The Things We Wore

            My neighbors in our Hanoi alley all wore loose, thin cotton outfit sets.  I wore capri jeans and elbow length tee shirts.  They woke up at four for morning lunges and arm swings.  I woke up at six for my first of three daily showers to rinse off the sweat and soot, followed by my routine sprint for the bus to school.  Their clothes were faded at the knees.  Brown squiggles traced old sweat stains.  My clothes had brand labels on the inside.  Small rectangular indents on the corners of my skirts indicated they had been recently washed and survived the drying process--no easy feat in Hanoi's tropical humidity.

            By dinnertime, my Vietnamese host family would have changed into pajamas while I was still in the black skirt and blouse I wore to school that day.  Each member had a token pajama outfit they wore every day.  My host mother’s was red with the Chinese symbol for longevity, my older sister Thư’s was yellow with a large duck, and younger sister Chip’s was pastel pink sprinkled with small flowers.  My host father wore a thin-striped, light blue long sleeved shirt with matching drawstring pants.  Except for the drawstring, he could have been going to the office instead of going to sleep.

            "I asked Ms. Huyen about Aliza's test," Thư announced to the family.  "She did not score one hundred, but she is still the best in the class."  My host mother nodded with no change in her usual blank facial expression, and continued spooning white rice from the cooker she had propped on a stool, seated at the table with the rest of us.  I had studied the vocabulary so that I could float in the music of Vietnamese's six tones, not for earning high grades.  My gap year allowed me to explore my curiosities about the language, but winning my host family's love provided an added bonus.

            As the U.S. Embassy's summer intern, I returned to the same house two years later for dinner, wearing the bright orange dress they had given me for my eighteenth birthday.  As I sat on the guest bench by the front door and waited for my host mother to finish making beef phơ, I noted the same pale pink paint coated the walls, the same cheap flower still life portraits displayed proudly in the living room, and the same fold-out table taken out only for meals.  They wore their pajamas and exclaimed that I looked different--thinner, darker, more Vietnamese.  I put a hand at my ribcage, smoothing my skirt over my thighs with the other hand.  No, I assured them.  I was still American.

            All American Foreign Service officers carry high heels or dress shoes, Ann Taylor dresses or Brooks Brothers suits, blazers, and an American flag lapel pin when they travel from post to post.  As the face of the U.S. Government, my coworkers want to look better than the foreign company representative or ministry official with whom they meet. 

I carried second-hand business casual attire for my internship, the dress my host family had bought me in my favorite color, an iPod, multiple pairs of flats in preparation for the destructive monsoon season, a bikini, a camera with too many functions, mascara and lipstick, a small teddy bear, running shoes, self-doubt, a copy of the Aeneid with split binding and multi-colored annotations, one pair of shorts, two Vietnamese-English dictionaries, a Columbia University tee shirt, anticipatory anxiety, a bag of Jelly Belly jellybeans for my host sister's birthday, a journal, a pair of jeans with a suddenly irrelevant Metrocard in the front pocket, an appetite for noodles, and a bottle of Sheer Blonde shampoo.

            The visiting Secretary of State wore her blonde hair in a hairsprayed bob.  She donned a crimson blazer when she stepped onto the Hanoi tarmac to greet the Ambassador.  The vibrancy of her outfit combined with the way she swung her arms out away from her body as she plodded forward gave her a presence larger than her frame.  I watched from a distance in my monochrome black dress, my work requiring me to stay one step ahead of the Secretary to quell any potential gaffes.  I carried her gifts of silk scarves and flowers from Vietnamese government officials, a framed photograph from the Hilton Hotel, and a plaque from the American Chamber of Commerce to the security conveyor belt for clearance.  The following morning, at a thank you meeting with almost a hundred Embassy staff members and their families, she and I happened to wear the same white blazer.  Her pantsuit underneath was tailored and pressed, while the excess cloth of my dress sagged.

            “Your government secretary is here,” a taxi driver commented in Vietnamese after the usual friendly banter revealed my American nationality. 

            “I know,” I sighed.  “I'm already exhausted.”  Leaning my head against the window, I imagined myself as a Foreign Service officer, or even an Under Secretary, treating this visit--the security concerns, the furniture arrangements of every conference room, the press, the carefully constructed formalities--as just an average workday. 

            The nondescript navy suit worn by Under Secretary Hormats made him seem approachable and relaxed.  He carried slow, calculated gestures for the press cameras, stopping to examine photos on the wall or shaking the Vietnamese Chamber of Commerce and Information chairman’s hand for more seconds than necessary.  Each word spoken was wrapped in a leaf of silence, to allow Vietnamese reporters to quote him accurately.  Sitting in the back of the van, I carried questions about green energy and Hormats’ personal background but never voiced them.  I listened as the deputy assistant, Matt Murray, briefed Hormats.  His flowers and framed photograph sat on my lap.  If the orange chrysanthemums and pink lotus blossoms had been laced with anthrax, I would have become the martyr intern of State.

