactly intellectually stimulating (sometimes it’s just plain boring), but its rewards are so much richer, so much more worthwhile than drafting a contract. Spending so much uninterrupted time with them, including our forced co-sleeping arrangement, has bonded me to my children more deeply and powerfully than I can describe. I will never regret this time with them; I’m lucky to have it. For the rest of our lives my daughter and I will be able to tell people that I taught her how to read when she was four years old. It’s such a special experience and I’m so proud of her and so proud to be a part of it. My son is not quite as teachable. He’s very emotional; quick to anger but also quick to forgive and forget. Even while he’s being disciplined, all he wants to do to is kiss and hug and make up. He can’t stand feeling unloved. It’s exhausting and endearing how much my kids crave my love and attention. They love me so unconditionally and they are so precious to me that sometimes I feel like my heart cannot contain my love for them; it’s fit to burst.

Tom and I joke about being terrible parents but the truth is we must be doing something right. I have faith and every reason to believe that my children will grow into kind, loving, and good people, because that’s who they are now. If I can just keep them that way and not mess them up too much then I’ve accomplished something meaningful with my life.

On a whim we asked a cousin to drive us to a liquor store so we could buy a bottle of red wine. VN people aren’t big wine drinkers and the beer selection is paltry. There’s only a handful of beers to choose from and Heineken is considered the best, so that tells you everything you need to know. We bought a cheap Malbec because we didn’t want to splurge on an expensive bottle when transportation and temperature control are highly unreliable in VN. While looking around I happened to spy a single solitary bottle of Veuve Clicquot — for US$12. It was so unbelievably cheap I had to grab it. I was overjoyed, until Tom convinced me that it was a fake. Counterfeits are a huge problem here, popping up everywhere among designer goods, medication, cosmetics, liquor, you name it.

I’ve been dying for some champagne-worthy occasion or snacks but those are surprisingly rare in VN. We have access to a billion different types of fish to eat with rice but tortilla chips are nowhere to be found, so chips and salsa will have to remain a distant memory. Charcuterie and artisan cheeses are out of the question. A quest for cheese will get you wedges of super-processed Laughing Cow. Out of desperation, we opted for roast pork sandwiches and random snack chips — which come in flavors like “roasted squid” — from the local convenience store. Not ideal, but they were being paired with a $12 bottle of champagne, so what’s the harm?

Maybe it’s been too long since I’ve had champagne but I thought the Veuve Clicquot tasted authentic. It brought me to my happy place so it was real enough for me. Now we just have to figure out what to eat with our Malbec. Our daily fare of fish stewed in fish sauce probably isn’t going to work.

It’s a silent mantra that I repeat to myself when I’m around my mother. “Do not lose your temper. Do not lose your temper. Do not lose your temper. Do not lose your temper.” It requires an extraordinary amount of self control on my part to not snap at her. Almost everything she does and says drives me nuts. Admittedly, I’m overly sensitive and not very patient towards her. Hence the mantra.

Growing up, my mom was my hero. I was so proud of her, of her strength, her sheer grit, her survival instincts, her ability to provide for us better than any first generation immigrant mother that I knew. She was awesome, and I knew without a doubt that she loved me. Not everyone can say that about their mom. Throughout my life she was one of my best friends. I confided in her and trusted her opinion.

Then she went through menopause, moved in with us, and got all weird and crazy. I honestly don’t remember her being as much of a nag as she is now. She can’t ever refrain from commenting on what I’m doing to tell me how to do it, whether it’s sweeping the floor, drizzling soy sauce on my daughter’s rice, or washing my face. I just want to shout at her, “I’M 35 YEARS OLD GODDAMMIT!!! I FUCKING KNOW HOW TO SWEEP/DRIZZLE SOY SAUCE/WASH MY FACE!!!!!!!! STOP TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!!!!!!!!!!!” It’s maddening to have your mother hovering over your shoulder, giving you instructions while you’re making instant noodles or frying an egg. I’ve been making a concerted effort to hold my tongue, settling instead for sullen shrugs.

