a ‘sinh to’ is a drink made from fruit, ice, sugar and condensed milk. it’s all slushy and cool and we make it a point to have at least one a week. we head to the same shop and order the same thing. i order one with pineapple and jack orders one with papaya.

the shop is run by about seven or eight girls. they range in age from seven to fifty. they all must be from the same family because they all exhibit similar characteristics: high forehead and a slight under bite. they walk around and smile and ask us questions. we’re regulars.

their closeness always strikes me. they’re a family and they spend all day and all night with each other. the young children and teenagers aren’t off with friends, they’re at home talking and laughing with their parents. i try to imagine me and my family spending every waking moment together. i try to imagine my teenage years being joyfully spent preparing fruit shakes while my mother tells me a joke. i don’t think it would work. i don’t think i would have enjoyed it as much as they do. the family is so important over here. it is how one is defined. there is none of this, “i’m going off to find myself.” or “you just have to discover who you are.” people already know who they are based on their family.

every time i go there i’m impressed.

it’s three o’clock in the morning and i’m sitting alone in a dark room. i haven’t felt this alone for the past month or so. this morning i took my brother to the bus station. he’s going to saigon to catch an early morning flight. i’m not going to see him again for more than a year.

we drove on my motorcycle through empty streets. everything was dark and quiet and cold. we didn’t talk. we were tired and didn’t know what to say. we arrived at the bus station and bought tickets. we put his things on the bus and still didn’t talk. we didn’t know what to say. we stood next to a semi-full bus looking at one another. here is what i saw: i saw a man who was beautiful and full of potential. i saw a man who could do anything. i saw large hands and a full face. i didn’t see the little boy that used to run around with me. i didn’t see that skinny boy. i saw a man.

we hugged and he boarded the bus. we said things like, ‘i’ll really miss you man.’ and things like, ‘dude, take care of yourself.’ we didn’t need these formalities but we went through them. he boarded the bus. i looked at him through an open window. we looked at each other and cried. we cried silently, not sobbing. tears welled up inside me and i didn’t make an effort at suppressing them. i stood on the sidewalk in the middle of the night wishing things could be different. i realized he was leaving. i felt alone, more alone than ever. i stood there and cried and wished things could be different.

the bus didn’t move for ten minutes. we didn’t say anything which was fine. we didn’t have anything left to say to each other. it left.

i followed the bus with my eyes and could see my brother turning around. i walked over to my motorcycle and everything exploded inside. having my family here and spending time with them. feeling like i was a part of something bigger and better. feeling like i was loved and cared for and respected. having people hug me. spending meals laughing and fighting. i loved being with my family. now they were all gone and i was trying to kick start my motorcycle on a desolate street in the middle of no where at three o’clock in the morning. i stood there sobbing. i stood there weeping. i stood there with warm tears rolling down my cheeks. they were my last hope and only friend. i drove home slowly. the tears blurred my vision. i’m still crying and don’t know if i’ll ever really stop.

one of the lures of an giang province is its stork garden. it is wonderful and curious and i had yet to see it. we saw it a couple of weeks ago with my parents, brother and a troop of english teachers.

we drove there on motorcycles. it's about an hour away. the road is bumpy and chaotic as always and we ended up at a small bridge where there was a dirt path heading parallel to a tiny tributary. that's where we were conned.

i don't like to be gypped (terrible word), juked or in any way taken advantage of. over here, foreigners are obvious, lumbering targets. we were with a large group of vietnamese people. i thought we were safe.

the group was talked into taking a boat down the river to see the storks. the river and a path to drive motorbikes ran parallel. something smelled fishy. the logic behind the decision was this: it might rain and the path might become muddy and we didn't want to have the motorbikes muddy. the counterpoint was this: it wasn't going to rain.

it was already late and we were beginning to think we wouldn't be able to actually see the storks. you see, the gardens are so incredible because thousands upon thousands of storks come to this one place to roost every night. their return is supposed to be breath taking. i've been told that they cover the sky and everything is a confused mass of flapping and swooping. they all mysteriously return to this garden as opposed to any one of the surrounding gardens. this is a magical place. this place attracts birds in droves. this place was touched by the pinky of god.

we carefully boarded the boat and headed up the tributary. the engine died. i walked to the front of the boat and tried to keep us moving forward with a bamboo pole. you see, we were heading up stream. i struggled but enjoyed it. the boat boy worked on the engine but didn't look like he was having any fun. all the while motorbikes were zipping by us, there was no rain and the sun had fallen beneath the horizon. things looked bleak.

we finally reached the garden. we walked over a bridge and climbed an observatory. it was dark but we could make out thousands upon thousands of white dots in the trees. there were storks there, i was sure. i pretended to be in awe and suppressed frustration.

we floated back down the river to our motorbikes and headed home. i'll go back one day by myself.

mom left and it was sad. she taught me about god. she taught me that love is more important than anything and that fear is worthless.

"naturally the common people don't want war: neither in russia, nor in england, nor for that matter in germany. that is understood. but, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. vote or no vote, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. that is easy. all you have to do is tell them that they are being attacked, and denounce the peacemakers for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. it works the same in any country."

- hermann goering, during the nuremberg trials.

my mother's last day here.

it's supposed to be a momentous occasion. a son isn't going to see the woman who birthed him and cared for him and raised him for an entire year and then some. it should be a day when the world moves a bit slower and things seem important and people say wonderfully interesting things. maybe there could be a parade. people at the hotel should surely know. they should bring us some flowers or maybe some fruit. something should happen. the weather shouldn't be cloudy and drizzly. the streets should be a lot cleaner. we should all be beautiful and fit.

my fantasies don't change anything. they just make me frustrated.

jason ended up sick today. he was given a piece of fermented pork wrapped in banana leaves and he ate it. well, i told him to eat it and that was a mistake. i thought it would be rude not to eat it. i ate mine and feel fine. he ate his and now is in bed watching nine ball billiards tournaments. he's really sick. the benefit of him being sick is that i'm able to spend more time with my mother. she leaves tomorrow morning. we spent all day together.

we had breakfast and walked around. that was nice. we talked about nice things but things that didn't feel important enough for the situation. we made comments on vietnam and ho chi minh city.

we went back to our room and watched tv. we watched the news and made comments about cnn and bbc and the war on terror and freedom and america and iraq. it was all interesting but none of it was important enough. i wasted my last afternoon with my mom watching television and complaining about the world.

