One Little Monkey

by Alyssa Goldberg (United States of America)

Making a local connection Vietnam

“Five little monkeys jumping on the bed.” The nursery rhyme statically seeped through the outdated stereo, and a vision of bright-colored polka dots took center stage on the sterile, tile floors. All the others maintained banging Legos, coloring with crayons, and yelling loudly, aloof to any change in the room. But Bong tuned out the world as the song played. Number three on the disc was her song, and the moment she heard it, the music swam through her limbs. Her soft-spoken voice sang along, perfectly in rhythm: “One fell off and bumped his head!” Something about her nature drew me to her, the first time I step foot in the Saigon care center. She knew she was more intelligent than many of the other children, and for a good reason. She was. All the nurses warned me, “She’s stubborn, that one. A tough cookie.” That only made me more eager to befriend her. We know our own kind when we see one. Bong’s dark brown eyes told a story I’d never heard before. They saw me, judged me, and didn’t expose me- one of hundreds of volunteers who had entered her home without permission- to the depths of her soul without first earning her trust. She was right to be so wary. Her meek reality was a day care for children who still had orange blood lingering in their veins as a result of the cruel tactics of a United States army in another generation. It embarrassed me to stand beside them, helpless and guilty. My grandpa fought for the red, white, and blue and here I was in perfect health and privilege. Their grandfathers were victims, and now they too, were trapped behind a gate, their mental and physical conditions disapproved by society. And yet, miraculously, they were some of the happiest humans I’ve ever known. The first morning I sat by the book collection in the corner of the room, I pulled “Green Eggs and Ham” off the shelf and began reading aloud. Bong heard the cracking of the book cover, and jogged over from across the room, a smile for a face. She ignored people without issue, but all books were greeted with the utmost excitement. Her toothless smile brought me a joy that comes from deep in the gut. A sensation I never knew a stranger, let alone a five-year-old stranger could bring. As she sat, resting on my toes, she began reciting the words of Dr. Seuss. The other children tugged on my hair and played with the friendship bracelet dangling around my wrist, yet she saw only the poems on the page. She was the epitome of brilliance. An inspiration. “Can she read?” I asked one of the nurses. “I don’t think so…but maybe,” she replied. “I’ve never tried.” Days flew by in the form of books, every afternoon a new adventure and opportunity to travel the world together outside of the center. She would lie in the splits, her belly rubbing against the cold floors to cool from the muggy Vietnam air, and together we went over colors, numbers, letters and more. She could read, I assured the nurses. Everyday I stepped back into a maze of motorcycles, eyes peeled for the bus that would take me across the vibrant Vietnamese city to my meager volunteer housing, a Bánh Tráng Trộn snack in hand – humming her favorite nursery rhymes. It felt like somehow, at age 21, they made more sense than they had when I was 5. I taught Bong how to read, and she reminded me the true beauty of undying curiosity for knowledge. Four weeks felt like four days by the end. Bong was never one for much intimacy, but she hopped on my back, a little monkey, and gave me a big hug from behind. As I looked back at the care center one last time, my eyes wet, she was not looking for me, but glued to a new book we had just begun. Smiling. The wheels of my airplane home lifted off the tarmac, and through my headphones I was reminded that until the next time we met, there’d be “no more monkeys jumping on the bed.”