cardstock heroes

Walking through the arid spaces of a shadowed alleyway,
The same filmed scene replays itself again,
Nearby an elderly woman is searching through rubbish bins,
While a bearded man on cardboard planks lets out a silent cough,
This is the life that perpetuates itself,
There is no escape as the dilapidated walls close in,
As the decrepit ladders rise further out of reach,
Unless, unless…

Born with the capability of sight, thought, and speech,
One has the ability to see how the system oppresses us so.

Though societal complacency may be the cause,
Or binding contracts which keep us down,
Or perhaps even without realizing what is,
We can work the system to our collective gain,
To create a different sort of eminent change,
To benefit our common humanity and dissolve its ignorance,
By thinking, speaking, acting anew.

Cardstock heroes and felt-tip marker.
Scratch the ground with your shoe.

boxed guitars

Yesterday was my third day at the job--one that was more musically inclined perhaps. While setting up the tables with pre-made Smuckers packages of peanut butter and jelly and pre-made grilled chesse sandwiches for snack time (I wonder if snack time takes into account food allergies), I decided to voice my opinion about the need for art and music education to two of my co-workers, and they passively agreed with the usual "yeah" and nod of the head. During recess break, I decided to browse through the grey-colored 'Enrichment' cabinets in the storage room to discover fifteen or so child-sized guitars in boxes, practically brand-shining-new. Thinking that these guitars would be more beneficial in the hands of kids that were throwing basketballs against a red brick wall for lack of a basketball court, I took one out to the playground to test the waters.

Not sooner than ten seconds after setting foot on the pavement outside did a crowd of children amass around me with lit-up eyes and hands reaching out asking me if I could play. Unfortunately, I have yet to develop guitar playing skills, so instead showed them how to hold the instrument and passed it off to one of the kids, with the idea that the kids would share among themselves this strange new object. However, their 'thirst' to have a try at the guitar was left unsatisfied so I headed back into the storage room to get two more. 'Pick-the-number I had in my head' was the way I initially decided to distribute these instruments, but with 15 kids shouting different numbers, and with the kids all somehow claiming to have picked the same exact number I later announced to have in mind even though I didn't hear as such, I opted to hand the guitars to the most quiet children.

After recess, I went over to the one-room library to wait around for children in need of tutoring to show up. Not having anything to do while other than waiting, I decided to take a look through a janitor collection bin next to the door. To my surprise, two boom box CD players were in this bin marked as broken. Thinking that perhaps they were still functional, I brought them into the library, cleaned them off, plugged them in, and loaded in my Beatles and Gorillaz Cd's. And yes, they still worked.

After jamming to Last Living Souls, Strawberry Fields and other tunes for twenty minutes or so, I ended up tutoring two kindergarten kids and another kid who the program staff termed as very special. It seems to be the case that this kid is perhaps autistic and learns through the memorization of answers, rather than fully understanding the concepts behind simple addition problems and spelling. I experimented with various methods including finger counting but that didn't work so well with numbers past ten, and the five-line tally which somehow produced nine-line tallies. On the brighter side, this kid expressed interest in the guitars I brought out during recess. Perhaps I will locate some students at my campus who are talented in instrument playing to come one day and play and teach songs to these kids.

work, first day

On a cloudy Tuesday after my classical social theory class, I made the first of many intended drives to Hearne, Texas for my new twice-a-week part-time job working with children from low-income families through an after-school program in perhaps the poorest area of the state I have been to yet.

My first day was perhaps a bit unorganized as most first days are--bureaucracy, new streets, and overactive children among the few. Driving down 2818 and then onto TX-6 with roadkill ranging from dog to cow on the side of the road every so often, I found myself in an underdeveloped small blue-collar town where the only recognizable commercial landmarks among run-down local businesses and typical neighborhoods with repainted homes and green lawns were a McDonald's, Pizza Hut, Exxon, and First National Bank of Texas. After filling out the paperwork necessary to start the job, I was off over a 'bridge' where I eventually located Eastside Elementary. Finding parking under a tree near an unpaved driveway which served as the school bus loading and parent vehicle waiting area, I ventured into the open-air corridors past lines of predominantly minority children lead by mostly female teachers at the school day's end.

Asking around, I eventually found the office, and after the confusion was sorted out, I headed over to the small cafeteria with no stage where children participating in the after-school program were seated at long cafeteria tables which had been re-painted over many times with coats of white paint. Most, if not all of the kids looked over in my direction and exchanged fascinated whispers about my appearance (I was perhaps a little overdressed with dress-shirt, jeans, a blazer and my mo-hawk hairstyle) as I asked some of my co-workers what it was exactly I was supposed to be doing.