we went to get myself a haircut. i had a mullet for a while. for those of you who don't know, a mullet is a hair style in which men (and occasionally women) will ask for their hair fashioned short on the sides, a bit longer on the top and a little longer even in the back. if it's done properly the hair will form a seven when seen from profile. 'business in the front, party in the back.' i grew mine as a joke because i would never be able to grow one at home. my hair in the back turned out to resemble more of a rat's nest than anything. it curled oddly and was too thin. my mother had a pedicure and a manicure. she laid back in a chair with three ladies swooping all around her. they picked out a red color that's extra flashy. i had my hair cropped short. they also washed it and gave me a face massage. that was nice but a bit too personal. that didn't feel like a complete waste.

tonight we're going out to supper, going to bed, waking up in the morning and the lady that fostered my life will leave me for another year. she says she will cry and already has made attempts as we walk along. part of me wants to curl up in a ball and lay on my bed and think about all the wonderful times in my childhood. that part of me would cry for hours and have someone take me back home to harleysville where everything is safe. that's about 45% of me. the other part of me wants mom to leave so that life will be back to normal. this part of me will stand emotionless when she leaves and will wave and feel pain. the pain will be quick. there is much living to take part in. that is another 45%.

the remaining ten percent will be decided when she actually leaves. having her here makes me feel warm and safe. i fear that i'll be vulnerable when she leaves. i'll probably brush everything under an emotional rug and let it fester until i'm actually home.

so, we found out why we're having so much rain. we have asked a number of people and they all say the same thing. the reason we're having so much rain is because we're having a storm.

the first time someone told me that we were having so much rain because we were having a storm, i thought they were joking and almost laughed. their face was too serious for a joke so i assumed it was poor english. then someone else told me. then another person and finally the head of the english department told me in her immaculate english. something was going on.

we went out with my mom this morning in the constant rain in order to buy some jewelry and brooms. don't ask me. we traveled through soaked streets and brown puddles and arrived at the gold shop. it's a small shop with large mirrors and lots of gold. we stood there staring at the shiny objects like raccoons looking at a piece of crumpled up tin foil. my boss mentioned that this was storm number four.

we moved on and went shopping for brooms. my mother saw vietnamese brooms once and fell in love. they are wide and wispy with a thick handle. they sweep well and are light. she bought three of them. while she was buying them i sat next to an old man and talked to him. i asked him about this storm phenomena. he told me that this was storm number four. i asked how many storms there were going to be and how long this one would last. he didn't know exactly how long this one would last but he did know that there would be at least twelve storms this rainy season.

before storm number four the skies were hot and sultry. the sun growled at us fiercely. clothes would dry in a matter of seconds. we decided to do some wash. we washed all of my pants and most of my shirts in the bathtub and hung them out to dry. we hung them out just as storm number four was approaching. oh, how naive we were to think that we could outwit storm number four. how innocent we were hanging up pair after pair of sopping wet pants as storm number four made her slow and massive approach.

the sky opened and storm number four unleashed her furry. her furry has been made evident. our clothes were made wet again. we brought them inside and tried to wait out the storm. day one without pants. (well, i did wear pants, i just didn't have any of my own pants)

the storm continued, sometimes violently and sometimes sobbing. my pants lay folded but wet. we gave up hope of actually drying them outside so we scattered them about my room. we hung them on windows and chairs and door frames. we draped underwear on beds and desks and socks on bathroom sinks. my room looked like a gypsy paradise. my room was dank and musty. we turned on the air conditioner. we turned it on full blast in hopes that it would suck the moisture out of the air and dry everything faster. day two without pants.

the room became cold and damp. the clothes remained wet except they were now cold. the room still reminds me of a gypsy something or other. maybe a wagon with lots of happy people dressed in colorful rags playing tambourine’s and banjo's and dancing in circles and selling beads and shiny pots. we're going to ho chi minh city in three hours and i don't have any pants to wear. they're all cold and wet and hanging from my window sill. three days without pants.

today we went to a football game. there's a large, concrete stadium in the middle of long xuyen and one of my students invited me and my remaining family to watch a game. it rained and rained and rained and rained. it was one of those rains that wrinkles your skin and makes you miserable. one of those rains that lowers the temperature fifteen degrees and contorts your face. it wasn't a gentle, summer drizzle. no, no. this was a jungle monsoon combined with a charcoal grey sky that hung low; it barely hung above the rooftops.

we bought our tickets at the front gate. about two dollars for the best seats in the house. we drove our motorcycles in the rain to the back of the stadium and parked. we walked through throngs of people and entered through large, manila gates. we sat three rows from the pitch directly in the middle.

the teams came out and were in high spirits. this game was being played in remembrance of the 115th birthday of uncle ton, the second leader of vietnam after uncle ho. the stadium wasn't packed, but it was full.

the field was terribly muddy. the ball sailed through the air smoothly but darted every which way when it hit the wet grass. the players never seemed to be able to compensate for the wet weather and there were a number of hilarious plays. the players took full advantage of the dirty field and slid and dove and pretended to be hurt on numerous occasions.

nothing bothered me more than the medical crew. they sat under a large umbrella and smoked. they would run out on the field wearing white shirts with red crosses on them carrying a stretcher. they would pick up the injured player and carry them off the field. the players were obviously in agony. when they reached the side of the field the player would spring to life as if they were mistakenly carried off the field. they would dart back on miraculously cured. that really bothered me.

we (an giang) were playing binh duong. they were a scrappy team but we prevailed. we have a wonderful player (number 9). his legs are like tree trunks and he can't be taller than five feet. he darts this way and that taking many more footsteps than are actually necessary. he scored a number of goals. their team had a huge goalie that was very uncoordinated. he lallygagged back and forth and fell oddly in the mud. he missed a number of saves. he was gangley.

we won the match five to two. every time we scored a goal my brother and i would turn around and hug a man who stood behind us. he was wearing a pepsi shirt and was very happy to hug us. we didn't say a word with the man but, after every goal, we turned and dutifully hugged him. he was our new friend and we were all proud of our home team.

we were wet and happy. we drove home and were wet.

i said goodbye to my father this morning. it'll be another yea and a couple of months before we see each other again. i'm not sure how i feel.