            Along with Hormats' gifts, I possessed self-deprecating humor and knowledge of Vietnam’s Pepsico plant layout.  Introducing myself to Matt Murray as the official government Blackberry deliverer as we waited for pictures for which no one had invited us to pose, I idled in the lobby before informing Murray that I had surveyed the factory prior to his visit in my other role as the official government site officer. 

            The factory workers wore outfits in a navy color similar to Hormats' suit, but stained brown and red.  The whirring of the bottling facility made the men look even more worn, crouching near floor drains to empty the failed strawberry Sting, 7 Up and Aquafina bottles.  I gave them a weak wave, to which they did not respond.  My tour guide through the plant asked me how many security officers Hormats planned to bring.  "None--unless a Marine wants free Pepsi," I joked.

             The Marines wore camouflaged blouses and trousers, an outfit they referred to as "cammies," that they could not wear outside of the tinted grey glass box where they stood watch for ten hours.  They returned my morning wave before pressing the buzzer to unlock the security door.  At all other times, they stood rigidly in the back corner, their relaxed facial muscles displaying a false reticence.

            "What do you think about in the box all day?" I asked each Marine as one by one they plopped down next to me at a house party and handed me a Saigon beer.  Cage thought about his friends in Afghanistan and all their pranks.  Anthony tried to think about nothing, but sometimes caught himself remembering his dead father.  Decker thought about how fast he could get drunk and mapped out his bar hopping route.  Dre thought about girls.

            Dre listed the meaning behind each ribbon pinned to his dress blues during the Embassy's American Independence Day party: "Good conduct, meritorious service, selected Marine Corps reserve, Afghanistan service.  Um, this one's for being a drill instructor. Bronze star."  Standing in a cotton dress among three strobe lit ice sculptures of outstretched eagles, ten metal trays of American regional finger food such as Maryland crab cakes, pigs-in-a-blanket pastries, and mini Tex-Mex burritos, and hundreds of diplomats in three-piece suits and four-inch heels, I gave a distrait nod after each explanation. 

            The foreign Ambassadors invited to our Embassy’s party wore sensible grey and navy suits; I wore bright pink.  The Ambassador to the Philippines told me bright colors were a good networking tool because I would be more memorable and easy to spot in a large crowd.  He advised me to contact him when I visited Manila, offering to tour me through the landmarks.  Only once he gave me his business card did I know within which country Manila lay--all I could think about was the creamy white color.  An officer at the Kuwait Embassy wrote his cell phone number on a cocktail napkin and suggested I contact him so we could drink coffee more casually.  Neither of us had business cards, but something about a cocktail napkin seemed inappropriately sexy.  The Ambassador from Angola wore baggy pinstriped pants with upturned cuffs and bragged about the new business cards he designed himself, before remembering to wish me a happy Independence Day. 

             Each time I stepped outside U.S. Embassy functions, my hair would twist into ringlets from the humidity.  I wandered down unfamiliar streets in an effort to get lost, harangued by street vendors stooping under the weight of the bamboo pole over their shoulder, from which hung rice doughnuts or pineapple chunks.  "You buy," they insisted, sneaking up behind me or waiting for me at the corner, looking up into my eyes with woe.  The shadow cast over their faces by their conical hats, in addition to the faded cotton outfit in sepia tones, made it hard for me to escape the guilt.  It was even harder to escape the street vendor.  "No," I refused in Vietnamese.

            "Yes," I nodded, nibbling a segment of stringy, syrupy jackfruit handed to me.  The fruit vendor weighed more jackfruit and tossed them into a pink plastic bag with longan berries, rambutan, three dragonfruit, and a pomelo.  Since the total price amounted to less than a dollar, I nodded again and counted out periwinkle Vietnamese dong.

            "Thank you, Ah-Leee-Zah.  When are you coming over for dinner?"

            I took the heavy bag from her.  The contents would be my dinner for the next week.

            "Invite me," I encouraged her.  She listed her number in my cell phone as "Thuy Qua Hoa," her name followed by the Vietnamese word for fruit.  Thuy wore the same pastel pink striped tee shirt and baggy grey shorts every time I visited the outdoor market.  I did not want to pressure her just because I had no patience to cook.  Unlike the other grocery shoppers, I had no plans to turn my produce into creative meals.  Dragonfruit and rambutan could be filling, I assured myself.

