May 1, 2008. A national holiday in Vietnam, it marks the day that Saigon fell. For the Communist government, it's Reunification Day. For me, it's the 33rd anniversary of when my family fled the country. For my Vietnamese relatives, it's the 49th day since the death of my aunt. The Vietnamese love wakes so much, they have two. Once right after the death, and again 49 days later. Ironically, Reunification Day is just that, as our family has come from far away to gather for the wake. Relatives from Da Lat drove for six hours to be here. I'm no exception. Thirty three years after fleeing the country, I've finally come home.
And when I say home, I mean this quite literally. The house I'm standing in is the house my family lived in before we left. It was a surreal feeling, imagining little baby Tai crawling around on these same floors. It was as close as I would ever get to crawling back into the womb.
A monk chanted the prayers for the dead, but I could hardly follow along, he was chanting so quickly. I knew my thoughts should be on my dead aunt, but my mind wandered. All I could think about was the fake money on the altar. Asian custom dictates that the living burn fake money as an offering to the dead. Nothing out of the ordinary there, but I couldn't help but notice that some of the money was paper American hundred dollar bills. Apparently, the dead in Vietnam prefer American currency. The money is meant to bring prosperity in the afterlife, so I suppose a good currency is preferred. If that's true, will my aunt suffer in the afterlife because the dollar is tanking? Do the dead have an interest in the world currency market?
My cousin gave me some stories about the house. The relatives who had lived there since we left. My aunt who came down from Da Lat to take care of me as a baby. The bedroom where my parents used to sleep. Wait, no. Something lost in translation. Not the bedroom, the bed. The mattress, to be specific. The mattress my parents used to sleep on. It's not every day that you meet a mattress that's older than you are. What stories could this mattress tell? Is this where I was conceived? Did my mom change my diapers on this bed? Did I sleep here, between my mom and dad? Welcome home...
And when I say home, I mean this quite literally. The house I'm standing in is the house my family lived in before we left. It was a surreal feeling, imagining little baby Tai crawling around on these same floors. It was as close as I would ever get to crawling back into the womb.
A monk chanted the prayers for the dead, but I could hardly follow along, he was chanting so quickly. I knew my thoughts should be on my dead aunt, but my mind wandered. All I could think about was the fake money on the altar. Asian custom dictates that the living burn fake money as an offering to the dead. Nothing out of the ordinary there, but I couldn't help but notice that some of the money was paper American hundred dollar bills. Apparently, the dead in Vietnam prefer American currency. The money is meant to bring prosperity in the afterlife, so I suppose a good currency is preferred. If that's true, will my aunt suffer in the afterlife because the dollar is tanking? Do the dead have an interest in the world currency market?My cousin gave me some stories about the house. The relatives who had lived there since we left. My aunt who came down from Da Lat to take care of me as a baby. The bedroom where my parents used to sleep. Wait, no. Something lost in translation. Not the bedroom, the bed. The mattress, to be specific. The mattress my parents used to sleep on. It's not every day that you meet a mattress that's older than you are. What stories could this mattress tell? Is this where I was conceived? Did my mom change my diapers on this bed? Did I sleep here, between my mom and dad? Welcome home...
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