Two things that bother me the most are her negativity and compulsions that border on pathological obsessions. Being around her is kind of a buzzkill. She’s always complaining about something, either about herself or someone else. She has chronic insomnia, indigestion, and heartburn, symptoms that are all related to each other but for which she won’t follow any sustained course of treatment, preferring instead to just bemoan her ailing health and prophesy her early demise. My flippancy might seem cruel, but after months and years of badgering her about her health and forcing her to see a doctor and fill her prescriptions, my concern has morphed into frustration. Everything is always gloom and doom with her, when it doesn’t have to be. She also has a habit of seeing the worst in everyone and thinking the worst of everything. And because I’ve always been in the habit of valuing her opinion, once she plants an idea in my head, it takes root and becomes hard to yank out. On more than a few occasions she’s ruined an experience or a person for me by broadcasting her negative opinions. It’s hard for me to like someone that my mother doesn’t like, even if her reasons for not liking that person are completely ridiculous and irrational. She still has so much power and influence over me, which is precisely why I get so riled up by her. If I could stop caring about her opinion, I could stop caring whether she had a negative one.

I don’t know at which point my mom started being so obsessive compulsive. She will verbalize something that sounds like a suggestion. Except you realize it’s not a suggestion because she will mention it over and over and over again, every five minutes, until her “suggestion,” which is actually a rabid compulsion, is addressed. She doesn’t make suggestions; she makes demands that are disguised as suggestions. One of her compulsions is force-feeding my kids. All the expert advice and literature I’ve read indicates that it’s bad to force feed kids. I’m against it, and I’ve explained to my mother countless times why it’s bad for kids, physically and psychologically. And yet we go through the same tortuous routine at almost every meal. Just as we’re about to sit down to eat, she “suggests” that we feed the kids. I tell her practically EVERY SINGLE DAY that we’ll eat first and take care of the kids after we’re done eating. First of all, the food is too hot to start feeding them right away, and secondly, it’s stupid to try to feed an unwilling child at the same time as you’re trying to feed yourself. Stupid, inefficient, and unnecessary. No matter — she’ll keep suggesting, “Should we try to feed the kids this? Should we try to feed the kids that? How about this? How about that? How about this? How about that?” She’ll inevitably end up trying to feed the kids while she’s eating, and they’ll inevitably start crying and screaming that it’s too hot or refuse to eat and we’ll have to endure the distracting and very unpleasant spectacle of watching my mother juggle three eaters, two of whom do not want to be eating. It’s torture for all parties involved and it’s torture to watch. She’s quick to lose her temper and start yelling when the kids don’t want to eat, which is the majority of the time. The sounds of shrill scolding and whining children definitely detract from my enjoyment of the meal. And she has it in her head that our kids can and should eat as much as we do. If they manage to finish their bowls, she’ll scoop more, and force feed them until they cry or gag. That’s not how I want my kids to experience food. If they’ve already been eating for an hour and it’s going to take another hour for them to finish their food, I’m all for throwing in the towel. They don’t need those last few bites of rice. They’ll live. It’s not worth sacrificing the time or sanity, and it’s not healthy to make them eat more than they reasonably can. I can tell my mother these things until I’m blue in the face but when mealtimes arrive, she reverts back to her demented fixation on getting them to eat until they want to throw up. She’s also a terrible listener; constantly jumping to conclusions, cutting you off, or not paying attention at all.

For these and other reasons it seems easier to take care of the kids without her interference. It seems easier to relax and enjoy myself in general without her interference. Her presence puts me on edge; I’m practically bristling with annoyance when she’s around. It’s hard for me to be around someone who’s impatient and incapable of chilling out. More and more I find that I crave peace and serenity; I want to be surrounded by calmness. I don’t want to fight and I don’t want to hear fighting. Tom tells me that my mom is never going to change her behavior, so it’s up to me to change mine. It’s hard because I’m just as quick-tempered as she is. I have to let things roll off my back. It’s easier for me to let something go once I vent about it. Good thing I have a husband and a blog.