After their afternoon snack, the kids were herded over to the play ground in lines to enjoy recess--I have never seen anyone as excited as this bunch about getting into line. Walking past a non-working water fountain and the outdoor hallways in dire need of aesthetic if not functional repair, I found a spot on the pavement with my co-workers observing the children at first before joining in their football toss game--sadly, the football was of the crumbly soft Nerf variety well past its prime, and unfortunately the receptive children did not pass the ball among themselves, but instead all faced towards the direction of two of my co-workers to have the ball eagerly thrown to them. Feeling that a new game was in order, I went into the equipment room after being informed that a set of soccer balls would not be in until the next week--what I found was a bag of mostly deflated and worn down basketballs and volleyballs. I opted for a few volleyballs, and brought them out to the kids. However, the same kick the ball back to the adults and not just among the kids continued despite the new game.

After recess and back in the cafeteria, I learned that I would be substituting for one of the absent tutors that usually led the purple group. After doing attendance, and still not fully sure of what the misleading schedule meant, I went around checking on the homework of two of the children, while encouraging three others to freely draw whatever it is that came to their minds---in this case, it was jack-o-lanterns. Following the schedule, I took the kids over to the gym room--a small 15x25 enclosure with two colorful kid-friendly carpets on the floor. Not knowing what the kids usually played in this environment, I let them decide, and after five minutes or so, they finally agreed on a game of 'race'--a two-team relay race around a color cone. This game lasted for about ten minutes, give or take, before another co-worker entered the room to announce that P.E. meant recess time on the playground. So off to the playground we went, where two other co-workers stood already waiting to have the kids play a game of obstacle course--something eerily reminiscent of training future soldiers. This structured 'game' basically was to have all the kids stand in one line taking turns going through the monkey bars, down the slide, under some bars, and around a tree before running to the back of the line. "Hey, come over and play" was what one kid in line said to two approaching kindergarten kids who had finished their homework.

After the announcement from one of the program's organizer that the schedules were all messed up, and she had to re-do them, I was to take the kids back to the cafeteria and create some sort of activity for them spur-of-the-moment. I decided to have the five of them play an addition and subtraction math game; sounds feasible for first graders right? But before that, I allowed them to get some water at the working water fountain--which one kid inadvertently took his time drinking what seemed like a gallon while getting his t-shirt soaked; later I incorrectly called this kid 'she' instead of 'he' since I assumed the kid was a girl from his haircut and voice which could have been either male or female. Anyway, the math game didn't go too well with many of the kids just guessing and with two refusing to participate. I ended up giving each of the ones who tried a colorful fish sticker. The rest of the time I spent trying to keep the kids under control, and playing a word matching board game that was perhaps a bit too complicated for first graders.

Tomorrow is going to be my second day at the job; I think I am supposed to just help some children with their unfinished homework in the library unless something comes up. Maybe later on, I will ask if I can teach the children some songs and perhaps some sort of activity where they can be creative.

habits

It seems to be that as of late that people just seem to be walking embodiments of repetition expressing little to no creative action of their own due to our 'unique' socializations. While there are some that successfully break this mold, it seems that the majority are trained in the figurative and literal sense to think and respond alike, depending on which outlets we get our information from, with similar concepts and ideas. Turn your head there, and read something here--perhaps simple compliance with limited reflection through the same thought processes has caused this condition in confluence with other factors. I seem to be experiencing this something that I can not yet fully grasp--it is somewhere between the desire to create something original while not having a clue as to how to go about re-imagining the distinctive.

Perhaps I have been spending too much time developing generalizations on the dimensions of human thought, and not enough time having the sort of interaction where one walks away with the feeling that something was accomplished. There is always that profane barrier that prevents the connection that could be achieved it seems--be it time, space, or some other intangible but very real idea. And yet, perhaps it is this sought after connection which causes this feeling. Perhaps if I thought on simpler terms of fulfillment of immediate gratifications, this would be a non-issue--however, I could never accept such as this is the world for more.

I am currently at a lost for words having stood on the shoulders of giants for far too long.

humor needed

Here is something I made that might bring a smile to your face.

yeah, right

"Which is worse, ignorance or apathy?"