our whole family went out for breakfast. we had pho and it was good. we didn't really talk about anything. i tried to avoid any conversation that would have anything to do with him leaving. i was very conscious about that. the most we said was that it'd be a while before we saw each other again. we said that in passing a number of times and it was always followed by an eerie silence; the sort of silence that forces you to work hard at finding a new topic to talk about.

we left the pho shop and i took dad on my motorcycle to the bus station. i don't think we talked about anything on the way there. i really didn't want to cry. i always do that.

we got to the bus station and had about a half hour to talk. dad began the conversation by talking about my time here and how proud he was of me and other things that i refuse to hear. i sat there and listened politely but didn't hear anything. his eyes started to well up a bit and i respectfully didn't say anything for a bit. i hoped he wouldn't cry so that i wouldn't have to cry.

i tactfully changed the subject to work. he talked to me about his job and it was wonderfully distracting. i thought about south eastern pennsylvania again and smiled. his work stories all were clear and logical. everything dad said seemed to make sense. i really liked this conversation and wished we would have had it earlier and in more depth.

it came time for the bus to leave. there was a mix-up but everything ended up well. dad said he loved me and gave me a hug. i said i loved him. he was crying but i couldn't. i stood there watching him in the bus as it drove away oblivious to where i was or what i was doing there. i felt tired. i felt sad. i felt a million things only slightly and none of them are describable.

the bus fell into the sea of vietnamese traffic. it seemed to be swallowed. i could see dad's balding head through the back window. i wondered what he was thinking as i started my motorcycle.

i drove home and the sky was grey and cold. i wanted to cry but the chaotic traffic didn't allow me. the chaotic traffic and my own shortcomings. i got home and laid on my bed next to my dog looking out the window. the sky opened up and the rain came down like a waterfall. the wind blew the palm trees and they swayed. the rain came down and washed everything away. the rain came down and everything was new and different.

motorcycles with four people on them. motorcycles with three people on them. motorcycles with five people on them. people carrying large panes of glass between them. people carrying baskets of live ducks. people carrying chickens upside down so that when they go through high water their heads are submerged. people carrying large blocks of ice.

i’ve never done something so crazy, but the other day my mother, brother and i did ride three people on one bike.

it was a narrow squeeze. i was driving and had to sit on the gas cap for the whole ride. to say the least it wasn’t comfortable. when you sit that far up on a bike you can’t shift the gears properly. my mother sat behind me with her feet on the pegs. she didn’t say much sandwiched between her two sons. my brother sat behind her trying not to fall off. he didn’t have any place to put his feet. he kept yelling things like, “i’m gonna fall off!”

we went to get something to eat. the motorcycle whined and moaned and complained the whole way. bumps caused all of us to rock up and down like we were on a boat.

i used to think i got stared at a lot. people would slow their motorcycles down and glance at me, people would yell from the side of the road, others would point. i thought it was just par for the course. having three americans on a motorcycle in a part of the world where you rarely ever see one american on a motorcycle is almost too much. there’s just a bit too much there for people to process.

we didn’t get stared at, we got open mouth gawking. there were no points or hello’s, there was only blank faces and surprised eyes. we had broken the world’s record for the amount of white people in a confined space in long xuyen.

my family and i went to chau doc. it's a small town located on the boarder with cambodia. there are more tourists there. it's a stopover point on the way from phnom penh to can tho and then up to ho chi minh city. they have a nice hotel there.

we arrived and were only going to stay for one night. my parents decided it would be a good idea to stay in the nice hotel. we made our way there after an absurdly overpriced taxi ride. i didn't have any energy to argue.

the hotel is pressed between a busy road and an even busier river. the hotel has a wonderful pool that's as warm as a bathtub. i floated in it for a couple of hours watching the clouds pass overhead. the higher cirrus clouds would remain fixed. they looked painted. the smaller fluffier clouds would race by.

out room had a balcony overlooking the river. we watched poor family after poor family putter by going about their daily activities. the contrast in wealth was staggering. everything i saw took on a whole new meaning. the boats that once looked efficient and practical now looked shabby and on the verge of a breakdown. the houses which at first looked modest and homely now looked in tatters. the people who at first looked healthy and bronzed skinned now looked weak and fragile. the hotel was too nice. i felt like a colonizer. it really didn't help that everything was written in french. the only way that we could deal with the extremes inequalities was to make jokes about it. jokes about big game hunting and colonizing.

walking on the street away from the hotel to a internet cafe was depressing. i kept my head down for longer than normal. i tried to avoid the stares. they all seemed to be judging me. they would stop looking and i knew what they were thinking.

spending time with my parents has been exciting. they see different things because they have different eyes.

my father sees the boats and the river. he talks about the families that live inside of them. he sees the constant movement. he also sees the people and thinks about the war. he loves to watch people and this is no exception.

my brother makes friends. he has already gone on a day trip with some university students. he is able to work social situations no matter what the culture dictates. somehow he is able to move above it all.

my mother sees mountains of cabbage and women paddling boats. she talks about families and happiness and farmers. she talks about being close to the earth and how that shapes people. she smiles a lot.

today our dog went from a he to an it.

jota was running around too much. he was always chasing girl dogs and getting into fights. he’d leave in the morning without as much as a kiss goodbye and be gone all day roaming from one shanty to another flirting and winking at all of the stray female mutts that passed. i don’t think jota’s responsible enough to be a good parent.

i asked one teacher friend of mine after class this morning if he would be willing to accompany us to the local vet. within ten minutes we had found the dog, found my father, found julie and started to drive into town. jota had no idea what he was getting into.

the whole ride he wagged his tail and barked at dogs. we reached the vet which is nothing more than a glass paneled shack on the side of a large room outfitted with a couple of large, stainless steel mesh tables with drains attached to the bottom. we walked in, no appointment necessary, and told them to take away jota’s manhood.

the vet is quite an odd operation. there are two ‘nurses’ inside that really know their stuff. they have a medicine chest full of brown bottles and a desk full of carefully wrapped knives and needles and what not. they walk from animal to animal giving advice and shots. they seem to always be working on two animals at the same time and they do get quite a variety. we were in there at the same time as a kitten, a duck, a larger dog and a smaller dog.

they gave jota a shot in the legs which was supposed to knock him out. it didn’t. they gave him another shot and his legs became wobbly instantly. he rocked back and forth and laid on the ground. his head rocked back and forth violently as if he knew what was coming and he was protesting by saying no over and over again.

