the apology of socrates.

he was on trial for impiety and corrupting the youth. he stood and gave his own defense. he talked about wisdom. he talked about knowledge. he was told that there was no one wiser than him. he went to all the wise men across the land to find out if this was true. he followed these wise men around and said, ‘i am better off than he is because he knows nothing, and thinks he knows; i neither know or think that i know.’

he talked about god and believing in the human soul. he said that the development of the human soul was his paramount ambition. they accused him of being an atheist and he responded, ‘who believes in horsemanship and not horses?’

he said he sensed a higher god than any of those who accused him.

he knows that they will kill him. he does not fear death. he says that two things can happen when you die: you can go off into another world where the rest of the dead reside or, you can pass off into a deep slumber where, ‘eternity is then only a single night.’

he asks the court to punish his children and teach them that they are really nothing when they think they are something. he asks the court to reprove his children when they do not care.

the hour of his departure arrived and, ‘we go our ways—i to die and you to live. which is better god only knows.’

is this attainable? do we live up to this high standard? would we rather die than be unrighteous? do we think we are something when we are really nothing?

i drive my bicycle to get a cup of coffee. about a year ago, everyone would be staring at me relentlessly. now people have stopped staring. we have become commonplace. there is nothing too odd about us. if we don’t have coffee at this one café at least three times a week, the waitresses ask us where we have been. we have amalgamated, albeit only in about a half mile radius.

i drove my bicycle in the middle of the morning heat. i have never seen the sun so hot as it is at 10 in the morning. it’s hotter at 1 in the afternoon but anyone who has any sense about them is already asleep. i cycle and sweat.

i drove by the photocopy shop, the university, the fruit ladies, the taxi drivers and the bicycle repair man. they didn’t look at me.

i drove on and on.

two people were on one motorbike driving my direction. they passed me, slowed down and drove beside me. the girl pointed at me and talked about me being a foreigner. the guy looked and laughed. they said something i didn’t understand and drove off.

in the past, a gesture like that would have been strange and rude. i got used to it. now, in my half mile radius of comfort, a gesture like that is humorous. they don’t realize that i’m normal here. they are pointing and staring at something that has cycled on this road countless times. they are the odd ones for not knowing. they are the foreigners. they have invaded my road and have pointed me out and i smirk because of it. they don’t know how common i am here and, by not knowing that simple fact, they are the strangers.

the teacher's dorm at nine at night.

the doors are all pale blue and slightly opened. they have rusty, circular bolts on them that are close together and that lock with a large pad-lock. you can not lock from the inside.

the room i head to has three beds in it. two line the wall to my right and one is directly in front of me. in the foreground there is a small stove and a small table and chairs that are folded and placed against the wall. a few small fish sit cold in the pan. books line the walls.

people are dressed in their night ware. the men wear shorts and t-shirts. they walk around in sandals. the girls wear a strange type of pyjama that is all made of one fabric. it normally has an animal on it or a few letters. they chat and sit on beds.

the teacher's compound is surrounded by stagnate water and weeds. the teachers will push their motorbikes into their rooms for the night so they do not get stolen. they will pull out pastel colored mosquito nets and cover themselves. they sleep on wooden beds covered with a thin, bamboo mat. they will sleep with an osculating fan on all night. they will talk before going to bed and then they will slowly drift off. they will wake up early in the morning, some as early as four o'clock, and go running or playing badminton. they will wake up and will know nothing of suvs or lattes or large houses or 'late night with conan o'brien' or the stock market. their lives are different but equally wonderful/horrific.

i couln't write anything tonight so i thought i'd just put some pictures on.



this is the ad building of my university.



this is a picture of the long xuyen market.

if pictures speak a thousand words, i won't write anything for a few days.

dua bo.

what a wonderful experience. the cow races. well, some are cows and some are steers and it’s not at all like a horse race. in fact, it’s not exactly like anything i’ve ever seen in my life but it was dreadfully similar to watching a high school football game.

this is a khmer/vietnamese cultural event.

we drove from long xuyen to tri ton district early yesterday morning. we arrived at the festivities just as the sun was beginning to flare up. the races took place in the middle of a rice paddy. as we walked towards the noise, the crowds swelled. by the time we reached the ticket gate i was covered in sweat and being pushed from all sides. i was nothing and had no choice except to follow the flow of the masses. we bought tickets and were pushed down muddy paths.

all along the paths people are selling things. they have small stands; some just set drinks on the ground, others carry baskets with fruit. people stop and stare at us. they point and say things like, ‘he is very tall.’

we reached the back corner of the racing area. the ground surrounding the track was raised about ten feet in the air. the track was about 150 meters long and about 70 meters wide. people lined all the banks, they were crammed together. there were no chairs except for the ones some stood on to get a better view. we ended up standing at the back of three rows of people trying to see through them to watch the action. i actually saw the races, some people who came with us were too short and never actually saw any of the cows race.

we saw glimpses of cows and people and movement and mud but nothing more. we figured out where the finish line was and moved there. that was where the action was.

after about a thirty minutes of trudging through mud and people, we arrived at the finish line. there were actually two finish lines and they were both adorned with checkered flags. the flags were cloth and the checks were drawn in with a marker. we found a decent spot and stopped. this was cow racing.

two teams of cows (or steers but, for simplicity, i will call them cows) race against each other. one skinny, young man/boy stands behind them holding on for dear life. the boys stand on a wood board which is attached between the cows by two large pieces of bamboo. they lean back and hold a rope and change direction by delicately hitting the cows with a candy-cane shaped stick. they can do two things with the sticks: whip the cow with the hooked end or poke the cow in the rectal area. the pairs race on a muddy track and the wooden boards skip along.