As the nations of the world trade systems participate in continually evolving forms of economic globalization, the level of ignorance and apathy among the general populace may rise relative to the degree of personal socioeconomic success.

In short, it is predicted that the capitalistic exchange model may promote economic stability among nations while further socializing global populations into the mindset of commercial manipulability.

Other sociopolitical effects of global capitalistic exchange may include the empowerment of women, changing family and social structures, profitable exploitation of the working classes by the capitalist classes, cultural domination, the development of English as an universal business language, as well as new alliances and stratification among the nations.

The concept of an integrated one-nation world system of government may function if there exists full and equal representation wherein class, ethnic, and religious identities should not be used for political mobilization and stratification. This may require a possible blend of the elements of democracy, republicanism, communism, and socialism. It would also likely require several informed citizens' committees to address issues of corruption and repression.

If peaceful and cooperative technological development projects were to take place under such a system, concerns such as health, poverty, education, and environmental degradation may be greatly reduced.

If something of the sort ever happens in this lifetime, I would be content living life as a traveling writer, artist, policy consultant, and educator.

nocturne

It is late at night
And the North Star is shining.
The mist covers the rice-fields
And the bamboos
Are whispering full of crickets.
The watch beats on the iron-wood gong,
And priests are ringing the pagoda bells.
We hear the far-away games of peasants
And distant singing in the cottages.

It is late at night.
As we talk gently,
Sitting by one another,
Life is as beautiful as night.
The red moon is rising
On the mountain side
Like a fire started among the trees.

There is the North Star
Shining like a paper lantern.
The light air brings dew to our faces
And the sound of tamtams beaten far away.
Let us sit like this all night.

(Song of Annam, "Nocturne," p. 34-35)

they proudly brew

Sitting in a coffee shop in the 'historic downtown' of Bryan, Texas, the Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad addresses the UN broadcast live on CNN. Other than that, I have scattered selected course materials for my political science courses on the table top next to my cup of mocha coffee of the Starbucks variety, "we proudly brew," it says. My goal for today is simple--to study for an examination in an ethnic conflict course--wherein the professor always seems to hint that democracy is the way to go, and summarize two articles concerning international institutions for another course.

Words of interest for today: authoritarianism, constructivism, horizontal, vertical, consociationalism, integrative democracy, hegemonic exchange, corporatism, primordialism, instrumentalism.

Here's a re-cap of last night:
- Damn, ants. I think I'll observe them for a bit. Can't burn them with a lighter, there's carpet. I need some Raid.
- Huh? They're carrying off my fingernail clippings. Better get the vacuum cleaner.
- Sweet, there's a 75% off selected items section at this 24 hour CVS. Wait, what was it I needed?
- Drats, why is the Raid so expensive? I guess I'll go for the anti-bacterial variety--that's a good way to kill the insect germs.
- Where's the cashier? Oh there he is. Hmm, he speaks in a monotone voice.
- Great, no more ants. I think I'll draw some pictures for fun.

idolizing ho chi minh, educating into capitalism

The title of this writing itself is an oxymoron—in that a government which propagates to its people the personality cult of its last great leader is training its citizens to function in a global society operating under the system of capitalism. This is not only ironic, but laughable as state-sanctioned booklets on the doctrine of Marxism-Leninism are still being published—which were intended to support the party in its use of powers of government to educate the proletariat to remove the notion of false consciousness which leads to economic exploitation of the worker (funny thing, the party is still suppressing the bourgeoisie institution of religion in regards to political attachments, while actively promoting nationalism—two other components of the notion of false consciousness).

Thus, the partial liberalization of Viet Nam’s economy may have some unintended (or intended, depending on whose perspective it is) consequences. Perhaps there is a reason behind the party’s decision to allow overseas Vietnamese who choose to contribute to the country’s economic development to have fifty year leases on land (temporary private ownership of land by the new bourgeoisie as opposed to Communism’s mandated collective ownership of land by the proletariat), and five year multiple entry visas. If the doctrine of Leninism holds true, another revolution is probably soon on its way to overthrow capitalism (once again) as reforming capitalism from within is stated as being doomed to fail—that is, unless the party is comfortable with having a flag with three stripes and a star in the foreseeable future. Perhaps this will aid the party in its doctrinal goal of achieving a stateless society (wherein it should probably go ahead and quickly convert the other members of the world economy to its ideology—Communism); imagine that, a world without borders.

the humanist meets the communist

Through light reflecting into the irises of two hazel-colored eyes, a reality, or aesthetic realization rather, begins to set in; it is difficult to describe what exactly is happening at first from the sheer awe of the senses—rays of sunlight drift through heavy cumulous clouds converging over the tops of the mountains in the distance. Multistoried structures, some homes, others lodgings, along with tour agencies and restaurants neighbor fields where various sorts of agriculture are grown—this is something that may be close to that state of visual perfection if it were to exist. There is one factor missing from the equation, however, and that is the simple question of who owns the life that happens here.