they tied him onto one of the large, stainless steel tables while he was semi-conscience. they tied all four of his legs to the four legs of the table leaving him laying spread eagle. the reality of the operation set in. the reality that i was going to be able to watch the whole process also set in. the reality that the dog was semi conscience set in. the reality that there was a crowd of four or five old people watching through the plate glass also set in. i could watch for a bit, not for too long.

i kept thinking about my grandfather and his farm. i remember being a child and helping him neuter the baby pigs. i didn’t really help, i think i just watched and was scarred as much as any of the pig’s backsides. grandpa would gently swing the baby pig through his legs. he would wipe a bit of iodine on the area where the operation was to take place. he would nimbly slice, remove something, slice again and dab once more with the iodine. he did this over and over and over and over again. that’s all i could think of.

while they were preparing them and i was wondering whether i was going to stay or go, someone brought in a duck. the duck was small and the belly was shaved completely. i watched thinking it would take my mind off of jota’s little procedure. one of the ladies took the duck over to a table (she was helping with jota but the duck took precedence for some reason). the took a long knife out and slit the duck up the middle. the duck was still alive and did put up a bit of a struggle. the duck continued to struggle while it’s insides were cut out and inspected. the ‘nurse’ reached into the duck (the sternum and chest had been exposed. all the skin was cut away) and took out something and snipped it off. she inspected it and threw it in the trashcan. she took out another piece and snipped it off and threw it in the trash can. the duck continued to struggle but it’s movements were now less controlled and more twitch like. she took out the intestine and stretched it out completely. the duck had died. she held it to the light and threw the duck’s carcass into the trashcan at her feet. it made a noise when it landed.

i was baffled for a bit. were they trying to save the duck? was this some sort of manic tumor removal? maybe a bypass? i didn’t know so had my friend ask her exactly what she was doing. it turned out that the man had a whole flock of sick ducks and wanted to know what the problem was.

that whole episode didn’t unnerve me but i couldn’t stay to watch jota’s operation. dad stayed for half of the process (the mid point wasn’t too difficult to judge) and took some pictures which i’m not too enthused to see. we went home and waited for the dog to wake up.

when we returned the dog was sitting on a table moaning and writhing his head back and forth. his tail was also moving in circles. he seemed to be starting back up again from the front and back and working his way to the middle. his head spastically moved back and forth as if he was in denial that the whole operation took place. he didn’t regain consciousness for another twenty minutes or so and he couldn’t control his drooling. we took him back home and he only has been able to walk in the past five minutes. he walks and runs into things and has already vomited once. he’s a new dog, for better or for worse.

we went to tiger island again. well, it was the first time for my family but it was the umpteenth for me. it’s really a beautiful place.

we stopped and talked to a number of people. we stopped and admired some incense makers. we were invited in for tea.

all along tiger island there are small stacks of incense drying in the sun. the sticks are yellow and red and vibrantly contrast with the gravel road. there are also large parts of the road covered with green leaves. the leaves are used to make the incense.

an old man was sitting inside of his wooden stilt house drinking tea and smoking. he had a wrinkled forehead and a handful of yellow teeth. across the road there was a small, rectangular hut where five girls rolled the incense sticks. the girls all smiled and yelled hello.

the man said that he was one of nine children. he had lived on the island for all of his seventy two years. he then got married and had eight children of his own. he said he was lucky and tired. he kept pouring tea and talking to my mother as if she understood him. i rattled off a translation as he talked. he really acted as if there was no language barrier which was slightly disturbing. the girls soon left their incense rolling stands and came over to watch us.

the man explained the incense making process. first you take some leaves and dry them. then you pound them into a greenish pulp. then, somehow, you dye the leaves yellow. then you mix it all with water (maybe you dye them after you mix them with water). this forms a dark paste that looks and is treated like pizza dough. then the dough is rolled onto small sticks. the sticks are bought from another island that specializes in making small incense sticks. they are bought in huge bundles and the man told my mother that they were very, very young. he assured her that they were young. the sticks are left to dry and then are burned and the smoke carries the prayers up to dead ancestors. this man and his family were doing holy work.

mom wanted to buy some and the man conceded. he said that he didn’t normally sell incense in such large quantities but that he would make an exception since he never had any foreigners come by. she bought one kilo of incense (that amounts to a huge bundle that couldn’t be rationally burnt in two years) for seventy cents. we all smiled, said our goodbyes and went away.

they tried to have me or jason marry one of the girls but we were too tired from our long trip and couldn’t be bothered to marry someone in the heat of the day.

down in long xuyen with the family.

yesterday we went to the market. the market is a cornucopia of food and odd smells. my brother remarked a number of times that he was about to puke in his mouth if he smelled any more fish.

the stretches along the river bank. it is thin and winds like a pregnant snake: thin on both ends and wider in the middle. the top of the market is covered with large, black umbrellas. the bottom of the market is covered with slime and refuse. we began to walk through.

we started in the fresh beef section. the rows are lined with high tables covered with odd pieces of beef. old ladies lined the top of each table cautiously staring at us. the beef hung limply off the side of the tables in the open air. hygiene wasn’t a priority. jason and i walked in the front and mom and dad trailed behind us. they never seemed to be looking ahead and always were distracted by odd thins. ie: my mother spent a few minutes staring and talking about a huge mound of cabbage. mind you, it was large and the cabbage did look fresh, but i didn’t think it deserved five minutes of adulation.

the next section was the odds and ends section. there you can buy all sorts of vegetables and fruits. the ladies sit in the midst of large piles of onions, lettuce, flowers, lotus stems and mushrooms. they also stare at us cautiously. this section of the market is never interesting. vegetables don’t smell like beef sitting out in the sun and they don’t provide the same optic pleasure as half dead fish flopping around in tin pans.

the next section was the fish section. there are large buckets full of semi-conscience fish and no water. they writhe and silently moan. there are snakes in cages. dad joked that he wanted to buy one. there are crabs and shrimp and snails and oysters. that section is a feast for the eyes.

we ended out market tour by talking to a stray beef table that somehow was located far away from the main beef section. the lady at the stand remembered me and we chatted for a bit. i bought a steer leg from her, boiled it and gave it to my dog. she asked me if it was good. i didn’t tell her i gave it to my dog. i said it was the best beef i’d ever had. we all smiled. she asked me if i was married yet. i told her i wasn’t. she said i should come back tomorrow afternoon and she would have a wife for me. i’m debating whether to go or not.