the race begins with two pairs. they go around the track three different times and, on the final lap, have to run as fast as possible for the final 150 meters. as i said, there are two finish lines. if the second team passes the first finish line before the first team, they win. if the first team passes the second finish line before the second team passes the first finish line, they win. the second team has to run as close to the first team as possible but they are not allowed to pass them. the first two and a half times around the track are fairly boring. these are not cows that are breed for racing. these are cows that normally plow rice fields slowly all afternoon. they are tall and you can see their ribs. they have small horns and long faces. they do not run that terribly fast.

sometimes the first team will try to storm away at the beginning. if you fall off the wooden plank and land on your backside, you lose. if you hold on and stay on your stomach, you’re still qualified. lots of drivers fall off. also, if you fall off, the cows will run faster. the weight that is normally on the plank and the friction that it causes with the mud tells them to not run too fast. without that weight, they run frantically. sometimes they run into the crowd.

i stood with the men. i knew i was in trouble when i looked around and saw that there were no women, only young, male farmers. these were the invincible types. they talked about the cows for the first two laps. they talked about the drivers. they talked strategy. it was just like being at a football game. they all looked, chatted and argued over results. i asked them if the bulls ever run up the sides of the banks and they casually said yes. they told me to run if anything happened. that was reassuring.

sure enough, not one or two races later a driver fell off of his team. he fell off on the opposite corner of the track and his team charged across the field. it took me a while to realize that they were heading right for us and, when i did, i realized that i was wedged into the crowd. there is no way to escape when there is no where to go. the crowd was all leaning, too. they tend to lean when anything exciting happens. if you don’t want to lean, you really don’t have a choice in the matter. you have to lean. usually, during the last sprint of the race everyone pushes on the person in front of them and the man behind you pushes on you and you all push on each other and become small. for some reason the crowd was leaning on each other, leaning towards the racing bulls. things happened slowly. the bull got very close to us, turned a bit to the left and charged through the crowd. luckily, one of the bulls tripped on the piled dirt and fell dragging the other one with him. they didn’t get too far and the crowd did its best to disperse.

they drug the cows off and the races continued. we left early because it was too hot and there were four more hours of racing to go. my legs were stiff from standing and my shirt was soaked through with sweat. i said good bye to my fellow sports fans, they smiled, casually raised their hands and were back to their cow racing. we walked through a rice paddy to go home. we walked through a rice paddy in the middle of the afternoon and i took my shoes off because everything was wonderful. i walked through the mud and looked down the whole way and got delightfully dirty.

i started to whistle a song today at the end of class. my literature class was finishing up group work an i just started to quietly whistle. i don’t know what the song was doing in my head.

the students asked me to sing it for them. i brushed the request off and told them to keep working. i couldn’t make out what song i was singing.

then it all clicked. memories of a different life. memories of bluegrass music and dark brown wooden benches and the blue book. memories of sitting on hard pews on a sunny sunday morning singing with everything i had and listening to all of the voices blend.

i was whistling ‘nearer, my god, to thee.’ i started to grin a bit and kept patrolling the classroom. i played the harmonica in a bluegrass band when i was younger. they would do an unaccompanied version of this song. i could still see them huddling around microphones. i remember singing the song in church; everyone making the zipping noise with their hymnal as they pulled it out of the wooden slot. i remember following the loud tenors and getting chills when there was dissonance. i stood in my class and remembered.

the bell rang and it was time to leave but some of the girls still wanted me to sing. i sang, all the while having chills run throughout my body as if the memories of that song finally awoke after a year lying dormant. they were stretching their legs. i ended the song and was actually misty-eyed. what a random, beautiful moment.

nearer, my god, to thee, nearer to thee.
even though it be a cross that raiseth me,
still all my song shall be, nearer, my god, to thee.
nearer, my god, to thee. nearer to thee.

thought like the wanderer, the sun gone down,
darkness be over me, my rest a stone.
yet in my dreams i’d be nearer, my god, to thee.
nearer, my god, to thee. nearer to thee.

or, if on joyful wing cleaving the sky,
sun, moon and stars forgot, upward i’ll fly.
still all my song shall be, nearer, my god, to thee.
nearer, my god, to thee. nearer to thee.

i remember middle-school gym class vividly. our teacher was loud and blew his whistle often. the walls were padded with blue foam and the floor was grey. the gym doubled as a concert hall.

today we were the referee’s for the first official english football league in long xuyen. each year had their own team and we watched two teams play each other. tomorrow we will do the same. we (jack and i) stand in the sand with a whistle and a red and yellow card. we start the game, call the fouls and listen to everyone chant. oh, and they do chant.

at the beginning of both games each side was cheering in vietnamese. (yes, they are english students and we have tried to break them of the habit but they continuously speak vietnamese.) they were saying “(insert class name) try!” and that was all. by the end of each game, when the winner was obvious, the teams changed their cheers to, “(insert the name of both classes playing) try!” so, it turned into a community cheer. they stopped rooting for their own side when they saw who was winning and began rooting for the entire operation. in fact, at one point, we had a cheer, “jon and jack, try!”

and try i did.

one of those rare moments that you can't fully comprehend or appreciate until a bit later. i sat down for supper.

on one side of the table sat a new friend from germany. he was a bit younger than my father and had long, flowing blonde hair. it was tied behind his head in a neat ponytail. his forehead was a large, earthen shelf. his eyebrows were a tangle of blonde shrubbery. his hands were large blocks of clay. he was absurdly proportioned.

on the other side of the table, next to me, sat a vietnamese friend. he was in his mid-thirties and had just began a family. he is a wonderfully small man with a sincere, warm smile. he radiates kindness.