“So, I take it that you enjoy the photograph? It was a panorama taken from the vantage point of the rooftop of a hotel during a study trip to Sa Pa a year ago. I figured that a sepia tone would do this scene justice to convey a sense of past antiquity—in that what was in that one moment will never be as it was again.”

“Yeah, I never realized the beauty of a space, to generalize the objective into subjective terms, could be something like this—an ideal almost. There is one thing that has itching at the front of my mind since my eyes caught sight of this photo—the life there, at that very moment, could you tell me about it?”

“I take it that you are familiar with the terms, worker, landowner, and capitalist—all words common within the ideology of Communism, the political practice which the nation of Viet Nam was purportedly operating under at the time. The simple fact of the matter during that time was that the workers consisted of some of the ethnic local people, but the city itself was overrun by the non-local majority ethnic Kinh majority who preferred to hire their own. When I use the word some, I mean to say that these local ethnics were self-employed for the most part—that is to say that the women and children roamed the streets during the day to sell trinkets and some cultural artifacts produced for tourists, while the men loomed on street corner motorbikes. Similarly, it may have been the case that the land was no longer owned by the local people, but instead by the system of government legitimized by the region’s peoples because of the belief that equality and fairness would soon displace the hardships which they faced in their past necessary nomadic lives. In the same vein, businesses in the area are owned by the same non-local majority ethnic group, who may control the economic means of subsistence for those surviving under the universal monetary system—cultural hegemony, or perhaps even reverting to the stage of capitalism as one might call it.”

“From your explanation, the local ethnic populations in that time seemed to have lived under a system of false ethics wherein their individual human statuses and dignities have been altered based on an interpretation through the philosophy of Humanism. For it would be rational to assume from what information I have obtained from you that the life course of these people is determined by the social and economic policies of the few within the nation’s political society. In this sense, a lack of self-determination exists—therefore universal morality, if it exists, has not been applied equally to the native peoples of this area. You just mentioned that these peoples were nomadic prior to living their coerced, nearer to the present, sedentary lifestyles; this may suggest the loss of mobility on their part. Therefore, this entails a strain on knowledge acquisition—that is to say, their past beliefs of right and wrong are no longer sustained by their individual and joint interests; for with economic dependence may come cultural dependence and alienation. In this understanding, their individual potentials are being redefined to suit the needs of the dominant force that has injected itself into their traditional society. Therefore, another question which concerns me is how humanity is defined for the people living in the region.”

theory and action

As of late I've been learning about a lot of Marxist theories on work, production, and what not. It's very interesting--perhaps I will see where his view point fits through examples in contemporary society.

I will try and update tomorrow with a detailed entry attempting to correlate these thoughts to the social programming in Viet Nam based on the responses I received for my education survey, and perhaps incorporate the idea that few students read the actual primary texts which are supposedly a foundation for that society.

On another note, I think I would like to organize a month-long humanitarian relief research trip to Nicaragua with university funding. More on that later, and whether it is feasible or not.

english teacher

Drifting via motorbike down an alleyway lined with homes and small shops easily overlooked by the eye in the third district of Ho Chi Minh City, the sound of blaring horns is cut short as we round the corner to the two-floored structure housing the locally run non-governmental organization known as Du An Tuong Lai, as known as Project Future.

Leaving our sandals at the foyer where a shoe rack stands next to glass enclosures containing various dated books and a picture of the great leader atop, two project managers, Anh Hai and Anh Nhat, greet us and welcome us upstairs into a small classroom with crumbling walls and quite too many desks to discuss my requested internship placement and its hours. After the formal introductions and proper handshakes, we exchange the necessary information and mark our calendars. Before departing, I ask if it would be alright if I were to have the students embark on any side projects outside of class; however, the perception becomes construed to mean that I would be interested in taking the students on a weekend fieldtrip. My broader intent for the proposed side project, which does not actually materialize over the course of my internship, is to have the students participate in an art-media project of self-expression through each student’s individual creativity.