mom wanted to buy a basket on our walk home. she wanted to buy some art here and put it in the basket and take it home. the basket is made out of plastic and is shaped like a thin, oblong grocery sack. she finally bought one after an absurdly long decision making process. by that point we were all sweating too much. we walked home.

i think they liked the market but i can never really tell. i don’t know if they’re too shocked to actually speak or if they’re too tired to make audible sounds or if they’re just not that interested and are humoring me and my hand motions and odd gestures.

kentucky fried chicken doesn’t really fry chicken, it soaks it in warm oil. the meat and breading acts like a sponge. the mashed potatoes are made from off white powder stored in vapid plastic bags. if you mix it with boiling water you have a mound of grit and mush that will suffice. the gravy is made exactly the same way. the coleslaw is precut and prepackaged. all you have to do is dump its contents out into a large bin and mix it with a thick, syrupy juice that looks like a mixture of mayonnaise, molasses and kerosene. it’s all quite disgusting and very american. if you don’t mind excess sodium, saturated fat and you don’t have a problem with the ephemeral nature of it’s preparation, it’s tasty food.

when i arrived in ho chi minh city there was only one kfc. now, about ten months later, there are eight. i have never eaten there because it goes against every fleeting thought that has ever passed between my ears.

my family has a long and sorted relationship with the colonel. my father used to work at a chicken factory. that factory sold chicken to all of the stores in eastern pennsylvania, new jersey and delaware. my father knows kfc. i used to be a truck driver for that factory. i used to wake up at the crack of dawn, drive to work, hop in a tractor trailer that was filled to the gills with cold, slimy, decapitated, freshly slaughtered chickens and drive throughout philadelphia slowly lightening my load. i know kdc.

i know kfc and i refuse to eat there.

well, i had refused until my parents came to visit. there’s a new kfc in town. it’s located above the remains of what was a wonderful coffee shop. ah, the price of ‘progress’. it’s a stereotypical postmodern building: all things shiny, all things firm and secure yet all things hallow and plastic and meaningless. the building looks like it is old and well kept.

we walked in and ordered. i crossed my arms instinctively. this was definitely a cross-cultural experience. we ordered ten pieces of chicken, mashed potatoes, coleslaw and pepsi. it was all placed on a tray and we sat down. we could have been anywhere in the world. we could have been on fifty second and market street in philadelphia. we could have been in madrid. we could have been in belfast. we could have been in new york, sanfrancisco, beverly hills or oakland.

we ate. the chicken sat heavily in our stomach. the pepsi frothed on the top. the potatoes mixed between and the coleslaw floated lightly on top like trash in a river. we threw our pennies in the cplonel's coffer and headed home confused as to where, exactly, we were.

now we sit and watch pool on television and jason makes jokes and mom laughs and slaps her knee and we're all together and beautiful.

my family went to the market today. we tried to find jason a bride.

we hopped on some cyclos and weaved through traffic. riding on a cyclo is an event. the drivers are all a step above poor but they’re a long way fom comfortable. they wear a macabre set of clothes: old polo shirts covered in busy blue and green patterns, torn fluorescent slacks, a once white hat long since stained yellow and old sandals. the driver sits behind you mounted high on a overly springed seat. the cyclo is covered in chrome. the driver is the king of the road: no one wants to run into a large metal contraption carrying an overweight white person. they pedal slowly. the ride is smooth. traffic flows around you like you’re a rock in a stream.

the market is an orgy of consumerism and over-priced trinkets. the stalls are small, some only three feet wide. the aisles are too narrow for how wide we are. people hawk all sorts of goods: ‘mister, you buy shirt’, ‘madam, come in buy one now’, ‘you, handsome, buy’ and so on. you can buy all things shiny and sharp.

we sat at a stand and had something to drink. some of the women came over to talk to us. they were surprised that i spoke vietnamese and began to barrage me with the usual questions (how old are you, what’s your nationality, what do you do, do you have a wife).

they thought jason was handsome and decided to fix him up with one of the girls. the girl stood off to the side and worked shyly. jason sat in front of his drink and looked confused. her name was but or butt or something to that effect. it was a name i wasn’t used to and it didn’t sound polite. she was smallish and ordinary looking. she wasn’t too attractive or too ugly. her hair was chopped short and she wore a lavender shirt and pants. i don’t remember her saying anything.

seven or ten girls instantly surrounded us and i began translating for them and jason. they were sure that jason and butt would make a good couple. they kept extolling the virtues of ms. butt. she was shy and knew how to cook well. she knew how to make fried spring rolls. she also knew how to make and mend clothes. she would have made a wonderful wife for jason.

everything was going wonderfully. it looked like jason was going to leave the market, not with a fake jade buddha statue, not with a a conical hat, but with a new wife.

dad was roaming around behind us taking movies and generally meeting people. someone told me that ms. butt’s mother wanted to meet my father in order to consummate the marriage. i didn’t translate that because i was too busy eating and not busy paying attention to the long term consequences. dad walked over and shook her mother’s hand. they were getting married.

we eventually left and promised to return. jason was embarrassed and his future wife was also in hiding. we left and people were disturbingly serious. they thought jason and this mysterious girl shroud in lavender had a serious future. it would have been interesting but i think we made the right decision in leaving.

the family goes to a war museum. we’ve known our own sort of war, but nothing like this. this was the real thing with bodies and consequences that hang in the air long after the war has ended. consequences that never really go away, people just stop noticing them.

i realized something today. i realized that war was really sexy.

the tanks that stood in the middle of the yard were beautiful. their skin glistened ebony power. their bodies were chiseled and handsome. their muscles were easy to see under the thin shirt of paint. their phallic guns pointed upwards and out. they were power. they were gods resting.

the long artillery was intimidating. it stood silently with it’s long barrels pointed ambiguously at the sky. they could lob destruction for miles. they could shout and scream if angered. i would love to stand behind one of them and push a button or pull a chord or say the right words to make it fire. i would love that power. the power to take away life. the power to hurl matter through the air. the power to destroy.