i got up enough courage to ask my german friend about the war. he was born in 1951 and his father was a nazi. i thought it might be a sore subject but he wasn't at all hesitant to talk about it. he said his father was in charge of some sort of transportation down to northern africa. he was also in charge of appropriating (he said stealing) goods from italy.

he said his father never talked about the war and that he only heard about it from other sources. he said he had wanted to learn more but had never really been able to ask him. he talked about how hard it was to be raised by a father who had never actually had a childhood. his father turned 18 in 1939 and was from a poor family. he was a perfect candidate for the uber-race. he said his father never wanted him to go out and meet people and do things with friends. he said his father never understood why he would want to go to clubs or want to have a good time.

my other friend talked about the american war. he was born in 1976 and his father fought in the southern, diem government army. he said his father never talked about it and he knew nothing about what happened. he had tried to ask some things about the war but he never was answered. he also agreed that it was hard to be raised by a father that really had no childhood.

my two friends sat opposite one another staring empathetically into one another's eyes. this was the first time they met but there was something deep down in each one of them that connected. something was the same. we sat in silence. something about their eyes was the same.

it's hard to remember what it was like back home. traveling up to saigon on a rainy friday night spending time watching white lights and hearing the horn blow.

we sit at dusty ferry stations waiting to board. there is a guard wearing an old, blue uniform. he has a large stick which that he never had to use and he checks people's tickets. people are everywhere selling things. people touch your arms and yell things at you. it's easy to ignore them. they know such a different world. the exhaust from the trucks burns your eyes and the dust sits on your tongue. i wonder what it would be like in africa.

the ferry is as it always was. it rumbles against the flow of the river and boats flash it with white lights. they tell the ferry where they are but it really doesn’t matter. we couldn't get out of their way if we wanted to. we a re a bulky mass of steel trudging through a muddy river that's picked up dirt, silt and trash ever since tibet.

i talk to a couple of drivers on the boat. i have also inherited that gene from my father. i'm oddly interested in other people's lives and what they do. i want to know trivial details and stand next to them looking away from them with my arms folded. it reminds me of my father at soccer games or on family trips. kick the dirt, mention something, smile and shake their hand at the end.

one of the drivers was driving a large truck up to saigon. it was probably thirty feet long and twelve feet tall. there aren't any tractor-trailers here. it would be suicide to drive them. he says he's delivering smashed beer cans that have been collected from all over the province. he shows me one of them to make sure i understand. he has been driving truck for only five years and the truck is owned by someone else. he has to stay over in ho chi minh city after his delivery and he misses his wife. he smiles a lot and wears a sleeve-less teal shirt. his hair is long in the back on the top. he looks like a truck driver.

i talk to the driver of the bus i'm riding on. he wears a nice, tropical shirt and his face has scars from acne as a youth. he has spiked hair. you know the type. he says he's been driving for about ten yeas but only two years with this company. he is proud. he will also sleep in saigon tonight and will miss his wife but he assures me that he has a girlfriend in the big city and he won't be too lonely. i smile and spit over the side of the boat. it seems somehow seems appropriate.

we continue to drive and honk and flash our lights. i try to sleep but it doesn’t come.

we pass the bridge. the large bridge. it's probably one hundred feet high and slopes steeply.

everything seems wrong. we are zooming down the other side. there is no one there and our bus makes click-ity-click-ity-click-ity-click-ity noises over the metal strips that separate the pieces of pavement. the windows are open and the engine is screaming. we are going too fast. we surely will zip into the guard rail and roll into a firey grave. i look at the speedometer and we're going one hundred and twenty km/hr. by my estimation, that's about sixty five or seventy miles an hour. i shut my eyes and i'm in a different world that i completely forgot about. i'm pulling onto route four seventy six heading down to philladelphia. the wind gushes into the vehicle and the engine roars. there are cars everywhere and the music is playing. i drive for an hour switching lanes and monitoring the radio. i'm flying down route eighty towards bluffton. the air is fresh and a little cold but the windows are still open. i'm surrounded by tall, green trees and the cb crackles. i'm driving my tractor trailer down route ninety five heading towards another kfc in noon rush hour. i grind through the gears and am in ecstasy.

i open my eyes and the bus slows down to a reasonable fourth miles an hour for the rest of the trip. i'm back in vietnam and feel a bit homesick.

i arrived in this place exactly one year ago today. i placed my feet on foreign soil, a place i never knew. i had no idea what i was in for. i had no idea how i would change. now is the time for a one year review. how have i changed? how have i grown?

i learned a fact that i've learned hundreds of times in the past: everyone is the same. deep down we all have the same motivations, the same desires. we want happiness, companionship and warmth. wouldn't it be fascinating if we could find a group of people with such diametrically different motivations that we could prod them and study them? we could put them in plexiglass cages and do various odd things to them and stand with a pad of paper and write things down and make ohhing and aghing noises.

i've also learned that there are fundamental differences between people. no, some people are not more lazy than others. no, some people are not more prone to violence and hatred (i speak of large groups of people, not individuals). racism is a tumor. i've learned that culture pre-determines a lot of our actions and motivations. sure, while everyone wants comfort, companionship and warmth, these all mean different things. culture skews everything to an extent.

what is culture? (here i begin talking about things i have no authority to speak of.) culture is only a group of people who have a similar history, a similar experience. culture is only a group of people who live through a similar present. what is a race? surely it is more than physical appearance which has only been gradually adopted over time due to similar physical experiences. culture is a mound of history from which we all are influenced. culture piles up over time and continues to grow and change. i have spent the last year standing on a strange mound of culture looking down and around and making sure not to step on too many things. i have been gazing down the sides of this mound and wondering, learning. i have also been trying to virtually replicate my own cultural mound for others. i want them to understand how i see the world and why i do what i do. yes, culture is a mound of experience.

