Catfish and Mandala: A Two-Wheeled Voyage Through the Landscape and Memory of Vietnam

by Andrew X. Pham

Empty rooms are Mom’s way of keeping us home. Mom comes from the old world, where mothers are lifelong housewives who expect to be near their children all their lives. Senior homes, retirement communities don’t exist in their vocabulary. When her friends explained the concepts of children leaving home at eighteen and parents going into rest homes in their “golden years,” Mom’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “That is so cruel. Strange, strange country.” The last few years, I think my father, who is more culturally savvy, has been talking to her because she has started saying things to us in Vietnamese like “We’ll be all right when we retire. Your father is working a few more years so we’ll be financially secure. We’re in America; if we live with you, no girl will marry you. And no girl will let you support us. We know it’s different here.” She tries so hard I ache for her, this simple woman who takes pleasure nickeling the grocers for bargains, deals for the family. This woman who lets in every Mormon that comes by the house with pamphlets. This woman who makes egg rolls for cosmetic girls at the department store who give her free makeovers. This woman who eats cold leftovers standing in the kitchen alone because lunch in her American household is too lonely. This woman whom we’ve shortchanged.