Two little girls danced outside, trading their afternoon baths for a Saigon shower. Slick warm droplets slithered down their bodies. They wore nothing but their cotton panties. Their bodies, blooming, were not yet a source of shame. They are not embarrassed. They are not afraid.
Go on and play, their mother said. Go on, be free.
Even without rain the girls continued to dance. Their feet, hips, and arms sway to a rhythm of their own beat and breath. Sometimes they danced together. And sometimes they danced apart. But always, they kept dancing. Sometimes slow. Sometimes fast. Sometimes so quietly and small, you’d hardly notice them dancing at all. One day, they dared each other to shimmy while gazing at the ripe jackfruit. They wondered, whose beckoning will bring it down first? Whoever is dancing while it falls will get the bigger half, deal? They held their pinkies out – a promise and a bet, and took turns summoning the fruit.
Go on and play, their mother said. Go on, be free.
They danced as much as they laughed. The sounds of their giggles and stomps encased them like a shield, holding them and those within their joy’s reach in a bubble of bliss. As more joined, the shield grew and grew, like a dome of light, naked to the eye but music to the ears. Like a tree, it filtered out the daily sorrows of poverty and in return gave air, and shade, and life.
Until one day, metal shells fell from the sky. The girls wanted to dance outside but their mother feared the shield would not hold. They cried and cried, begging their mother to let them go. There were fruits to pick, streams to swim, and boys to taunt.
Just wait a bit longer, their mother begged. One day, we’ll be free.
For years, they would wait. Slowly, their desire to dance faded with their mother’s smile. She had lost hope their father would return. The girls didn’t think about the shield anymore. They didn’t think about others within joy’s reach. There were no fruits to pick, safe streams to swim, or boys that weren’t marked with edges they didn’t want to meet. The girls thought of survival for the first time.
For this, they had to say good-bye to their aging grandmother, and all they ever knew. It was time to start anew. It was the only way they would laugh and dance again, they thought.
Go on and go, their grandmother said. Go on, be free.
Mother and daughters arrived in a new land clutching onto a black and white, scallop-edged photograph of a home and a family they dreamed to see again. They would never forget. They would never forget.
***
Now in a new land they danced to new tunes. New music was exciting, thrilling even, but as much as they tried to find the same kind of jig that fired up their bellies, their legs now felt heavy and slow. Even though they could dance and laugh, as freely as could be, they didn’t want to anymore. There were no jackfruit in trees, only frozen little morsels scooped and wrapped in polyethylene.
***
I came back to Saigon to see where my mother once danced. It rained the night I arrived. The heat clung to me like I had once clung to her. I saw a girl caught in the Saigon rain. She sat folded at her hinged hips, legs splayed and stretched, in a perfect right angle. With her hands in her lap, she looked up at the boy standing over her. One arm on his motorbike, one hand reaching out to her. Both of them caught in the rain.
She shakes her head, her tears a stream of defiance. He stands, patient, and waiting. He does not say anything, he just keeps holding out his hand. I wanted to reach out and lift her from the sweat and sap that pooled beneath her banana-yellow skirt. With our two hands joined, fingers tangled and weaved, I could ask her if I could have this dance. I would tell her that together, we could bless the asphalt beneath our feet, and stomp the demons from this town. I could be brave. For me. For her. For those who come after us and in honor of those before, who stomped the ground sturdy just so we could stand.
But my hands are full. One hand holding my umbrella to shield me from the rain. The other clutching onto my purse with my American credit cards, Vietnamese currency, and my American passport devoid of my Vietnamese name. And my tongue is stiff. Too many years of speaking with only 21 consonants and 5 vowels have dulled my ability to taste the language of my mother. I can hear the sounds, but I cannot make them.
My mother had asked why I wanted to go to a place that she was forced to leave, a place I had never known. I told her I wanted to see the phantom-limb of a place that held her sweetest days and cherished memories. I wanted to meet this ghost that danced alongside her for all these years.
Maybe if I found it, it would set her free.
Vina Vo is a storyteller, facilitator, and organizer who bridges the cultural and geographic divide caused by displacement and diaspora. Her professional and community work revolve around creating and nurturing communities of belonging through storytelling, interactive learning experiences, and activating spaces for joy and play. She also started Creo, a project aimed to bring more awareness to Vietnamese coffees and teas.