            After scooping the white flesh out of a magenta dragonfruit skin with a spoon for lunch, I met a new Vietnamese friend, Bơ, downtown for a hip-hop concert.  I never made concrete plans to see the Vietnamese strangers I spoke with, and would never eat dinner with Thuy Qua Hoa.  But Bơ, who called himself Anh because his parents had given him the Vietnamese word for butter, met me in his parents' musical instrument store.  His parents approved of our friendship, though Mr. Butter's sarcastic jokes about the Embassy distressed me.

            "Aliza has a blog.  She writes about how corrupt the Vietnamese government is," Mr. Butter presented me to his friends at the concert.  Dressed in dark skinny jeans, a collared beige shirt, and a black fedora, he was as conspicuous in the sweaty crowd as I, with my Oxford blue polyester dress and bulky camera.  I denied the introduction, shaking my head to the beat of Vietnamese spoken word poetry.  Emulating Brooklyn style, the rappers wore wife beaters and bandana headbands, skinny jeans and baseball caps, basketball sneakers and chains hanging from their belt loops and from around their necks, and a tee shirt that read “I have plenty of talent and vision, I just don’t give a shit!”.

            “She's French, right?" one friend murmured in Vietnamese. 

“She’s from Brooklyn,” Mr. Butter bragged, his shirt darkening with accumulated sweat.  I smiled politely, focusing my gaze on the lacquer red columns gilded with outlines of dragons.  The Vietnamese language can never sound angry enough to rival Brooklyn hip-hop.

            "She's American," one employee corrected the others in the Consulate General Office's restroom, chatting in Vietnamese as they applied lipstick and adjusted their sheer blouses in front of the wall mirror.  I stood behind them and rubbed mascara flakes from my cheekbone.  “She works at the Embassy in Hanoi but is now here in Saigon.”

            “She looks like a princess,” sighed another employee.

            “Hello, my name is Aliza.  I look forward to working with you all,” I interjected in Vietnamese.  I threw a paper towel in the trash and left the restroom.  Silenced, each woman wore a bemused, slightly open grin on her face.  Real princesses never feel invisible.

            A concrete wall surrounded the consulate compound.  Next door stood the residence of the French Ambassador.  If Ho Chi Minh City’s city planners designed the layout of government buildings in such a way as to group those countries with which Vietnam had grievances, then they did not punish the United States or France.  Trees lined the boulevard next to the security wall, under which lay six tables with oranges and avocados.  Over the years, this street had become known as Orange Juice Street.  In the minute it took to walk from my apartment in Somerset Serviced Residence to the security door, the scent of oranges perfumed my ringlets.  Once inside, as I walked to the water cooler I would detect their phantom scent as I turned my head.

            One of the employees, Vinh, would smile and wave every time I refilled my water bottle at the water cooler.  On my last morning, she contorted her eyebrows and hurried up to me.  “Do not wear pants anymore,” she advised me in English.  “They make you look less like a princess.”

            “Ohhhh, I didn’t realize," I gasped.  "Thank you so much for telling me,” I stooped my back and placed a hand on my chest as if catching my breath.  I waited for Vinh to smile but she didn’t.

            The Hmong villagers smile constantly in the mountainous region of Sa Pa, a vacation spot 38 kilometers from China.  Though the women’s hands are stained a dark teal from dyeing textiles, their dispositions matched their bright multi-colored patchwork skirts and jackets in heavy cotton.  They hiked up the vibrant green terraced fields wearing tightly bound cloth slippers.  I wore running sneakers with grooves on the rubber soles for traction.

            We all were barefoot within the Cao Dai temple, in Tay Ninh, outside of Ho Chi Minh City.  Wearing a black tank top and dark jeans, I sat behind a wall and watched through the doorframe.  The worshippers in pristine white loose pants and knee length tunics, the typical female Vietnamese dress known as ao dai, and linen suits filed into the ceremonial hall and knelt in orderly rows on the floor.  The white grid of people contrasted with the chaotic pink, blue, and yellow decor.  Dragons snaked up columns, elaborate altars with globes and glinting candelabras flanked both ends of the hall, painted eyes watched from green windows, and staircases in the middle of the space led to nowhere.

            Nowhere left to wander, I wore a tank top with a hidden money belt underneath.  I carried the same suitcases back to New York, with propaganda war prints instead of Sheer Blonde shampoo, Converse sneakers from a Vietnamese factory instead of rain-wrinkled ballet flats, and textile wall hangings instead of pajama shorts.  They wore navy blazers, matching pencil skirts, and plastered mauve smiles, from nowhere to nowhere.

F is for Foreign

            You walk through the wide boulevards, looking for street food.  It is dinner time and though you're not hungry, having eaten grilled bananas, rice paper noodles with broccoli and tofu, and a mashed avocado and condensed milk smoothie that afternoon, you have been advised to eat your way through Ho Chi Minh City.  You are only there for one week and the variety of dishes sold on the sidewalk requires a certain amount of culinary diligence.