there was a large machine gun that was set on a pivot. it had two barrels that were covered in sleek holes. it had large sheets of metal in the front to protect from incoming fire. i stood behind it and felt majestic. i felt like i belonged there. the gun swirled and irked up and down at my will. it became a part of me. i was no longer hampered by my weakness and insecurity, i became that piece of metal and i could destroy. i was a superhuman. i was a hybrid. i was metal and flesh. i was a machine with a conscience (however, the machine had an alarming ability to sap and reduce my conscience considerably).

there were bombs littering the ground. one bomb was attached to a huge parachute. the bomb itself was as large as a small car sitting on its end. i imagined it drifting peacefully down to the earth and then releasing it’s frustration. the sides of this metal monster would expand for a moment, as if they were rubber. the metal would give way to the angst that lie beneath. the metal would splinter. it would dart and zip at will. it would become lethal and everything in its path would be no more. that was power.

there were rows and rows of guns and grenades and rockets on the wall. in my mind, i could hold them. they shook and screamed as i threw small pieces of metal at whatever i judged unfit. i would be the executioner. i would be st. peter (or is it james? or john?) sitting in front of the pearly gates. i would look briefly in their eyes and decide who was good enough to stay on this earth. i would do god’s work and i would do it well. i would toss grenades and wait momentarily. it would pop and smoke and debris would rain down. i would hear moans but they would be meaningless. my mission was heaven-sent.

my fantasies all evaporated. i created them to see what it would feel like. i’m sure it would feel like god to drive a tank. i’m sure it would feel divine to hold a machine that took life. i’m sure you would have to sacrifice a small part of your humanity to do it. the pictures of mothers and children running from villages burning only have an effect on someone who is able to see them clearly. if your conscience is clouded with your own narcissism and fear, you see nothing.

we walked through, me for a second time, and were humbled. we were humbled by the awesome power of war. we walked past the agent orange exhibit and listened to the effects of chemical weapons in use. we saw the two jars with baby fetus in them. one jar held two babies joined somewhere in the middle. they sat and looked at each other. they looked pensive. they wanted out and didn’t know anything about what monster destroyed them. they didn’t know about governments or nationality.

some people were crying by the end of the tour. i couldn’t cry, i had cried earlier. they shed tears for me. something welled up inside of them and it had to escape. they saw the contradictions. they remembered what they were told and what had happened. they saw lies and dead bodies. dead brown bodies that kept talking, kept telling stories. if they buried it, it would kill them later.

i left and thought about the streets of baghdad. the solders there look sexier than the solders here did. they wear thick flack jackets that make them look massive. their helmets make them invincible. their guns have more attachments and are much shinier. they could never be defeated. they are the ultimate humans: those that have given up a part of themselves, a piece of their conscience, to be as powerful as god.

i met my father today for the first time in a long time. i went to the airport with mom and jason and waited in the same spot at the same time for him to come off the same flight (#680 on thai airlines from bangkok arriving at 10:20). i stood behind a wall of shorter, well dressed vietnamese people and watched people give hugs and smile and laugh and reunite.

dad and i saw each other from a distance. we looked at each other for a while not sure if we were really staring at who we thought we were staring at. i was outside in the sun and he was inside in the darkness of the flourescent lights. finally he started to point at me. it was an energetic point and i started to wave and smile. the point was familiar. that was what my dad would have done and, even though i coulnd't make out his face, i was sure that it was him.

he walked out and looked a bit lost. he was wearing a blue shirt that contrasted beautifully with his icy blue eyes.

we hugged and maybe cried a bit.

he smiled as he always does when he's being sincere: the one side of his mouth arches up a bit higher, he displays most of his face and his forehead and cheeks become an accordian of wrinkles.

his hair is short and he was tanned. we walked to a taxi, pushing the vultures aside, and he kept smiling. we all sat in the taxi, my family reunited, and enjoyed the slow drive into saigon.

now we sit around and talk about family things. we try not to get on one another's nerves. we smile and complain about things. we laugh and wallow in each other's presence.

family has a much stronger feel after living in a culture that was heavily influenced by our friend confucius. your family is the most important thing in your life. your family is an extension of you. your family brought you into this world and nurtured you. your family fostered that magical, electric life that pumps your heart and fires your neurons.

i'm getting to know my mother and brother again. after a solid ten months away, we've all changed.

my mother is as thoughtful and wonderful as ever. she has whisps of grey hair on her temples and is as confident as ever. she smiles and tells me about her life and school south eastern pennsylvania. we talk about grandparents, family systems and the beach. she is my mother and i give her random hugs which she seems to enjoy.

my brother has changed more than i had imagined. he came to vietnam very thoughtful. his eyes seem to be wider and he asks a lot of questions. we sat around and talked and got to know each other again. he likes books and talks about authors i've never heard of. he's still tanned and beautiful.

i've also gotten to know myself through seeing my family again. they are the center point from which i can judge how far i have swung. i'm constantly probing and wondering how much, and in what way's, i've changed. i've leaned that i have no sense of humor any more. thousands of vietnamese pop videos have sapped that from me. i've also become much ruder when i talk to waiters and people who work at hotels. in vietnamese, words like 'thank you' and 'please' and 'you're welcome' are not used much. if you complement someone who is doing their job as they normally do, it is a bit rude. if you say 'thank you' to a waiter who brings you a cup of coffee, you are basically telling him/her that s/he's going above and beyond what is expected of him/her. it's also the same with friends: if i ask a friend to take care of my dog, i shouldn't say thank you to him/her. it's their 'duty' to help me as a good friend. i made the mistake of telling my friends 'thank you' and they were quickly annoyed. that's why i'm not polite anymore.

i'm going to continue probing and questioning until i find out who i've become. i'm really enjoying my time with my family. i'm enjoying the connection that they provide. i'm reminded why i am who i am.

my mother brought me something from america. it is an american flag shaped like a star. it comes outfitted with lights that flash red white and blue. they flash and blink at an alarming rate of speed. you can pin this piece of patriotic glory on your shirt. she pinned it on my shirt and i was blinded and distracted.

i was blinded by patriotism.

i'm sitting in an internet cafe in saigon waiting to pick up my mother and brother. i haven't seen them since mid-september and couldn't be more excited. i've run over the scene a million times in my head. last night i couldn't sleep because i was busy imagining what would happen.

