My New Sister from Across the Ocean

by Kimberly Do (United States of America)

Making a local connection Vietnam

Roosters greet the hazy dawn with their guttural, scratchy song before I can open my eyes. Sticky, humid air swirls the room and I wipe last night’s sweat off my forehead. I rise and walk to a nearby café, overlooking a garden of lotus flowers. The lotuses are delicate and shy. They pop their heads up to say hello with their leaves submerged underwater. They entice me in their sweet haven and I walk towards the ocean with caffeinated vigor. Bystander stares make me too aware of the stark difference in my appearance to other Vietnamese women. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m a foreigner, an outsider. I want to hide but everything about me stands out. I am too round from my western diet. My American clothes are too flimsy. I sweat too profusely, clearly not adjusted to the heat like my native counterparts. Maybe it’s my own insecurities disguised as spectators. I step into the sinking sand. I am awe-struck by the dignified mountains behind the water. They stand like guards, sturdy and withstanding the test of time. Vietnam has been through immense change, yet the geography remains unwavering. It feels like an ancient world that exists in the same parallel as dinosaurs. My parents speak of Vietnam before the war like a lucid dream. The farm where all 12 siblings lived. The mango tree in the backyard, waiting to bestow a juicy gift to the lucky picker. The wild bulls on the dirt road where they shared their path to school. I imagine this world of amber sunrises and indigo nights as if it were from a book. Vietnam also holds memories of war, fallen bodies, and destroyed homes that sprung my parents into escaping, eventually seeking refuge in America. These distressing realities muddied up the ethereal image they described as “home.” My mind couldn’t process they were the same place. I feel like a small, displaced pebble. An outcast in my own motherland. I dive into the water, letting its cool relief overtake me. I’m lost in the sensation that I don’t notice a girl watching me until I heard her laughter. “Hi.” She waves. “Hello, Chi.” I call her “older sister” out of respect. Since I’ve arrived nobody has talked to me first. They simply gawk. “Where are you from?” “America.” I answer softly. She smiles with her whole face. Heart-shaped with pink cheeks, she is lovely. “You look sad, Em. Come.” She calls me “little sister” and my throat clams. I didn’t realize a one-syllable word had the power to invoke such emotion out of me. “Where are we going?” I ask, but I’m already following her. Chi emerges from the water, floating; she is grace personified. I clumsily stomp behind. I put her spare helmet on and climb onto the motorbike. My weight shifts and she almost falls over, laughing through her dust mask. I laugh with her. Her lightness puts me at ease. She feels familiar. I embark on an afternoon ride with my new Chi. The seaside wind nearly suffocates me. I struggle to gasp for air. My thighs lock to keep my bottom secured on the seat. I clutch onto her with white knuckles. She turns a corner and my body tenses up. I realize I am no match for this speed. I must relinquish control. I unclench my jaw and let my hair roar freely behind me. My cheeks flutter against the current, sending chills down my spine. I feel weightless. I close my eyes and surrender to Mother Nature. I hear melodies of waves crashing in the distance. I taste salty air. Chi is the getaway driver in our own action flick. We race down the boardwalk with no one chasing us. We’re two women cut from the same cloth, separated by the remnants of war. I come alive like my parents’ stories. I release the pressure to be. I allow myself to uncover an identify that’s tucked away like my mother’s native tongue. Chi and I chase this fleeting moment together. We are feeling, healing, and uniting. She is I in another lifetime, one where my parents didn’t cross the ocean.