            You are unimpressed with the city as a whole.  It is a standard urban, cosmopolitan environment.  The buildings are tall and made of white concrete.  At night they glow blue and purple.  Lanterns hang from trees, with dots of color reflecting in the Saigon River.  Cars whoosh past and children scream with laughter, fisting ice cream cups.  Karaoke establishments pulse with clashing bass beats.  Ho Chi Minh City could be Los Angeles or Buenos Aires or Tel Aviv. 
            What impresses you more than the small French cathedral and larger French opera house, the war museums filled with propaganda posters and recreated torture chambers, the brick mansion converted into a fine arts museum, and the parks of paved paths and palm trees, are the vendors selling plastic cups of tripe soup for a dime or a skewer of small mussels turned over a portable grill for twenty cents.  The ingredients seem limited, but the combinations surprise with you with unique flavors.

            And so you search for bites to confuse and shock your palate, unsure of what you seek.  You are out later than your previous night jaunts--it is 9 o'clock or 21:00.  The rice paper crepe vendors, who smooth quail egg, fresh herbs, and chili sauce over a hot plate, have left the park.  Greasy newspapers line the curb, so you know they have been there.  You continue down unfamiliar streets, hoping to avoid the bustle of downtown: ritzy bars, fashionable clothing stores, restaurants, expensive handmade cards, and the brightly lit night market, where every stall sells the same cheap souvenirs to tourists.

            Heading in the opposite direction of downtown (would that be uptown?), you stumble onto a concrete sculpture surrounded by a stagnant pool of water and covered with Vietnamese teenagers sitting on its beams and dangling their legs over the suspended planks.  You circle the plaza.  A pole stands in the center, bursting into fragmented petals of malleable tin at the top.  Perhaps this is a lotus blossom or a torch stand.  Thick concrete bands hover over the pool and intertwine.  Staircases lead to higher levels, where more bands hover above taller supports.  Teenagers toss plastic bags and wrappers into the pool.  White camera flashes capture the aimless lounging of youth.

            You walk around the plaza, surveying the vendors standing at the edge of the sidewalk.  Balloon animals on sticks, charcoal grilled pork, pineapple chunks, light up toys, shredded rice paper with carrots and beef, popcorn, fried egg sandwiches with Spam and cucumber, and back to the balloon animals on sticks.  A young man on a bicycle stops next to the balloons, resting his feet on the road and turning on the bulb dangling over his ingredients, which consist of rice paper crepes, sugar wafers, shredded coconut, and condensed milk cans.

            You ask him what he makes, proud of yourself for remembering to use the Southern Vietnamese dialect.  He explains the sweet snack and begins to cook you one.  It costs a dime.  He won't take the money until you've tried it.  The bite you take tastes like a sugar cube doused in syrup.  Nodding happily, you give him the money and take note of the dessert's name: Bô Bí.

            He asks you why you are here.  Everyone always asks you why you are here.  You explain that you are interning in Hanoi at the embassy.  He informs you that you can speak Southern Vietnamese.  You grin and ask him what he does besides selling snacks at night.  He is a student and so are you.  He asks about Hanoi, a city he hopes to visit.  You talk about rain and how relieved you feel to have escaped the monsoon season, albeit temporarily.  He sadly mentions that it should be raining in Ho Chi Minh City, too.  It has not rained in weeks and he worries for the Mekong Delta.  You nod, ashamed.  The condensed milk oozes from the cracks in the crepe, making your hand wet and sticky.

            Another bicycle stops next to the vendor.  Motorcycles zoom past on the road, encircling the plaza before continuing down one of four roads.  The customer orders a crepe.  You nibble yours and watch the business transaction.  The sugar burns your throat.  The vendor mentions the American student who just bought a crepe from him.  The customer, a teenage girl in a pastel pink polo shirt and dirty white flip flops, translates the vendor's summary of your life into English for the lanky boy sitting on the back of her bicycle.  Silent, you rub your dirty hands on your jeans.  The vendor encourages the teenagers to sit with you.

            "Hello, I am Lai.  This is Halim.  He lost his voice," the girl introduces herself to you in English.  The vendor smiles and ushers the three students to sit on the fountain.  You wish the vendor could join you, but he has to make more crepes.  You wish you knew what the vendor was studying.  You wish you knew his name.

            "What is the name--" you begin in English.

            "Of this place?  Turtle Lake," Lai responds.  She takes your hand and leads you up the staircase to an empty beam.  Halim follows.

            "I can't speak.  Sorry.  Where are you from?" Halim types in English on his Samsung phone.  You begin to answer in Vietnamese, but he is not Vietnamese.  You describe New York City as succinctly as possible, and he types a snapshot of Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.  Lai joins in, speaking English.  She lives in Quang Ngai, in central Vietnam.  You are all foreigners to Ho Chi Minh City.