here's how it plays out:

the ho chi minh city airport is smallish and the exit from customs looks like a cattle shoot. it is a set of glass doors and two long, chrome railings. people stand behind the railings and watch the dazed travelers stumble and get their bearings. i'm going to be standing at the end of the cattle shoot.

i'm going to be looking dapper because i want my mother to believe that i'm healthy. i don't want any, "you're too thin/fat/dirty/clean" comments. i'm going to have my bad draped over my right shoulder.

my brother is a tall, slim man who smiles and always knows what to say. he is handsome and his skin is the color of worn leather but it is as smooth as it was when he was twelve. he never passed through an awkward stage. he was always handsome. he never had to deal with a squeaky voice and buck teeth. he seemed to wake up one day after puberty.

my mother has eyes that pierce through to your soul. she can look at you and instantly judge what is inside of you. she's a principal and does a good job. she has to balance little highschool kids and little adults that sometimes act like highschool kids. she's my mother. nothing more needs to be said.

my mother will walk out first. either her or my brother. i haven't decided. i figure she's the more experienced world traveler so she should be able to negotiate customs more quickly. my brother is a bit of a schiester and may be questioned. she'll walk out and walk in the middle of that long row of people. she won't see me at first but then our eyes will lock. she'll smile and speed up a bit. she'll get to the end of the walk and i'll give her the biggest hug ever. one of those hugs where you don't really even know you're hugging someone because it all feels so right. not one of those hugs where you're trying to sense when the other person wants to let go or where you're wondering how you got into the position to give/receive a hug. a good hug.
she'll say something and i won't know how to respond.

my brother will be next. he'll come out with a smirk on his face and i'll have one to match on mine. he'll casually walk over to me and give me a huge hug. he may pat me on my back, something he picked up from dad. i decided i would say something to jason. i would say, "vietnam's not ready for the likes of you." i think that would be witty. i know it's corny to plan on saying something so long in advance and i may risk corniness in saying it but, he needs to know i haven't really changed.

i don't know how i'll work it if both mom and jason walk out together. it'll be a mess. it'll be a mess of hugs and glances and smiles. i hope one comes out first.

i think i might cry. i just decided that would be ok.

every good song should include the word ‘lament’.

living in a new house presents new challenges. this house is much smaller and older. (read older=a lot more bugs) at night you can hear some large animals moving around just above the ceiling. there must be a small crawl space between that thin, wooden paneling and the tin roof. the animals move things around and make unnerving scratching noises. more than once i’ve imagined the paneling giving way and me ending up with a overgrown rat running around on my bed in a pile of dust and wood scraps.

the bathroom is small and there is no shower. there is a faucet which produces water. the water fills a small, red bucket shaped like a trashcan. to take a shower you must ladle water out with a plastic bowl. i always start with my head and the water’s always unbearably cold for some reason. the shower’s are quiet, like a bath, but you’re standing, like a shower so you’re inevitably confused.

in this new house there isn’t someone who does laundry. in the old house, there was a meek lady who happily cleaned my clothes for a monthly rate. there’s a washing machine in the old house which i’m not allowed to use. i can only appreciate it vicariously through the laundry lady.

i’m going to saigon in a couple of days and need clean clothes. i have been living like a college student or a vagrant. my clothes has piled up on every available surface like i’m claiming it as a dog would. i come home and undress as i walk to the bedroom. my clothes is tossed on anything available.

here, we don’t have a washing machine. i’ve hand washed things before, but never in mass. this was an experience.

i started at noon in a tiny bathroom that doubled as a sauna; the tin roof and the red bricks all seemed to radiate heat. i found two buckets and filled one with soapy water and one with clean water. i fell to my knees and revered my clothes. i singled out clothes and scrubbed them. i scrubbed them against themselves. i wrung them in my hands. i wrenched them against the side of the buckets. i scratched at them.

i’d seen an old washboard sitting in my grandmother’s house when i was a child. i understood what it was used for but never saw one in use except for as an instrument accompanying a bluegrass band. i could have used one today. i could have used something to scrub my clothes against except for a blue, plastic bucket. i never appreciated how hard people had to work who clean their clothes by hand. i was sweating after cleaning only one pair of pants. jeans take a mighty effort: you have to wring them out and dip them and twist them and all while their soaked through with sudsy water. they’re heavy and you can never get the soap out because i use too much of the stuff. you see, i love the bubbles. they magically grow out of the water like little mountains and little planets and are full of air and barely exist. i feel like that sometimes.

i also never appreciated how much you dote over shirts; how much you think about pants.

“when was the last time i wore these pants? oh, yes, when i was invited out to dinner last week. how did they end up with such a large stain on them? oh, yes, i spilled the soy sauce and made a fool of myself. chuckle. oh, this shirt. i bought this recently in thailand. wonder what i’ll wear when my parents come out here?”

i finished washing all of my clothes by about two thirty. i was soaked through with sweat so i washed the clothes i was wearing. i washed them and then took a shower. i took a quiet, long shower and it was wonderful. i was clean, my clothes were clean and my forearms were aching.

there’s a wonderful meal here called bo ne. it comes on a large, iron skillet that’s sizzling hot. the word ne means to dodge or to evade. the word bo means beef, the variety of which any true, red-blooded american should be quite familiar. the word ne is the most important.

eating becomes a dangerous affair. the iron skillet is shaped like a cow. its body is wide and rectangular. that’s where the beef and what not goes. it’s feet are handles which are not meant to be held. it’s head is smiling. how macabre can we get here. do you really think a steer that’s been raised in a barn its whole life for the sole intention of being slaughtered, diced up and served on a sultry hot saturday morning is actually happy? do you really think they have a sense of self?

the plate is covered in some sort of oil which easily catches fire. the plates are heated over an open flame. this, obviously, leads to accidental fires. when this happens, the cook calmly places beef and onions and what not on the iron skillet apparently oblivious to the searing heat.

i normally get bo bit tec op la which is a beef-egg-onion-garlic combination. the plate comes to the table jumping and screaming. the heat’s attacking anything it can get its hands on and the first thing available is the beef and eggs. they jump too. the cow continues to smile. yea! seared flesh!

this is the point where the word ne comes into play. you’re forced to dodge/evade the flying pieces of fat and grease. if you don’t, you’re sure to have a memorable burn. the girls that work at these adventure-eating establishments have countless scars up and down their forearms. some disgusting and others look like a series of scar-freckles. the girls don’t seem to enjoy their work.