i've also come to appreciate the vastness of the world. sometimes it can all feel so small when you sit and watch cnn and listen to them make value judgments about other cultures that no one really understands. sure, the people in iraq are one way or another. who really knows how many million cultural variables influence their actions or motivations.

i have spent the last year listening to people. i've listened to hundreds of vietnamese people tell me their story. i've shut my eyes and imagined walking in their shoes. i've walked millions of miles in these fantasy shoes. i've suffered thousands of created hardships and i've loved a thousand people i've never met. i watch the old, weathered people walk by and look at their eyes.

i've also began to love this place. i've forgotten so much about home. i remember odd things: the trees in front of our house, the road after it rains, sitting in rooms with carpet, eating christmas cookies. the world doesn't exist except through the internet where i can access my virtual family. it feels like i woke up from a very vivid dream one year ago; one of those dreams that has you sitting up in bed trying to decide what is reality and what is imagined.

so, i hear that in my fantasy world there is an imaginary storm heading towards the group of family and friends that i have dreamt up. i hope the make-believe rain and wind doesn't do anyone harm.

i guess my existence would seem pretty specious to you all too.

i turned on the tv tonight feeling a bit lazy. i didn't really want to think, but it's difficult to find an appropriate outlet for boredom here. you turn on the tv and you still have to think. if you want to understand anything, you have to furrow your brow and concentrate. that is, unless there's a football game on.

vietnam was playing iraq. they were playing some qualifying game for the olympics in athens. i couldn't believe my eyes. the contradictions and historical conflicts and personal experiences all welled up.

who knew iraq still had a football team at all? i mean, during war (let's at least admit to ourselves that the war isn't over. however much a president wants to end a war, it's not possible to do so by landing on an aircraft carrier) i would have expected them to look ragged and bruised. they should have been skinny and hungry. their uniforms should have been nothing more than tatters and rags. they were wearing nike's and gold chains. they stood there and sang along to the national anthem (does an anthem change when there is a 'regime change' or does it stay the same? i wonder what was going through their minds.) the flag was the same. their hair was gelled and they were young and virile.

the game was held in vietnam. the crowd was decked out in red and yellow and kept chanting, 'viet nam! viet nam!' they would cheer every time vietnam touched the ball. they would fall silent every time iraq took control.

the game moved along slowly. there were many random balls kicked and much of the play was a vie for control. it didn't make for a terribly interesting game. i'm not going to stay up for the final but, at half time, iraq is wining 1-0. they don't really even have a government but their football team is somehow wining. nothing makes sense anymore.

it was the birthday of a friend of mine yesterday. it was typical

normally, the person who is having the birthday invites everyone out to eat a large meal. they choose a good restaurant and we all go out and enjoy a good time. the person with the birthday must pay. anyone who invites other people out must pay. if you invite someone out for coffee, you must pay.

some people bring gifts and someone will order a birthday cake. the cakes are all the same: there made with super-sweet, fluffy, icing. there is always a large flower on top. the inside is always white and tasteless. in between the nothing-cake is a layer of yellow dried fruits and sugar. usually it’s raisins and apples. i don’t like the cake.

the gifts shouldn’t be opened until the person goes home. however, many times, the person will ask to open them first. they are normally a shirt, belt, tie or something stuffed and fluffy.

after the meal the person with the birthday usually invites everyone to go and sing karaoke. we sing late into the night and the birthday boy/girl pays.

today was the official opening of an giang university.

we gathered early in the morning. the three foreigners were ushered to the front row to sit next to old government officials, leaders of the school and leaders of local businesses. we were oddly important. all of the students were there. thousands sat in ao dai and tie. they sat on small stools close together and all shielded themselves from the sun with books and hats.

the ceremony began. there were speeches and dances. the speakers welcomed the students to the event and talked about how wonderful the next school year was going to be. this is the first year that they have four years of students. the university is only four years old.

at the end of the ceremony, the rector, dr. xuan, beat a large drum a number of times. he would hit the drum with a stick and it would slowly beat more quietly and quietly. the drum signalled the beginning of school.

early in the morning weaving through traffic. everything moves so smoothly and seems so fast. we're only going 40 km/hr. i think horses can run that fast. i always think about having an accident. i wear my helmet but you never know. would i slide into the ditch or into on-coming traffic? questions my father and grandfather would think about. somehow, i too have the death-obsession gene.

we travelled to can tho. it's the largest city in the mekong delta and they have pizza and tourists. i went to gawk and eat.

we went with friends and they showed us a wonderful time. we travelled outside the city and ended up in a wonderfully lush area. everything was green and seemed to tower above the roads. you couldn't see rice paddies and we rode through a tunnel of palm leaves. we came to fruit gardens and a cousin's house. we ate and toured through the gardens.

we entered the garden of eden. men sat around on chairs without shirts or shoes under the lush canopy of fruit trees. you walk into the garden and enter another world. there are rows of different fruit trees and ditches full of water and fish. everything you need surrounds you.

people from our group were nonchalantly picking fruit from trees and eating it. i ate everything i could put my grubby hands on. fruits i had never seen. fruits with lovely, leather-like covers that you peal off to find sweet/citric white flesh underneath. i don't know what they're called. fruits that you split open and take out a huge pit and then proceed to gnaw on. the juices flow down your chin and onto your shirt. fruits you peal with your hand and eat whole that taste like sweet milk. i stood by the river with a handful of various fruits grinning and wallowing in my good fortune.