Down the same alleyway a week later though in the evening this time, I feel both a sense of excitement and anxiety as it has been almost seven months since I have taught English to the youth in this country. As suggested by Anh Nhat, I have arrived thirty minutes prior to the start of the evening class instead of adhering to the doctrine of flexible time common among the people here. In the back office, I am introduced to one of the teachers whom I will be working with—Co Tam, a woman in her early thirties with a persistent smile on her face. She shows me the day’s lesson plans in the textbook known as Let’s Go to which I am allowed to add to where I deem it necessary.

As the students fill into the classroom, which is better spaced out than the other in which I had the interview a week prior, each pupil greets me with the phrase “hello teacher, how are you?”. Co Tam introduces me to the class consisting of students ranging from ages fifteen to twenty-one, turns her tape recorder on, and seats herself down in a desk. Meanwhile, I stand at the front of the whiteboard in a state of anxious nervousness as I had not expected to be teaching the class solely by myself on the first day. The subject matter, which I am to teach, deals with telephone conversations and general occupations. Getting ahead of myself, I write a telephone conversation between a doctor and patient on the whiteboard—only to realize that my handwriting is much too small and the terminology which I have employed is much too complex. Eventually I am able to relax a bit, and the first class goes fairly well after the many recitations of terms.

At the next session a week later, both the older and younger groups of students are tested on their language speaking capabilities. In an office on the second floor, students enter in pairs and Co Tam asks me to read the questions aloud for them to hear—not the best of testing strategies as they have not yet grown accustomed to my English speaking habits. After an hour and a half of this, my tongue is exhausted from speaking the same phrases over and over again. From what I have come to understand, the students here come from disadvantaged families on the lower end of the socioeconomic scale. Many of the older students seem to be migrants from the rural countryside whom have come to the city to look for income earning opportunities in order to help their families back home. More likely than not, these students attend language class at night while working low-skill and service industry jobs during the day.

The next week my twice-a-week schedule begins and I am reassigned to teach the younger students, a rowdy bunch, with a local volunteer in her second year of university. The teaching environment with these students is more rigid than with the other group, and the only break from the inflexibility of the book, which focuses more on vocabulary than an actual understanding of grammar and sentence structure, comes at the end of the class when there is time left over for an impromptu game. Looking back now, I realize that I should have taken more time to develop written and verbal assignments outside of the book for these younger students to understand the basic grammatical structures of the English language.

In the week that follows, I am reassigned to teach the older group of students once again. During these sessions, I am able to teach the students topics of their own choosing—love, hate, and relationships; economics. With the first topic comes a broader range of flexibility, as I am able to teach the students useful terminology in the expression of feelings and emotions. The teaching of economic terminology, however, becomes constrained when Co Tam suggests that I focus more on terms associated with the lower-end service and restaurant industry.

All in all, the internship placement at Du An Tuong Lai was well worthwhile and the experience of teaching and learning to understand the hardships and mindsets of the local youth will stay with me as I continue to develop plans to aid the impoverished and poorly educated peoples of this country in the near future. At times I have come to question the usefulness of teaching English abroad; in part I understand its usefulness as a business language in the global marketplace, but it is foreseeable that English may soon become an unofficial second language which may drastically alter the Vietnamese culture and language, if it has not already.

life through words

I have returned to Sài Gòn after a week in the north--specifically, Hà Nội and Yên Bái. For the past few weeks, or months rather, I have been writing my thoughts down on paper and furthering them through conversation. There is much to say, but little time to do so as my summer days are usually kept busy--thus, what I shall do in the meantime is to keep track of daily happenings and ideas and elaborate on them upon my return to the states. As such, I welcome my readers to look forward to retroactive postings.

My focus for this update will not exactly the places I've been, but some conversations with the people I've met and seen again. A third person sort-of-view will be used to change things up a bit.

On a rumbling train with the night-time smell of country-side drifting through the grated windows, a conversation begins between two friends after a failed game of chess as the lighting was cut short. The topic of discussion starts with comparisons between the societal systems of the United States and Việt Nam; soon passengers with the mindset of resolution through violent action rather than discussion throw watermelon seeds at the two. The conversation is cut to whispers after the realization that rocks were not flying in through the windows in order to appease these vengeful minds. Considering retaliation against these unfortunate bunch, one friend persuades the other to ignore the actions of the poorly educated.