One of Tom’s cousins in Phan Thiet hit us up for roughly US$200. This cousin is unemployed and had to borrow money from a friend to buy medication for his teenage daughter. At least that’s what he told Tom. Being unemployed, he has no means to repay this debt, so he’s forced to ask us for the money (to his great embarrassment). At least that’s what he told Tom. Neither of us know this cousin very well, so we don’t know how trustworthy he is. The suspicious/cynical part of me thinks, what if he’s making up this story about his daughter to take advantage of our sympathy? She doesn’t seem sick at all. Another part of me thinks, stop being such a stingy, distrusting jerk and give the poor guy a break.

Tom and I try to be as generous as we can toward our VN relatives because we know how obscenely rich we are compared to them, but we have certain limits when it comes to cash gifts. We give based on perceived need and generally draw the line at our generation. We have no problem gifting cash to our parents’ generation and older, i.e. aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. We generally don’t gift cash to our generation and younger, i.e. cousins, nieces, nephews, etc. Mainly because members of our generation and our kids’ generation should, theoretically, still have earning capacity, while members of our parents’ generation are, for the most part, retired and often barely scraping by. Many grown children continue to live with or near their parents after they get married, so it’s more efficient to give to the parents who can dole out funds to their kids and grandkids as necessary. Plus there are just way too many cousins, nieces, and nephews for us to be able to give meaningful contributions to everyone. We’re not that rich. So it’s a little disconcerting to be asked point blank for money by a cousin. In a way it’s unfair to other cousins who could have just as much or even greater need, other cousins who are too timid or ashamed to ask. And what would this cousin have done if we didn’t happen to be visiting Phan Thiet? How was he planning on repaying this debt if we had never showed up? On the other hand, (we’re hoping) he wouldn’t have asked unless he really needed the money. And even though the amount is two month’s worth of wages for the average VN worker, it wouldn’t make much of a dent in our finances. We can afford to give him the money, and he knows it. The cost of our hotel rooms easily exceeded that amount, and we chose to stay in hotels rather than staying with relatives. The fact that he knows we have the money puts us in an awkward position. We can’t really say no without seeming like cheap assholes.

My suspicious/cynical side also wonders if this cousin’s request wasn’t the result of a deliberately strategic calculation. It was as if he knew the optimal amount to ask for. The last time we were in Phan Thiet, we gave his elderly parents (Tom’s aunt and uncle) US$300 to buy an air conditioner for their bedroom. I feel like he knew not to ask for that much, because it would be inappropriate for him to receive the same as or more than his parents. He didn’t ask for a smaller amount because we would have much more readily given him $50 or $100. He asked for exactly the maximum of what we’d be willing to give. Is it a coincidence that his daughter’s medication costed that much? Am I a jerk for thinking these things?

If we honor this cousin’s request, our total cash gifts to his family would be disproportionate compared to other families we’ve visited. Ultimately, we decided to give him the money, because we could. I was swayed by something I read recently, about never regretting kindness. Even if we wind up duped, swindled, or cheated, we won’t ever feel shame for treating someone kindly. There’s a much greater risk of feeling shame or regret for not being as good to someone as you could have, when you had the chance.

Too many of my days have been blurring into each other and blending together in a monotonous cycle of childcare, eating, napping, dishwashing, and avoiding other chores. Some days we just putz around the mansion and don’t go outside at all. I’m philosophically opposed to doing strenuous housework during my sabbatical, but at the same time I can’t stand feeling like a freeloader. As much as I say I don’t care, it’s hard not to care. I feel like I should do more; I just don’t want to. So we decided to take off. Originally the plan was to revisit Tom’s family in Phan Thiet for a few days, but since there’s no reason to hurry back to Long Khanh, we’ll probably extend our stay until we’ve worn out our welcome in Phan Thiet. I’m willing to go to great lengths to avoid housework (or more accurately, to avoid feeling guilty about not doing housework).

