Page 33 of A Banh Mi for Two
“Maybe that’s all they knew, all they could do: Run to survive. I’m from a family of immigrants, too. My great-grandma is ngu?i Hoa.”
Confused, I cock an eyebrow. I didn’t know that there were other types of Vietnamese people. “Ngu?i Hoa?”
Lan nods. “Vietnamese people who are ethnically Chinese. My great-grandma emigrated from China and built our family with my great-grandpa, who’s Vietnamese. My dad grew up speaking Vietnamese and practicing Vietnamese culture in Sài Gòn. Most Ngu?i Hoa, though, are from Ch? L?n, our Chinatown.”
“I never knew that!” A rush of adrenaline courses through my body. This is exactly what I wanted from this trip. Everything my parents never told me.
What would Mom think?
“The Kinh group is the dominant ethnicity of this country, but there’s Tày, H’Mông, Cham, Lào, and many more. Some still practice their traditions and culture, but for me, I’ve always called myself Vietnamese.”
“Wow.” I watch her in awe, how she moves with such precision while dressing bánh mìs and talking to me. I want to bottle up this moment between us—two girls on the streets under the beating sun, learning… and unlearning. “For the longest time, I didn’t know how to label myself. Still don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Growing up in the States, even though I was surrounded by other Vietnamese people in Little Saigon, I always felt out of place. Walking outside of my own bubble was an experience… I didn’t know the world could be so white. I thought that maybe I wasn’t American enough and that my family would never be accepted despite being there for so long—despite America literally being my home.”
“But does that matter?” She turns toward me, her eyes firmly locked on mine, and I almost forget her question.
“What do you mean?” I breathe out, feeling my cheeks warming.
She shrugs, going back to the baguette in her hands. “Maybe it’s okay to not be anything. To not have to label yourself as anything. You can be both Vietnamese and American.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that I could be both before. That I shouldn’t force myself to fit into one definition of what it means to be Vietnamese, or what being an American looks like. It feels validating to know I shouldn’t—can’t—be put in a box, that it’s okay to float in this in-betweenness… to be everything at once. I don’t have to compromise my identity. I can be so many different things.
“You’re right. Thanks, Lan.”
The corners of her mouth turn upward, and she smiles brightly, eclipsing the sun’s rays. Her braid sways with the wind, the strands of hair framing her sun-kissed cheeks. Half of me wants to reach toward her, to tuck in those strands behind her ear, and to run my fingers through her soft hair.
“I’m just glad I could help,” she says.
It’s past my lunch break now, and I know Cindy’s going to blow up my phone if I don’t come back to the dormitory soon. Still, I find myself dragging my own feet, not wanting to tear myself from her. “I have to head back now, but I’ll… see you tomorrow?”
She nods. “Don’t forget we’re going to Ch? B?n Thành tomorrow!”
“I can’t wait!” I wave at her as I cross the street—with much more confidence than my first day here.
The dormitory looks more homey now than it did when I first arrived, too. Books, backpacks, and someone’s consoles are strewn on the tables in the living room. The ceiling fan buzzes from above, struggling to cast away the heavy air even with the windows open.
But instead of going up the stairs, I venture into Bà Hai’s kitchen, following the smell of bún hò hu?. I spot the giant vat of soup immediately, the spices and pork simmering inside.
“What are you doing, Vivi?”
I jump, not fully registering the small elderly lady crouching behind tall kitchen shelves. “Hi, Bà Hai! Sorry—I know you don’t like people coming in here. The bún hò hu? just smells so good.” I trail off, realizing how awkward I sound.
She blinks, then cackles, her laugh vibrating through the tight space and rattling the cabinets full of spices. “Don’t be silly, you all are more than welcome here. Although I do tend to be cranky if anyone touches my food. Only I can make it taste good.”
My nerves loosen with her laugh. Sometimes I wonder about the people that raised my parents. Some nights, I find Dad in the kitchen alone at 3:00 a.m., fumbling through old photographs of his parents, who I never got to meet. Mom’s family… I hope Lan and I can find them, but still, it feels impossible.
Bà Hai motions for me to come near her, and I tiptoe toward the kitchen counter, which has been invaded by every single brand of fish sauce, and of course, condensed milk. “Here.” She presses a colorful cup into my hand. “Go on, try it. Let me know how it tastes.”
I eye the dessert curiously, noting the red bean paste at the bottom of the cup. “Is this chè?”
“Yes, it is!” She beams, her face looking proud. “It’s chè ba màu. It has three layers: red beans on the bottom, mung bean in the middle, and the top is green pandan jelly with coconut milk and shaved ice.”
Taking my spoon, I scoop up all the different layers at once, bringing the red beans, mung beans, pandan jelly, coconut milk, and shaved ice to my mouth. My mind explodes with vibrant colors, the sweetness tingling my tongue. “This tastes just like halo-halo!” There’s a mom-and-pop Filipino restaurant near my house in Little Saigon where Cindy and I would order halo-halo almost every day after school.
Bà Hai grins, the wrinkles on her face curving upward. “Unlike halo-halo, there’s no ube. It’s all in the rich flavor of the mung beans.”