Diving further into the darkness of night, the conversation shifts to its trigger--the lack of education and opportunity in Yên Bái. The friend explains to the other that the small city suffers from those whom steal in order to maintain heroin habits, the lack of sex education and early marriages as a result, poor levels of tourism in a city without an industry or specialized trade, and police whom fear the citizenry's violent behavior. Soon, the friend explains her dislike of peoples such as the ones sitting in the seats across the isle whom have begun a conversation from eavesdropping on the activity of others--criticizing northerners whom have picked up southern dialect.

The next night in Yên Bái, the friend's mother's friend speaks a monologue of her hardships in life. She explains that her son was handicapped requiring surgery and without a father which left early on. With her meager earnings, she ate little and was eventually able to pay for the surgery her son required. Afterward, her son could move all but his left hand, and eventually graduated from high school. However, matters grew grim as her son's dreams of attending university in order to later become a librarian in the small town were soon crushed after he failed his college entrance exams. Nowadays, the woman refers to herself as retired and earns less than 200,000 VNĐ over the course of two months. Her son, whom is now twenty-four, will soon enter a two-year vocational school, and currently sells lottery tickets during the day--he brings home 1,000VNĐ to 5,000 VNĐ a day.

Days later at a dimly lit restaurant in the Old Quarter of Hà Nội, two individuals sit waiting for their meals to arrive after a brief tour of the city via motorbike. With the lingering smell of traffic from Bàch Khoa, the conversation continues with a discussion of future plans and reminiscing about the days and people whom have all but left this country. The moments drift by, and all too soon the two say goodbye as they embrace in front of a hotel on Mã Mây.

In the days that follow, two old friends sit at a café called Puku on 60 Hàng Trống. Still no luck in relationships since the previous meeting, the old friend speaks of obtaining his master's degree in information technology while the other discusses his plans to develop a for-profit non-governmental organization. Soon the conversation shifts to the education system of Việt Nam, wherein the old friend states that while the number of enrolled university students has increased, the textbooks are the same as they were fifteen years prior. Likewise, there has been no increase in the number of university professors as the enrolled student population grows.

On the final afternoon in Hà Nội, two friends meet to catch up on each other's happening. The friend has just returned from Thailand, and speaks extensively of her new Irish boyfriend whom is two years her junior; other topics include continuing work with the study program this month, and her recent ear surgery. She seems happier with her life, and hints that without the aid of her boyfriend, whom is back in Ireland to finish a degree in theater acting, she would have not had the opportunity to see the world outside of Việt Nam.

southern soul

I will make an attempt to expand upon in detail on what I've been doing here in Sai Gon. Until then, here is a list of daily happenings up until recently.

16 jul 07
morning class with co Binh
pho for lunch, che for dessert
if instrument, then lessons available
editing pictures and hello dad
no internship today, a soccer match
hideaway cafe with dad
dinner at nha hang; fans cheer the soccer match
yoko with tien, trinh, and trey
lush with vu, tofu, phuong, ha, and the two finnish
do an chai

17 jul 07
hu tiu my tho for lunch
a decent nap
discussing corrections with hai
daughter from danang
nice karaoke
lush with phuong, tien, loc, chris, ben, nga, nga's siblings, michael, ...
dim sum at the mi hoang thanh place

18 jul 07
a drowsy morning
chris's house
lunch with dad at son ha
teaching little kids
loafing around, i'm sleepy
helping dad carry luggage down at 3am

19 jul 07
morning midterm
dan nguyet/kim
hu tiu nam vang
benh vien tu do, agent orange
meeting thay hung--smile group and ngo info
go2 with tien, the brits, tam, hanh

20 jul 07
chilling at chris's
finding meds by motorbike; sidetrip to tous les jours
hello minh
dinner with the dc folk
lush with nga and her two sisters, phuong, chris, loc, tien, julie
hello juliet
shit, volcano's closed already
go2 with minh, phuong, phuong kiet, vu, loc, tien, juliet
the dancing child at 2am
fuck ignorant foreigners; let's burn down go2

21 jul 07
lunch with tien at nirvana
talking with tam
exhibition at gallery quynh - phuong, phu nam, juliet, tien
bringing com tam to chris's
ben djs at vasco's - matt, loc, tuan, phuong, julie, trinh, tu, tien, chris
mi sui cao and diem tam
wait, let me get my camera

22 jul 07
sunday lunch at ong ba loi's
coffee with chu bi, chu bao, anh duc
dinner in the lobby
jax n' art
walking the city streets
nhap, uot, and the other homeless

23 jul 07
waiting two hours for the aids researcher
interviewing local students about education
du an tuong lai