Our last overnight stay in Phan Thiet was kind of a disaster and definitely not comfortable, so we booked a room at a 4 star hotel resort for our first two nights back in Phan Thiet, a very affordable splurge at US$70 per night. After spending the day with Tom’s relatives, we made our apologies and excuses and withdrew from their company — but not before getting transported to our luxury accommodations via motorbikes. We were dropped off in front of a relatively opulent lobby and welcomed with scented washcloths and flutes of dragon fruit cocktails. We checked into a comfortable room with a clean bathroom. We were in heaven. H-E-A-V-E-N. For the first time in months, we were perfectly comfortable by American standards. There wasn’t anything special about the room or the bathroom. The furnishings and decor were basic. In the U.S. this room and its amenities would be ranked probably closer to 3 stars and we’ve certainly stayed at nicer hotels. But it completely blew all of our other VN accommodations out of the water. It was a little pathetic how much we enjoyed this room, and a little shocking to realize how much we missed home. I don’t think I’ll ever again take for granted a real mattress with clean sheets that don’t have any holes in them, air conditioning at the press of a button, plush oversized bath towels that don’t stink after one use, unlimited quantities of hot water, or a sparkling white bathroom free of mildew and rust. I don’t know why these creature comforts have become indispensable to me, but they have. If I didn’t particularly care about these things before, I certainly do now, to the point that I don’t think I can be truly happy without them. I read about people who suffer real deprivations, characters who are tortured or thrown into solitary confinement, or victims of horrifically inhumane treatment. Being imprisoned in a windowless cell without access to water, sunlight, or any reasonable means to empty one’s bowels is almost as inconceivable to me as it’s appalling. I’m the type of person who can’t truly be happy without plush bath towels.

The hotel’s other perks included a fabulous breakfast buffet that offered real milk, not the sugary, reconstituted, ultra-preserved stuff that VN kids drink out of unrefrigerated cartons. After taking a sip, the girl, who’s not a fan of the VN version of milk, joyfully exclaimed “It’s real cow milk, like in North America!” We were also steps from our choice of a pristine beach or swimming pools, all of which were surrounded by comfy lounge chairs shaded by wide beach umbrellas. H-E-A-V-E-N. The only reminder that we were still in Vietnam was the presence of a cow that grazed on shrubbery near the beach, which we found to be charming. I got a little carried away with our brief taste of America because I succumbed to an ever-growing craving and ordered a Margherita pizza from the hotel restaurant. I got what tasted like a frozen cheese pizza. Served me right.

The two nights that we spent at the resort were so pleasurable that it was difficult to return to the “real” Vietnam — with its filth, mosquitoes, sweltering heat, revolting stenches, and gross bathrooms. I’m ill-equipped to deal with less than luxurious surroundings.

Not intentionally of course, but from what I remember of my law school torts class I’d be liable under theories of negligence and proximate cause or something like that. I have these really crappy $3 black flip flops that I bought from Target ages ago, which are my beach flip flops. I usually hide them under other shoes on a shoe rack in the garage. If you leave flip flops lying around and easily accessible, they become communal flip flops and anyone who wants to wear them will. I have a thing about other people wearing my shoes and the tread on these particular flip flops has completely worn away, making them treacherous on any wet surfaces, so I take care to hide all my footwear in the garage or in our bedroom.

After dinner last night, Tom had a hunkering for a VN roast pork sandwich sold from a cart about a block down the street. I was too lazy to run upstairs to grab real shoes so I fished out my crappy black flip flops from the shoe rack. Both kids had burst into tears of anguish at the thought of being separated from me for three minutes, so I took a kid in each hand and headed outside. At exactly that moment it began to rain and I almost slipped before we had descended the marble stairway in front of the mansion. I hesitated, thinking this was a bad idea because I was either going to break my neck or one of my kids’ necks, and started to turn back. My kids tugged on my arms as they reassured me, “Mom, it’s going to be okay. We’ll be alright.” I don’t know why but I was reassured and decided to go for it. We made our way down the stairs ever so slowly and carefully walked to the sandwich cart and back. As we took off our shoes at the front door, I made a split second decision to leave my flip flops outside overnight to dry.