we met a farmer who had a high, wheezy voice and long, straight teeth. he sang when he talked and smiled. he took us to his garden and showed us his animals.

we met a python or boa constrictor that was entirely too fat. the farmer said it was 120 kilos. it ate a live duck every two days. we met a bird that sang in its cage. it would lower its head, ruffle its feathers and take a deep breath. it would open its mouth and squawk and chirp. it was quite entertaining if you didn't think it was looking for a mate. we met iguanas that sat in concrete cages. we saw a large cage, too large, holding two, albino rabbits. they were muddy and ran in circles. i thought it was strange. someone pointed up and i jumped back. i lurched. i almost bolted. from the ceiling were hanging about ten bats. these were not small bats that flutter around or that are plastic and hang from door frames during halloween. these were huge bats. one stretched its wings and the light shone through their translucent skin. you could see the veins. their heads were shaped like small, yapping, japanese dogs. their fur was the color of a fox and their body was that of a vampire. they looked at us with vulture black eyes.

we bought pizza and drove home. the traffic was a blur of red and white lights passing each other on a bumpy road.

i just figured out how to post pictures and here's one that i've been wanting to show you all for a while. believe it or not, it's rumsfeld and saddam back in 1983 when he was working for a little 'ol corporation looking to put in a oil line. also, in 1980, detroit gave saddam the key to the city.

what a tangled web is our reality,
when we don't look at history

another movie night, less of a debacle.

the sound worked but it didn’t matter. people filed in the room and laughed and giggled. i game my cursory speech and everyone smiled and clapped. the movie began. it was in french. why didn’t the sound work when we were showing an english film.

things work like this: to start something new, you have to propose things over and over. you have to talk to people and meet them for coffee and talk to them again. you have to write things and sign them. it takes months. finally, they agree.

after they have agreed, things move incredibly smoothly. now, if i want to change something, it’s as easy as telling one person and he will tell everyone else. at first i had to explain every aspect of movie night. i had to give my motivations and purpose. i had to describe each movie we were going to show. now i can change movies or times or anything and nothing matters. there is much more of an entrance barrier but, after you’ve moved past that, things seem to change more smoothly.

the room fills and we all watch the movie play. i sit and grade papers and generally worry about what work i have to do for tomorrow. nothing seems to change and work is perpetual. tomorrow i work. sunday i prepare. monday i work more and the following week the cycle continues. every day there is something and there will always be something until i am too old to move another bone in my body and i die. then the work will end. then all my questions will be answered. i will be judged or i will sleep.

the students aren’t thinking about that. they’re studying english and watching a movie. they worry about their grades, their families and their friends. everything else is as cursory as the speech i gave.

i was in english lit when i looked down at my watch to see what day it was. i don’t know why i did it. i saw the numbers '9-11' and my heart actually beat faster. those numbers are deeply engrained in some valley in my brain.

i asked them about sept 11. i talked about what i was doing two years ago. i talked about bluffton. i had a morning class, it started at 7. i was coming home from it at about 8:30 and i saw a bunch of burly guys gathered in the lobby of our dorm. i thought, 'there isn't any important game on today, is there?' they were watching cnn. i sat there for the next four hours or so watching tv and wondering if this was some terrible movie or if someone was playing a prank. it was all too elaborate for that. the black smoke burned and news anchors talked about attacks, speculation, arabs and the like.

the students said that they were shocked too. they talked about reading it in newspapers and seeing it on tv. they talked about the tragedy of it all. some fo the students were a bit more skeptical. they said the us had it coming to them and that, while they felt bad about it, they didn't think that the us should have been so shocked. some called it a 'warning' and said that, if the us didn't shape up, surely more attacks would follow.

i felt curious leaving class. i kept thinking back a year and trying tot remember what was going on. i remember seeing american flags everywhere. i remember watching the news and seeing headlines like, 'attack on america.' i remember thinking that i should be afraid but not really feeling any fear. my youthful indestructibility got in the way. i remember driving down to georgia and counting the number of american flags we saw. i belive it was in the four hundred range. i remember 'united we stand' bulletin boards. that's something you'd see in pyongyang. i remember going up to 'ground zero' over the following thanksgiving. i remember watching all the vultures selling hats and shirts and signs beside the twisted mass of rubble. i remember reading an advertisement painted on a banner near by. 'don't miss the such and such bar. bin-laden did, don’t make the same mistake!' i remember trying not to puke out of rage.

i went to my business class and asked what day it was. a sweet old lady stood up and explained to me that it was the mid-autumn festival. this was the day that mooncakes were popular and children played with lanterns. i reminded her about september 11th. we talked about the day in depth.

these people have seen the world. they knew war and understood history. these people were bright. i wanted to know what they thought about the attacks. most of them said the us had it coming to them. they didn't say it in a spiteful way, they said it mater-o-factly. they said it with expressionless faces. they said it and their voices were free from contempt, jealousy and rage. they just said it because they thought it was true.

we talked about terrorism. what constituted terrorism? our running definition dealt with harming non-combatants. if you killed innocents, you were a terrorist. we talked about the my lai massacre in vietnam. we talked about the bombing of hanoi. we talked about the bombing of bagdhad. we talked about september 11. everyone empathized with the situation and felt terribly for america. they said america was powerful and that it should work on doing the world a bit more good. they said that america needed to stop hurting the rest of the world economically. one man talked a lot about how economics played into september 11th. what he said did make a good deal of sense.

i asked them to write a brief essay about what they would have done if they were president of the us after the attacks. would they have gone to war? against who? when? here is what they said:

‘firstly, i would form an alliance to fight against terrorism worldwide. i would also change policies towards developing nations especially muslim nations. i would help poor nations improve their economic situations, to train human resources and give them more humanitarian aid. thirdly, i would trust the un and give it a more important role in resolving big problems relating to developing countries. finally, i would use the economic power of the usa to enhance the growth of the global economy. i think it is the best way to prevent terrorism from attacking the usa.’

