The blackness is so thick I can almost curl my fingers around it and tug. But I can’t and the humid darkness remains. I scoot back against a chair and hug my knees to my chest, silent. I blink. I blink. My sixteen-year-old Vietnamese host sister, Chịp, wails in frustration. With a language like a song, I am impressed my sister can manage an emotive tone.
The living room of my host family’s house was just starting to become familiar and now foreignness envelops me once more. I try to picture the wooden bench up against the window, the matching chairs and the painting of a vase with flowers perched above it, the other painting of a meadow on the opposite wall, the television with a cheerful blond Norwegian-looking doll and a snow globe of New York City resting on top, and the beaded entranceway to the kitchen, the only place in Viet Nam where I don’t feel welcome.
It had only been two weeks—my feet beginning to break in the stiff plastic house sandals given to me by my host family—and already I no longer noticed the pedestrians calling out to me in the streets or staring at me on the bus, the thin limbs in mismatched and faded clothing, the challenge that thick motorcycle traffic imposes on my daily routine, the lingering sticky-sweet stench of the durian fruit vendor, or the heavy black smoke of burning paper ancestral offerings.
My twenty-four-year-old Vietnamese host sister, Thư, stomps and claps and smashes into the piano keyboard. Suddenly a small lantern illuminates Thu’s motherly smile and the bottom of her plastic magenta eyeglasses. My host mother, I imagine, remains rigid and reserved on the hard wooden bench like usual. At first I had thought my host mother resented my existence but I soon came to understand that she was just dutifully fulfilling her role as a woman: demure and unobtrusive. I unfold from my twisted confusion and rejoin the huddle in the middle of the floor.
We had been watching a movie on Chịp’s favorite channel, the Disney channel, on a Monday night. Hilary Duff had enrolled in a naval academy and the moral was that she was girly yet did not give up at school. Each shot of camouflage, boot camp exercises, rifles, or any other indication of warfare made me uncomfortable since the Vietnam War, known as the American War in Vietnam, had never been mentioned in the family. My host parents had certainly lived through the war but I did not know the extent of their involvement or how strong their sentiments were. Did they intrinsically hate Americans and I was just an exception? Was I an exception?
Glancing at the clock and then back at Hilary Duff, I had hoped that silently sitting on the beige tiled floor with my host family and watching a squeaky blonde girl get covered in mud would help me break down the barrier separating guest from adopted daughter and sister. The family has already changed into pajamas while I am still in the skirt and blouse I wore to school that day. Each member has a token pajama outfit they wear every day. My host mother’s is red with the Chinese symbol for longevity, Thư’s is yellow with a large duck, and Chịp’s is pastel pink sprinkled with small flowers. My host father does not have pajamas, from what I can see.
I stare at the three women engulfed in shadows. They chatter amiably amongst themselves as the sweat starts trickling down the sides of my face. “Xin lỗi, em (I’m sorry),” Thu apologizes to me. I shake my head and then remember I can’t rely on gestures to communicate anymore. “Tốt (Okay),” I squeak.
My index finger traces my miniature Vietnamese-English dictionary; once, twice, three times. I fidget with the pages, feeling the softness of wear. I consider casually commenting on the sudden heat influx but can’t remember which tone to use. Having learned three romance languages, I am used to relying on cognates and intuition. In Hanoi, I flounder in the music of the sentences.
With the patter of plastic blue slippers, my host father climbs down two flights of spiraling marble with a battery-powered fan the size of a basketball. He hovers over us momentarily and then disappears back up into the silent abyss. A gaunt man with monochrome clothes that hang from his stooped body, my host father still fulfills the stereotypical Vietnamese patriarchal role as the aloof provider of the family. I never see him joking or playing with my host sisters or even touching my host mother. Though my host sisters have shown me wedding pictures in which my host mother actually smiled, I have no idea how they met or decided to get married. Without access to the computer and therefore his digital games of solitaire, I don’t know what he plans on doing tonight.
Chịp begins belting out her favorite Korean pop songs. Thư encourages me to sing along but I laugh nervously instead. Mosquitoes, lacquer-green beetles and feathery moths dance around the lantern. I slap at my arms and scratch the insect bites. There is nowhere to look but at the light.