The next morning I woke to gray skies and drizzling wetness. When I walked into the kitchen, Tom was grim-faced. “Auntie broke her arm this morning. She’s so sad, she looks like she’s about to cry.” I walked over to my poor aunt, who indeed looked like she was on the verge of tears, and expressed my sympathy and dismay. She had slipped on the front stairs and fractured a wrist bone when she cushioned her fall by landing on her left hand. The lightbulb did not go off in my head until one of the cousins came up behind me while I was washing dishes and admonished me to throw away my flip flops. “If it hadn’t been Auntie it could have been you!” Oh shit! It hadn’t occurred to me that she fell because she was wearing my treacherously crappy flip flops but in hindsight it seems so obvious and 100% predictable. By leaving my worn flip flops at the entrance on a rainy night, I had practically guaranteed that someone would slip and fall. I approached my aunt again as she was being comforted by her children and explained that I never left those particular flip flops out, I always hid them in the garage because I knew how slippery they were, and it was bad luck that I happened to run out to buy roast pork sandwiches the night before, the first time I had ever done so. “So those were your slippers?” she asked mournfully. I was crushed. Up until this point, I took comfort in the belief that my presence, while not particularly beneficial to anyone, wasn’t doing any harm. Now here was affirmative proof that I was no good. My aunt was going to have a cast and lose the use of one of her arms for months because I had been foolishly thoughtless. I felt so badly for her and for myself that tears welled up and I had to run up to our bedroom to sob inconsolably for a few minutes. I later went back to my aunt and apologized for being so careless and she shook her head while patting my arm, “No child, it wasn’t your fault. No child, no.” She’s such a sweet, gentle soul that tears threatened to well up again but I was grateful and relieved to hear that she didn’t blame me. After all, it was Tom who wanted the roast pork sandwich.

I realize I complain a lot for someone who doesn’t have real problems. They’re first world problems, which don’t count as real problems to a lot of people. I find that I often feel self-conscious and apologetic for thinking and acting the way I do; for being who I am, essentially. It’s true — I’m not a demure, deferential VN woman. I don’t lead a completely altruistic existence. I’m not a slave to family obligations and filial piety. I don’t do chores (at least not as much as I should). I’m not a morning person. I’m nothing like what a good VN girl should be. In fact, I’m as bad as a VN girl gets; I’m Americanized. An Americanized man is impressive, admirable, and desirable. An Americanized woman is the opposite of those things.

So what, I’m Americanized. I grew up in America. Of course I turned out to be an American woman, and damn proud of it. If my VN relatives had lived practically their entire lives in the U.S., they’d be Americanized too. They would think and act the way I do, maybe worse. They’d have my first world problems. They would feel entitled and superior and self-important. They would wear scandalous sleeveless tops. They would think that chores are a stupid and boring way to spend time.

In all fairness and as a disclaimer, I’m exaggerating for dramatic effect. VN isn’t the most oppressive place in the world for women, and its men aren’t all jerks. Some of them are helpful on occasion. And I’m really not so bad by VN standards; I’m actually fairly traditional, and docile enough. I’m just not a 100% traditional VN woman, and that’s okay. It’s also okay that I was worried about it and I’m no longer going to worry about it.

It’s important to have perspective, and to not be so wrapped up in yourself that you can’t see the big picture. But it’s silly to invalidate someone’s problems and feelings, including your own, because they might seem meaningless on some global, objective scale (if that even exists). Who’s to say what’s meaningful and what isn’t? My problems are real to me. My motivations and actions and reactions are a product of my upbringing and the circumstances that brought me to this point in my life. I don’t need to apologize for not thinking and behaving like a girl who was raised in VN. If I don’t feel like mopping a mansion, I’m not going to do it. And I’m not going to feel guilty or fret over not doing it. If people think I’m lazy, so what? I am lazy. Who cares if people think I’m a bad wife because I let my husband do chores so I don’t have to? So long as my husband thinks I’m a good wife — it’s his opinion that matters. And why am I obsessing about popularity and people’s opinions of me? Am I still in the seventh grade? Fuck that shit. I’m going to do what I want. I can complain if I want to. I don’t need to apologize for being me.