‘i wouldn’t have gone to war in afghanistan or iraq because the people living there have their families, their countries they are human and they are innocent especially the children. american armies resist terrorism but they become the terrorists because of their actions.’

‘i would go all around the world to discuss with the leaders of the countries about solutions to solve he above event. these solutions must be suitable for benefits to the usa people.’

‘firstly, i would have apologized to my citizens for my responsibility. then, i would recheck the national security system. i would also wonder ‘who did this? why?’’

‘if i were the president of the united states i wouldn’t react, only review my policies, my opportunities with other nations. i should think that they attacked the us because it fighted with other countries before. i would ask myself, ‘why didn’t they attack another nation besides the united states?’’

‘i would be more charitable, donate more to african countries, overcome starvation, help poor countries, developing countries, stop exploiting resources of other countries, stop putting the nose in other business. i think these are good ways to protect america.’

‘in that situation i would want to feel angry but because of being president, i couldn’t be angry to cause a war with any country because terrorists are faceless.’

the mid-autumn festival. the day when children walk around with silly lanterns and parents give each other moon-cakes (previously described).

the night should be clear and the sky should be immaculate. the moon should be fully shining like a beacon, a torch. the clouds should move away for one night and we should all walk around without the aid of artificial light. tonight we are not that lucky. i am sure that a full moon lurks above the clouds. it stands there defiantly shining. it wants to burst through the thick cover but it can not. it is frustrated. it is nihilistic. this is its special night and it missed the party because a few thousand feet of solidified water vapours got in its way.

the children are still around holding their terrible lanterns. the streets are still packed and lights are strung in every place imaginable. the traffic is heavy and people still give each other moon cakes as gifts. the sky is grey and the wind blows sharply. rain drizzles down at a terribly violent angle. we have no moon but we still celebrate.

the copyshop. we sit and drink coffee and wait for our photocopying to finish. there isn’t a photocopy machine at the university that we can use so we wait. we watch traffic, our watches and wait.

the people that work there are all incredibly amiable; they’d invite you to their daughter’s wedding even thought you only met them one week ago. they walk around and smile and chat. the shop opens onto a street that is partially paved. when it rains you have to wade through small streams to get inside. the inside is full of small, red tables and stools. you sit on the stools and enjoy your coffee and wait. there is a family that owns the shop. they own three photo copying machines and they are constantly in use. at times, they photocopy whole books. today one of the sons was working on a book that was 1500 pages long. he said it took him the better part of the day to finish.

the eldest son is tall and has just married. his wife now works at the shop and ties her hair up in a neat ponytail. the son has frizzed hair that he doesn’t seem to tend to often. his passion is eating dog meat and working with his motorcycles. he has a wonderfully nice motorcycle that sits in the back of the shop under an old table cloth. when he’s in the right mood, he takes it out for a spin. you hear him roaring down the street before you see him. when you see him his floppy hair is matted back and he’s focused. he’s in another world.

the mother of the shop is really the one who runs the whole operation. she is no-nonsense and always says thanks. she is the first one to ask you what you want, how many copies, how many sides, when you’re going to pick it up and what not. she is the first to take the money, break a grin, and send you on your way with a nice, warm bundle of sliced tree. she doesn’t talk much and uses a small bowl of water to keep her fingers moist.

the father of the shop is, by far, the most interesting character. he wears thick glasses that stretch from the lower realms of his forehead to somewhere in the middle of his cheeks. he smiles and has gaps between most of his teeth. he is perpetually smiling. he works mostly on fixing the copy machines. he has a lot of toys. he has vacuum cleaners to suck out the dust. he takes apart the copy machine, sucks out the dust, takes apart the vacuum, wipes it down and puts everything back together again. he is normally hunched over a disemboweled machine, shirt off, half covered in black toner, fixing something. he practices his english and enjoys saying, ‘wonderful.’ for him, everything is wonderful. yesterday i was sitting alone in his shop and he brought over an article from the newspaper. it was describing aircraft carriers. he kept pointing to different parts of the ship and saying, ‘wonderful.’ he has an incredible way of saying the word. the first part, ‘won’, rises quickly and is held. the second part is short and falling but the ‘r’ is usually omitted. the third part rises again but not as quickly. it sounds like a rollercoaster and i can’t help but grin when i hear it. ‘woooooooooonnnnnnn ddee ffffffuuuuuuuuuuull!!!’

i always enjoy my time in the copyshop.

last friday we celebrated movie night. calling things a celebration evokes certain characteristics which in no way apply to our movie night. celebration means community, funny hats and smiles. celebration and mary poppins do not belong close to one another.

the night started smoothly enough; everything was set up when i arrived. the projector was in place, the dvd player was there and the benches were in nice rows. students started coming in about fifteen minutes early. then chaos ensued. the movie wouldn’t play in the machine. they tried and tried and i was sure we would have to run home and find a substitute. the movie was a pirated version of mary poppins. one can buy pirated dvds for only one dollar in saigon. quite a steal (pun intended).

eventually we figured out the problem. the man who was in charge of technology (who was, mind you, sporting a white shirt that neatly hugged his beer belly that carried the seal of the united states on it) had brought the wrong player. he brought a vcd player and not a dvd player. we all waited patiently for him to come back with the right player.