24 jul 07
visiting chua ky quang 2 with anh duc, tam, hai, hanh
abc bakery
late night visit to ho con rua

25 jul 07
hideaway with khanh and viet
taking khanh and viet to du an tuong lai
pho xao
goodbye trey party: german beer with cousins, john, phuong, his friend, tien, matt, thanh, dave, trey
ben dj's at le pub
late-night eats at cho ben thanh

26 jul 07
thuoc la cho lon and pho 24
banh khot for lunch at co ba vung tau
visiting 300 le van sy
playing bida on the second floor
rush back to the guesthouse in traffic
the ride to can tho
sketchy massages
the search for xoi

27 jul 07
early breakfast and departure
hoa an research center and field lecture
lunch
dai hoc can tho
the house at vinh long
cai luong - a disappointing end
poetry slam
psychiatrist game

28 jul 07
mekong river tour
quick bicycling mo cay
fallen chain, black hands
soccer game and frisbee with the kids
dinner
night market
karaoke into the night

29 jul 07
truong trinh chay bo vi tre em ngheo
liquids and snacks
shower smells like sewage
ben tre dau phong
dinner at son ha
matching rain ponchos
saying goodbye to their mom
chris's house
lush with viet, phuong, tien
allez boo
goodbye cousins

30 jul 07
calling in sick to cook com thit nuong and cha gio

31 jul 07
coffee and survey translation at tous les jours
presenting preliminary findings
sinh vien vn nau an
shisha with dave, matt, tien, thanh, phuong
volcano with matt, tien, thanh
hello lam and friend
walking back from volcano and banh bao

1 aug 07
donations of rice and money: smile group, chua ky quang 2, lang sos
lunch at nirvana
saigon square and buying snacks at citimart
stomach ache and a nap
teaching at du an tuong lai: love, hate, and relationships

2 aug 07
guest lecture on ethnic minorities

3 aug 07
bao tang hcm, nha ben rong - falling ill
afternoon nap
phuong cooks dinner
bida at galaxy with trinh and matt
oh glorious sleep

4 aug 07
a day of diarrhea and television
com tam over the bridge for dinner with phuong
hanging around chris's
hello ben's friends
latenight mi at cho tan dinh
laundry room chess with tien

5 aug 07
greetings trinh, tuan, and hanh
buying a bottle of johnnie walker red
lunch at hai's
a walk around the neighborhood
visiting cemeteries
hai fixes his new phone
buying red candles and some starcraft
streetside dinner in the rain: lau bao tu bo tieu xanh, com chien, mi xao, bia
goodbyes, back to the guesthouse
a game of laughs with tien

6 aug 07
skipping morning class in favor of rest
v3 cafe for lunch with matt, dave, and philip
field trip with co binh and tam to 4 temples
the cantin and asking the meaning of pictures
du an tuong lai: teaching kinh te
kfc for dinner and pool at paloma
sheridan's
late-night cari at phuong's

7 aug 07
morning field trip: sanitation and water treatment talks in district 1; phu my hung housing
shopping for food at the co-op on NDC, more at Diamond
the long walk and shitty fried rice
a break and cooking commences
sinh vien my nau an: pasta, garlic bread, mashed potatoes, etc.
chess with thanh
karaoke at nice with phuong, samson, tien, ben, ben's friends
rooftop star watching

8 aug 07
last night's dinner for breakfast
formulating NGO ideas
chris returns from america

face of life

HIV/AIDS in Sai Gon

http://berkeley.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2194327&l=bf25a&id=1201936

Children affected by Agent Orange in Sai Gon

http://tamu.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2350244&l=3a475&id=8311282

more updates soon

Hello friends, I will be updating soon with the stories of bicycling Huế, the search for art in Huế and Hội An, the scenic hike in Bạch Mã, the beaches of Lăng Cô and Đà Năng, an internship where teaching English is key, bits of daily life in Sài Gòn, and other adventures possibly involving local people doing local things.

Yeah, so just check back in a few days if you will.

Photos will be added soon.

cycling sài gòn

On a Tuesday afternoon with skies overcast grey, I opted out of attending the society class to embark on a six hour bicycle ride around the city with my roommate, Hải. I figured that witnessing firsthand the income disparities within the city’s poorest districts would be a more worthwhile experience than sitting in an air-conditioned room arguing about, or being lectured on rather, which socioeconomic viewpoint holds more moral and substantive value.