As soon as Chịp finishes her Korean warbling, I rush up the stairs to the master bedroom, my new room, the bedroom that my host parents relinquished so that I, as the American, can feel comfortable, while they sleep on mats in the third floor computer room. Though they are in their fifties and I am only seventeen years old, I am embarrassed to reject their generosity.
I yank open the first desk drawer, where I remember I put a photo album. Back downstairs, we flip through the laminated pages and I proudly blurt out family vocabulary: mother, father, older brother, aunt, grandmother, cousins. My host mother repeatedly exclaims, “Tóc vàng (blond)!” I have not been blonde since I was ten years old, but since I don’t have the sleek and shiny black hair of all Vietnamese people, I can be whatever my host family wants me to be. Which, of course, is blond. I am almost afraid to tan in the tropical sun, in case my coveted pale skin becomes slightly more like their glowing brown.
Suddenly the power is restored and the television flickers back on just in time for the last minute of the movie. Hilary Duff successfully graduates from naval academy, or peace is restored in her household, or something of that nature. We shut off the television and disperse to finish my economics reading (me), a trigonometry worksheet (Chịp), an English lesson plan for the class she teaches to four year olds (Thư), and the laundry (my host mother).
An hour and a half later, the black print of my textbook quickly grows to envelop the whole room. I open the door—blackness there too. My host father appears once again to hand out necessities: a lantern for my room and one for my host sisters’ room. I offer him my flashlight but he shakes his head. I shine my light on the stairs so he won’t fall as he retreats into solitude, his hacking cough echoing in the hallway.
Choosing to interpret this blackout as an involuntary study break, I join the insects around Chịp and Thư’s lantern. The three of us share riddles and quiz each other on Vietnamese and English vocabulary. My sisters are far beyond the “table” and “chair” stage while I have to repeat “bed” and “window”. I feel like I’m at an elementary school slumber party of overachieving nerds. When the lights illuminate the house again after half an hour of giggling, we reluctantly return to our desks.
The third blackout of the night, two hours later, finds me reading The Quiet American. I sigh, exasperated, stumble towards my wardrobe, and change into my pajamas. “Chúc ngủ ngôn (Good night),” I call out to my sisters. They return the sentiment. From my room I can see Chịp huddled by a lantern, frantically trying to finish her trigonometry homework. Though I also have homework, I decide to save it for the following day when the city’s electricity functions again.
I feel shepherded by the city of Hanoi. Its bus system determines the times I arrive to school, return back home, or travel to my voice teacher’s house. Its weather determines what I will eat that day, since my host mother buys ingredients fresh every morning at the local market two blocks away. Its citizens determine how I view myself—pretty or ugly, short or tall, chubby or fat, pale or very white, endangered or flattered. And its electricity determines how efficiently my workload diminishes.
The following day is more humid than usual. I arrive home to learn of another blackout, which had just ended. Relieved that I missed it, I stack my books in order of priority on my desk and settle in for a long night, which will only be interrupted by the mind game that is a Vietnamese family dinner. At dinner I try and make my bowl of rice last as long as my family’s three helpings. I chew individual grains, I chew air, I keep my bowl raised so no one plops more jellyfish or chicken fat into it. Whatever is in the rice bowl must be consumed. It is an unwritten law.
Halfway through studying for an environmental science quiz, the power goes out. No. No no no. I take out my flashlight, prop it between my teeth, and continue working, fanning myself with my left hand. My clothes quickly turn damp, then wet. Would this become a daily routine? Though blackouts cause no more than an inconvenience for me, which should be expected when traveling to a developing country, the uncertainty and confusion lead me to despair.
The blackouts last anywhere from ten minutes, a taunt, to three hours, a punishment. In New York City, this pattern would be classified as a national catastrophe. There would be television news, editorials, investigative commissions, political inquiries, and blue ribbon panels. In Hanoi, it is just part of the summer. My family seems to have accepted that the power is beyond their power.
After the sixth blackout that week, the block erupts into cheers when the electricity is restored again. Joining in with an American “Woo!” I feel connected with my neighbors. But no one ever seems angry and the blackouts are hardly even mentioned. The idea of protesting to a government when services are not adequate is just as foreign for them as blackouts are for me.