i gave a little speech at the beginning, got everyone to cheer and shout when i introduced the movie like it was actually something special. it began and i sat in the back ushering people in. mary poppins. i never realized what a strange movie it actually was.

the sound went off a number of times and we had to change the wires and stop the movie. everyone sat patiently. there wasn’t anything else going on in long xuyen on a friday night. the movie started back up and everyone watched the singing and dancing and loveable children say silly things.

the movie dragged on and on. i never realized out how long it actually was. i was overjoyed when it ended and i watched everyone file out. it’s a real sense of joy to see something you’ve worked so hard to organize come into fruition.

one person asked me as they were leaving if the chimney sweeps learned to dance because their lives were so hard. they actually believed that chimney sweeps normally pranced around on the rooftops of london. i tried, but couldn’t suppress a giggle.

it’s odd, it doesn’t bother me in the slightest that i’m not doing something fun or exciting on a friday night. movie night is much more exciting than anything else i would be doing. i remember a time in my life where there were exciting things to do on the weekend. it’ll weird going back to such a place. i wonder if it’s all still there.

i thought about one thing all week. the brutal nature of my schedule was wearing me down. i was always having to think a day or two ahead, basically live in the future, preparing and photocopying and trying to stay sane. i thought about the bbq we were going to have on saturday. jack, julie and i were going to grill out. we were going to pretend that we were in new jersey, oregon, nebraska, anywhere.

the way we were going to bbq tugged at my cave-man roots. we were going to hunt for our meat in a crowded market. we were going to forage for our vegetables. we were going to dig a hole and make a fire. we were going to burn things and hear meat sizzle. we were going to eat meat that was clinging to bones and it wasn’t going to be a clean process.

we found a recipe on the internet (http://www.tm52.com/bge/) and went rounding up the ingredients. we bought sugar from the crazy sugar lady. she always yells semi-coherently and has millions of bees flying around her sugar. she inadvertently placed a few in the bag. we bought tomato paste from an older couple. they tried to overcharge us but we bartered down. we bought bullion cubes and wasabi sauce (recipe calls for worchester sauce but that’s no where to be found) from a middle aged woman. she was no nonsense. she overcharged us and we bargained to no avail. she wasn’t moving. we paid. we went into the vegetable section of the market. stands are packed together and slightly overweight women are all sitting on their haunches talking about things, gossiping. they recognize us and yell. they remember my parents and ask if they went home yet. they take our order and try to sell us everything we don’t need. we buy mushrooms, those tiny ears of corn, tomato, onion and pepper. we buy from four or five different people who all work for themselves.

we go to buy meat.

oh, this is an adventure because it is so hard to buy something from a place that’s so disgusting. the pork sits out in the open. overweight women sit on their haunches talking about things and shooing flies. we walk in and everyone holds up pieces of this or that. we inspect the pieces and wonder what part of the animal that came from. liver, tongue, was that the gall bladder?, brain, skin…

one lady held up a large section of ribs. they looked good and we bought them. three dollars for an entire side of pig ribs. we also bought a couple pieces of bacon because the recipe calls for liquid smoke. we figured that we’d burn a piece of bacon or two to give it that charcoal taste.

we went home and started cooking. we were relaxed, carefree, the weight of the week’s work drifted from our shoulders. we cooked on a small, open grill that was powered by, what i would best describe as lamp oil. the dog ambled back and forth and played with his tennis balls. we listened to music. we were everywhere but here.

outside we dug a hole and filled it with charcoal. we lit the charcoal and waited for it to get hot. the sun slowly went down and the day was dying. the fire glowed, didn’t flame. sitting in the dirt we started to cook some of the ribs. the sauce was thick and spicy. it glued to the ribs and slowly turned into a wonderful glaze. the ribs were perfect. our faces were covered with bbq sauce but we could look into the fire, up at the sky and hear only familiar music coming from the balcony. i don’t know exactly where we were but it wasn’t here.

i sit in my business english class having nothing to do for the next twenty minutes except answer random questions about an import/export article their reading. it's a joy to give students something to read in a language you know perfectly. you become the master. you become the sensei. they sit quietly and stare ferociously at a piece of poorly photocopied paper. they want to lean. their pronunciation is terrible but they know words like, 'chaos' and, 'delinquent.' i amble around the room checking to make sure they understand everything. 'what is console?' 'what is haulage?' 'what is a broker?' i write the words on the board and come up with a makeshift definition. after all, how would you define a broker? i'm sure it's fairly simple but, when you have thirty eyes on you and they're all waiting for your blue pen to scrawl something on the white board, it's unnerving.

sometimes i look out the window. there are always students practicing for gym. gym is a graded class here and they have to do such things as the triple jump, the shot-put, marching and volleyball. if they fail a gym class they will not graduate and they take it very seriously.

today they are practicing marching. they stand in rows, three deep and about twenty long. they stand still in their blue uniforms with white stripes down the sides. they wear silly hats and some of the girls have dress shoes on. the gym teacher yells something at them and begins to count. they follow along and then instantly begin to march. their arms swing in unison from side to side. their feet are perfectly in line. they reach the end of the volleyball court and they turn abruptly. they turn and continue marching. they will march all afternoon in the sweltering heat. i sit in a classroom watching students highlight odd words that they'll never need to use again in their lives. they are so diligent it makes me feel inferior. they can memorize things at an incredible rate. well, back to my window to watch the students trot up and down. they look like a circus troop in their blue uniforms. they look like a well trained circus group.

