Hello again!
This week I wrestled with which story I wanted to tackle for the Friday Feels. At first I thought I’d welcome new subscribers with a bang (or lack thereof) by recounting the tale of a threesome gone astray. Then I started writing about the time I went out with a man I met at Popeyes. (Sad to report this encounter did not match up to the chicken in terms of tenderness, or spice.)
Ultimately I ditched love and lust in favor of exploring a different set of feels: those of contentment and belonging.
I’ve gone off-piste here but rest assured - there will still be noods.
Thank you for reading. x
We were in the massage parlor. I felt warm hands pressing on my back, and was grateful for the heat as every other exposed part of my body was freezing. I’ve never encountered anyone who hates hot weather more than the inhabitants of Southeast Asia. Air conditioning, called “aircon” by the English-speaking Vietnamese, is still considered a luxury to many, and is venerated as such. I would argue perhaps overly so. Going shopping, braving the gym, or in this case, getting a massage, means defying the natural world’s wishes and enduring arctic-like temperatures. This is especially shocking to the system when one has finally grown accustomed to the searing heat and humidity outdoors. Could there be no happy medium? I told myself not to be such a princess. Worrying about too much aircon was an inane, first world problem. I tried to relax and hone in on the present moment, appreciating the petite masseuse’s unusually strong hands. My shoulder knots were being kneaded as I heard my second first world problem arising: my aunt and the masseuses were gossiping about me.
At present I speak little to no Vietnamese. Back then, living in Saigon in my early twenties, I spoke even less. I could provide a taxi driver with directions home, order lunch with my friends, and respectfully say thank you when an elderly relative pinched my cheek or complimented my face. Aside from that I was incapable of keeping up with basic conversation.
I thought I heard the word “daughter” being volleyed back and forth. Aunt Thu was probably correcting them, saying I’m her niece. “America” cropped up. I tried to make out other words but the rest was indiscernible. I gave up, zoned out, and enjoyed the remainder of the massage as their chatter faded into white noise.
We were walking home in the dark. The inescapable humidity draped an extra layer of moisture atop our already sticky, mosquito repellant covered skin. My aunt was recapping the gossip: the ladies had wondered if I was her child, or if I was adopted, or if my dad was white. She had explained the family tree, taking care to describe the branch connecting her Vietnamese brother to my French mother, who then cross pollinated and created the hybrid at hand. I now understood why the masseuse had closely scanned my face as we’d departed; she was likely searching for Vietnamese features she might identify, proof of my belonging.
I could never blend in as easily in Vietnam as I could in France or California. In Vietnam, I am not Vietnamese - I am Việt Kiều, the term coined for Vietnamese from overseas. Respective to the other places I’d lived, I had spent the least amount of time in Vietnam. But whenever I tucked into a bowl of steaming bánh canh noodles, or rode my bike around the neighborhood catching the elusive afternoon breeze, I was certain I was home.