the plate sits at your table for a few minutes before you’re able to eat it. you turn the beef bits over and stir around the egg cooking it to your liking. you then eat it with bread.

i forgot that it was the fourth of july. that means sitting out in sultry hot weather, listening to fireworks go off and seeing lots of little red, white and blue flags. it means eating terribly processed hot dogs loaded with sodium. it means thinking about independence and george washington and boston tea parties and indians and britain. it means thinking about the second amendment and realizing that it's for keeping the queen of england out of your house (i have to give credit to the simpsons for that). it means remembering that our country was founded by and for free people whatever on earth freedom means. i guess freedom to choose which value meal satisfies you the most. it means singing the national anthem with your hat off and your hand over your heart (what does it even mean to put your hand on your heart? are you protecting it? touching it? showing everyone that you still have one? feeling to see if it's still beating?) it means driving to a party in your suv with your family in toe and having to talk with a lot of people you'd rather not. it means driving down the highway and seeing those gigantic black and white billboards that say, 'united we stand'. that's something you'd see up in pyongyang. that isn't something you should see in a place that encourages independent thought. i can say this, i'm over here, you guys are in the belly of the beast.

i was recently introduced to a legend that explained the origin of the vietnamese race.

lac long quan was a dragon. he lived up in the mountains. i assume he was a large, scaly dragon that spend most of his time sulking and wondering where he could find companionship. i assume he was green with hints of blue and red. his eyes must have glowed brilliantly even at night. he probably didn’t keep a tidy cave (assuming he lived in a cave, as all dragons do). i’m sure there were bones and random piles of muck sitting around waiting for someone to clean up.

au co was a fairy of some sort. she lived either in the water or near the water. i’m going to assume she lived in the water because that makes it so much more interesting; the contrast between a water dwelling, flawless creature and a cave dwelling, vengeful beast. well, needless to say, she was flawless. her skin must have shone like porcelain or lacquer. her hair would have had to be as straight and smooth as light and smelled slightly of a purple flower. i’m sure she wore long, tight fitting, whitish-opaque dresses that were provocatively tailored. she lived a happy live, i’m sure, but she was constantly befuddled by her lack of companionship. there’s no one perfect enough for a fairy.

the two met one day. i don’t know if the dragon came down from his cave on a lonely walk or if the fairy darted up through a cool mountain pass, but they met. she looked at his power and ferocity and felt that mysterious void inside of her being filled. the void that exists in all of us that can only be filled by that perfect person. he looked at her and saw her sensuality and perfection and grace, everything he wasn’t, and knew that she was perfect for him. their piercing gazes met and they slowly moved towards each other not knowing if the feeling was mutual but soon realizing, no, sensing, that it surely was. no words were exchanged, only sensations, reactions.

the result of that meeting was the production of one hundred eggs. i assume each of these eggs was the relative size and shape of a human fetus. i don’t know if thee eggs were stored in the dragon or if they were somehow attached to the fairy. i had imagined the fairy to be a small, delicate creature, no someone large enough to house one hundred human sized eggs. i assumed the dragon was large enough but that would be also be odd due to his maleness. somehow the eggs were incubated and cared for. the details of which my imagination is incapable of creating.

the eggs hatched into one hundred males. well, some people tell me that they hatched into fifty males and fifty females. in either case, they were the origins of the vietnamese race. fifty of these newly created creatures went up with the dragon to the mountain (i’m sure he had to do a bit of cleaning) and fifty went to the sea with the fairy. one version of the story says that twenty five boys and twenty five girls went to the mountains and twenty five girls and twenty five boys went to the sea. the other version makes them all male.

now the dragon and the fairy had a bit more responsibility on their hands. did they want the children or were they a product of fleeting emotions? whatever the case, the children were they are had to be taken care of. they were raised and eventually copulated. in the version with the one hundred males, there is an obvious problem here. i was told that the males ‘borrowed’ chinese women.

from those one hundred children the vietnamese race was born. that is the legend, as i understand it, of lac long quan and au co.

jota has one million friends. he follows them everywhere. he strays further and further every day. he goes to the complete other side of campus to see them. he chases girl dogs. he has a girlfriend. her name is mit la. they roll around in the grass and play fight every day. she is charcoal black all over. her tail is absurdly long and her body is oddly squat. she is only a puppy and they say she will be able to have babies in another four months.

jota came home the other day with long gashes in his neck and his leg. his right ear was also missing a piece. he was shy and hid under the desk.

today he didn’t go out. he sat at the door looking pensive. he sat looking out at the world and realized that there were some bad people out there. he was confused. he followed me around where ever i went. when he saw other dogs he would jump up on my leg and try to get my attention. he would bark at them. he wanted them to know i was a member of his pack.

the loss of innocence. before, jota believed that everyone was there to play. before, he used to run up to everyone with his tail wagging and jump and generally have fun. now he sits and stares. i guess we all go through something similar when we realize that the world isn’t the safest place. it’s a sad realization but, with time, we come to terms with it.

i now play basketball at the chinese high school. it is a small school that is packed with students at night. it is shaped like a horse shoe with a basketball court in the center. the court is full of small holes and the rims are not forgiving. the backboards are plain wood and the pain has long since worn off.

i'm an american so i should play basketball wonderfully. they all stare at me and woo when i make a shot and are chillingly silent when i miss.

every monday, wednesday and friday we get together to play. there's about twenty five people who show up. their age ranges from about fifteen to fifty. they all play together and have set teams. i was somehow amalgamated into the team of younger players; the team that has had the most western influence. they wear baggy jeans and fitted caps backwards. they play basketball wonderfully. they glide through the older players and deftly lob the basketball through the hoop.

the older players may not be as deft as the younger players but they do have abilities that the younger players lack. they have passion, they have enthusiasm and they have discipline. they also throw elbows.

my first night there was quite eventful. the crowd on the sidelines grew thicker and more boisterous. my team won the first game and i held my own. it's been a long time since i played any competitive sport and this is taken quite seriously. by the time the sun set we were still playing. people were still running down the court and throwing absurd, cross court lobs. the last game saw tensions mount and physical play increase. i ended up getting kicked in the knee fairly hard and getting an elbow in the upper lip. there were no hard feelings and people shook hands at the end of the game. i smiled, exhausted.

i woke up this morning sore and with a bee-stung lip. getting up and around is a struggle.