random stray dogs litter this place. one comes to a class of mine. she strolls in with the rest of the students quietly following one small girl. the girl is shy but speaks english well. she has honest eyes. the dog is large and black with a brown belly. it is fat and old. it is a woman and shows the scars of childbirth. she slinks around when i file through the rows looking at the student's work. she is afraid of me. she has met people and they have treated her badly. she doesn't like strangers. this dog also doesn't understand the flow of a classroom. when i have people come to the front of the class and present, the dog always diligently follows her master. she sits next to her watching everyone. she is wary of all but continues coming. she gets bored in teh one and a half hour class. i can empathize. she always finds a scrap piece of paper and places it between her dirty paws. she chews on it making ripping and chomping noises. by the end of class she has successfully created a small pile of wed confetti.

the bell rings and we all leave. she walks no less than a foot behind the small girl that rarely speaks. i always wonder who is protecting who. it doesn't seem like the dog follows out of fear. it seems to follow because it truly loves her.

i sit with an english teacher behind me. he wants to learn. he has desire. he has passion. he is one of the few. the majority of the english teachers don't care a lick about improving. they graduated and that's that.

the main problem we have in the english department is that the english teachers don't want to improve. the english teachers have a mindset. the majority of them want to remain where they are. they do not want to continue studying. they do not want to better their english speaking skills. they want to hide and save face.

many english teachers don't like foreigners who don't speak vietnamese. if you're a foreigner and you don't stumble through the language, they don't like you. if you fall and trip over the odd word and sound like a moron, they love you. they need to see that you are willing to lose face.

the english teachers don't want to talk with the english students. the students that major in english speak wonderfully and there are only a handful of teachers who are able to teach them: the foreigners and three vietnamese teachers who are absurdly motivated. the rest of the teachers teach the non-major students and they do so mostly in vietnamese. the students don't want to learn spoken english. they want to learn written english and the teachers end up losing their ability to speak. if you hear a conversation between an english teacher and a student who majors in english, it sounds one sided. the teacher talks brutally and doesn't admit when they make mistakes. the students are afraid of offending the teachers and speak softly and humbly. some how this situation needs to be rectified.

we have worked with the teachers but have made little progress. it's frustrating working in a culture for a couple of years and making no substantial change. the change is subtle and you become narcissistic. you can't focus on changing things. you have to focus on yourself. if you don't, you'll implode.

my friend, jack, was invited to someone's house the other day. he was given something very special. he was given a poem. it was submitted to a website and was published. it was published with a number of other poems and has the distinct smell of a scam. he received a number of letters from the website talking about the book and how, while he is not obligated to buy, he should consider this wonderful offer that will surely bring glory to himself and his family. he also received a letter that said, 'i am excited to inform you that in addition to your selection for inclusion in a hardbound anthology, you have also been chosen to be one of 33 poets whose artistry will be recorded professionally as a special part of a new poetry collection, the sound of poetry.' scam, scam, scam. his poem is about a large suspension bridge. it's the bridge you have to cross over on your way to long xuyen.

our bridge

my thuan suspension bridge
high in the sky
flies over the rice field
how can she sleep at night?
is she tired?
bitterly she cries, cries, cries,
the electric light shines on her nice body
the sunlight,
the moonlight,
really no night!
she admires dragonflies day and night
and never tired.

dong van ho

independence day in vietnam. all singing, dancing and flag-waving.

the day started off benignly enough. the sun rose, as it always does, and a coolish breeze was running through the trees and bamboo stands. the sky was littered with random clouds and things seemed more quiet. there was no work today. i woke up early in the morning and walked out on my balcony. a house across the way was playing a son, 'mau hoa do', red flower, a traditionally patriotic vietnamese song that soars in the chorus. i hummed along.

there isn't too much planned for independence day. there are flags perched on every house and telephone pole. they all danced. bridges are also adorned with a variety of pastel colored taller flags. pink, yellow, lavender, sky blue. the government buildings also are decorated for the occasion.

at night there will be signing in the main plaza. a large stage will be set up and a variety of groups will sing traditional songs and patriotic songs. people will gather and stand around in groups chatting idly. they will buy balloons and small trinkets to give to children. we will pass through and watch for a bit.

this day is in remembrance of the independence of northern vietnam from the control of france. they have a separate day for the reunification of north and south. the south and the north celebrate both days.

i learned a vietnamese phrase the other day.

'co biet ha co tay khong?'
'co biet ha cay to khong?'

the type of humor is called 'noi lai' and, i'll tell you what, it's hilarious.

the first phrase means, 'do you know how to take down the flag of the west?' and the second phrase means, 'do you know how to eat young dog?' it was a phrase used a lot when the french were here. people would, as a type of secret phrase, ask each other if they were supportive of the revolutionary cause by asking if they knew how to eat dog. now, the only time i hear the phrase is when people want to invite people to eat dog. you invite by asking, 'do you know how to take down the flag of the west?' or, probably more appropriately, 'i invite you to take down the flag of the west.' people really enjoy it when i use the phrase. it seems dirty for some reason.

dog food.

we buy food for the dog but he doesn't like it. he sniffs it and looks around but doesn't really eat it. it's made up of red and yellow bits. he eats the red bits but the yellow bits are always left in the bowl.

we buy him something called banh bao. it's a fist full of rice dough that's boiled. that dough surrounds pork meat and boiled eggs. the boiled eggs and pork are not thoroughly cooked. it's always fairly pink.

another piece of food that we give the dog is duck's head. that's normally used for soup.

the dog also receives what is called moon cake. moon cake is a speciality this time of year. it is the fall delicacy. it's made of fruit, meat and bread. the combination should never have been attempted in the first place. we are given a couple of moon cakes a week. we pretend to eat them and give them to the dog. he chases them across the room and scatters crumbs everywhere. we give the dog the most inappropriate food.