Saigon Girl

I was a crazy kid back then.

In 1976, Mom was living with her aunt in Saigon. Though it had been renamed, it was always Saigon to the Vietnamese refugees who fled in this decade.

I was completely fearless. I had so much energy, I was bouncing off the walls. I was a daredevil. All the boys were scared of me. No one could control me. 

As she described her audacious younger self, glorious memories of childhood shimmered in her eyes. She shook her head in awe of the kid she once was, and I waited impatiently for her to begin the story.

***

I was ten when my mom began telling me stories of her past. It’s our version of a bedtime story, but it’s actually a conversation that lasts hours and it’s about a scrappy girl rather than a heroic knight. When we sit side by side and she swirls the dregs of her wine glass, so immersed in the story she forgets to finish drinking… that’s when I feel closest to her.

“I’m going to write your stories one day,” I told her one day. I could see the whole narrative in my mind’s eye.

“Don’t do that.” So I didn’t—I didn’t step out of the lines often. But a year later, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I wrote this sitting not three feet from her.

Every story starts with a question. So I asked, “When you were little, how’d you get onto the roof?” 

She snorted. “That story? The one where I’m running around like a boy?” I could never tell if she was proud of this moment or not, but it’s a personal favorite. After recounting, she glanced at the empty page open on my computer.

I told her I was writing about witches. She turned back to her Chinese drama.

***

Thinking back, I was crazy! What kind of kid was I? I wasn’t a girl, that’s for sure. That’s what everyone told me. 

Girls don’t catch lizards. 

Girls don’t win fistfights.

Girls don’t jump over rooftops.

I must’ve thought I was Spider-Man or something. Hey… maybe that’s why I always loved the Spider-Man comics at the doctor’s office. Anyway—

There’s always a way onto the roof.

In that house, there was this area on the second floor that had no roof. When you entered, the kitchen was here…

She drew the house in the air with her hands, fisting her left hand to indicate the kitchen. Her right hand traced a path straight from the front door, up as it encountered some stairs, then scooting just a smidge to the right. She circled this area with her hand like she was washing a window.

Here. 

There were rods going across the open ceiling so you could hang laundry to dry. And I… oh my god. 

She covered her mouth—was this something she should tell her impressionable young daughter? Yes!

I would jump out of the window! Just—zhoop!

Her right hand leapt out of the imaginary house with the force of a jubilant rabbit. We cracked up. She waved her hands, destroying the house as she drew my attention back to the narration.

Outside the window, if you reached up, you could grab the rods. Then you could pull yourself up and stand on them. 

Houses in Saigon were roughly the same height and right up against each other. All you’d have to do is take a little jump—zhoop!—and you’d reach the next roof. And another—zhoop!—and you’d be on the next.

One day, I went further than I’d ever gone before. It was the oldest part of town. The roofs were further apart, so I took a big leap— 

Her hands, which had been making jumping motions, dropped to her lap. I sighed. I knew this would happen eventually. She missed the roof, fell, broke a leg. But instead of the expected “don’t go jumping off roofs” lecture, her cheeks lifted in hysterical laughter.

And my whole leg went through the roof!

She was having a real knee-slapper. “Wait… what?” I was stunned, but then she was slapping my knee too and I was bouncing in my seat as I demanded she continue. “What just happened?”

My foot—no, not just my foot—my leg. That entire leg went through the roof. Like—pow!

She punched the air like Spider-Man and guffawed again, grabbing my arm to hold herself up.

That’s not even the funniest part of it. Because my leg went through the roof—

“Mom, you’ve said that like, five times already!”

 —and through the ceiling, right above this poor woman’s soup pot! Imagine it! She’s just cooking. And then, there’s a leg, shooting through her ceiling, right over her soup pot. Oh my god, I was so scared—I fled. It seemed so far, but I just wanted to go home and hide. I felt so bad. And I was so scared. But… she didn’t see my face. There was no way the woman could trace it back to me.

So I went to dinner, but my aunt was suspicious because I wasn’t as bouncy as usual.

Then, there was a knock at the door.

Her mouth popped open, shoulders hunched. Her head swiveled to discover someone behind her. I was the one grinning now.

It was the woman.

Mom shook her head ruefully as I laughed. Then— “Wait… how’d she trace it back to you?”

She didn’t! The woman said, “Your niece broke my roof! That older girl!”

“Huh? What—she’s blaming Aunt Linda?” The idea was more absurd than my mom’s days as the one and only Spider-Woman.

Okay, let me explain this to you. Colin is the oldest. And he did whatever he wanted. Because he’s a boy. So not fair. Then there’s Linda, who’s a proper girl; she followed all the rules. And then, me—I was always in trouble! Ugh! I failed every single one of those gender rules!

I never think of mom as tomboyish or unfeminine. She’s strong. Independent. Stubborn. Maybe that’s because she never raised me to see such a divide between genders, but she grew up in Saigon in the 1970s, and those traits weren’t seen as good—for a girl. But Mom was moving on, folding her arms and assuming a frown—her imitation of her strict aunt.

The woman obviously wanted money, and my aunt didn’t want to pay. So, she said, “How do you know it’s her?”

And the woman said, “I saw her pants! I picked up my daughter from school one day and I saw your niece wearing these black pants with little white flowers! That leg that flew through my roof was wearing that exact pair. I swear it!”

“Pants!” I cry. “Of all the things to recognize you by!”

You see, those black pants with little white flowers were the nicest we had, so Linda would wear them one day and I would wear them the next. Linda wore them to school the day that woman picked up her daughter. I wore them the day I jumped over—no, through—the roof.

After much argument, the woman gave up, since my aunt was sure Linda hadn’t broken any roofs. But my aunt spanked me afterwards, because putting a foot through a roof wasn’t entirely unbelievable when it came to me.

***

“That’s about me.” Mom’s eyes flicked across my screen. I’d been writing for almost two hours. It was past one in the morning, but I’d inherited her insomnia.

So I read it to her. I mimicked her gestures, expressions, emphases, pauses… by the end, she was smiling. “You’ll write my story one day,” she said proudly. She leaned over to hug me.

I returned her hug, then pulled away. “But… a year ago you told me not to write this.” 

She said I had her permission to share her story now. I asked her why I didn’t have it before. “When you’re a refugee, you’re not supposed to talk about your past,” she explained. “Maybe you were—maybe you still are—too poor, too ashamed. You don’t know how much I tried to hide how little I had and how much I dreamed of having everything I have now.” 

“But if I write this, people will know you were a refugee.” 

“Maybe… this is okay.” She read it again and hugged me. I smiled—I wish everyone would share their stories. 

Since I’ve written my mom’s Saigon story, I’ve slowly accumulated more stories. As I grow older, I’m told darker stories—few are as fun as this one. Mom wanted to stop telling me stories after I started crying once, but I asked her to continue. We talked until too late at night, and then I wished her goodnight and dreamt of our family.

The narrative in my mind has grown over the past year. It’s not just about Mom anymore. I’ve interviewed relatives I rarely see and talked to them in a language I wish I understood better. One day, I’ll write a family history. I’ll compile the memories of my sprawling, complex family.

This is just a start.