A Bánh Mì for Two

by Trinity Nguyen

When you’re so close to the answer, you almost don’t want to keep going because it’s safer to stay in the dark. Because maybe knowing is the scariest part.

“Just remember, con, that at the end of the day, Mom and a lot of people just wanted hope. And that meant they had to leave home behind.”

“It’s not black and white. It never is. The war wasn’t just about winning or losing. It was us shouting at the world that we, too, are human.”

“Con, if there is one thing about war that I’ve learned, it is that it takes and takes and takes, relentlessly, without mercy.

“We were like puppets, forced to fight among ourselves while the world watched and laughed without a care in the world. Without a care that we were bleeding our own land dry.”

I say nothing, allowing the trickle of my tears to fall, staining my cheeks as I picture my own family tossed around in this war, facing horrors from all sides. Maybe Dad is right, that I can’t blame Mom for wanting to avoid talking about all the hurt and loss. Maybe Bà Hai is right, that the scars run too deep, that they’re too agonizing to face. Perhaps there isn’t a right and a wrong and a good and a bad and a truth and a lie … There are too many perspectives, too many personal losses and sacrifices and griefs to try to quantify what happened in Việt Nam into something simple, something people can learn for five minutes in history classes.

room, I begin to understand that love contradicts. That when you have an overwhelming amount of love for someone, you can hurt them, too.