Cycling down Phạm Ngọc Thach past Nhà Thơ Đức Bà onto Tôn Đức Thang, the remaining traces of sunlight began to fade when we realized that we had forgotten our rain ponchos back at the guesthouse. No matter, an old woman with a red colored kiosk on wheels, in an alley next to businesses and hotels for the economically affluent, stood selling colorful rain ponchos resembling colorful garbage bags of the thin variety.

“Hai áo đi mưa bao nhiều tiền vầy, bác?” Hải asked.

“Ba ngàn một cái con,” the old woman replied as she gathered an empty coffee cup from a customer dressed in the standard local manner of long sleeved collared shirt and dark slacks. After paying the old woman six thousand đồng, she tossed two rain ponchos into the front basket of my bicycle, yellow and green.

At that very moment, torrents of water fell from the skies above just as we were about to get back onto the streets in order to bike against the one-way traffic on the nearest bridge crossing the river into Quận 4. Our first stop was at a local open-air market within the district; however, the vendors had cleared out for the day due to the sudden downpour of rain. This vacant marketplace did not especially hold the traits of the economically downtrodden even when juxtaposed to the nearby multistoried building in the process of being constructed; this is perhaps because no one was about except for the usual crowd of men on motorbikes. However, directly across the street was a row of local businesses, in varying states of structural decay, which sold mechanical repair services and various odds and ends. Leaving the area, we passed by the Saigon Port stretching some city blocks full of colorful shipping containers. On the streets opposite this domain of global product exchange, local businesses and individuals sold various street-side food products, consumer goods, and lottery tickets. It would be unwise to generalize the socioeconomic conditions of these individuals as having one distinctive class label since each person within the scene subsisted at differential levels of prosperity.

Directly beyond the shipping yard was the bridge crossing yet another portion of the Mekong into Quận 7. The strenuous uphill cycling was well worth the downhill descent, where gravity did its work, as well as the scene of small colorful boats docked near the river’s banks, which seemed to serve as mobile homes on water, and small barges drifting by. The rain momentarily ceased, and the people passing on motorbikes begun to remove their rain ponchos. Pointing out the boats docked at the littered river bank, Hải described how many of these boats also functioned as floating markets during the morning hours.

Once over the bridge and possibly another one into KCX Tân Thuận, a piercing rain befell—the thin rain ponchos purchased earlier had begun to tear; as such, we sought shelter under the canopy of a bus stop along the street. Waiting there for the same purpose, or possibly for a bus, was a girl in her early twenties dressed in a red colored shirt and blue jeans. Our eyes met a few times, but alas, she was in her own world underneath her face mask blocking the city’s polluted air. After the rain had slowed its pace, we regained our steady pace through flooding streets past mounds of trash, half-burned in grassy plots, until we were just outside the gates of the Tan Thuan Export Processing Zone. It is here that the government processes products created strictly for export purposes to foreign trading partners.

Over a few more bridges where colorful boats anchored on the muddy brown waters, we found ourselves bicycling along another segment of the river bank in Quận 7 where the waters had turned into a shade of murky black. The stench of raw sewage permeated this scene where floating boats housed whole families and rusting metal shingle homes stood on wooden stilts at odd angles. These housing structures barely continued to withstand time in a state of urban decay as new housing and business complexes sprung up directly behind them. To make matters worse, it was probably the case that these homes did not have running water. Speaking further of sewage and sanitation, litter once again lined the banks of the river here. On the bridge overlooking the water, a woman in a conical hat walked by with her bicycle loaded down with recyclables she had collected.

Some time later after a midday snack of súp cua and bánh flan, we cycled past a row of buildings in the architectural style of the colonial French. It was here that a look inside these buildings, converted into mechanized factories, did I get a glimpse of the squalid working conditions—not only did there seem to be inadequate lighting where heavy machinery operated, but also there seemed to be a strong disregard for what could be considered modern safety precautions as workers worked barehanded and shirtless. Across the street stood a shirtless elderly man urinating in public view against the trunk of a tree. Public restrooms and proper sanitation seem to be lacking in the poorer districts of this country’s urban centers. While in Hà Nội a few months back, I have seen people defecating and urinating on the streets in public view. Further down the street stretching across the black waters reeking of raw sewage was a bridge constructed by the French in the shape of the letter U—Cầu Chữ U.

As it was in close proximity to the U-shaped bridge, we stopped by my roommate’s university for a quick visit—Đại Học Hồng Bàng, a former student dormitory converted into a small university wherein students were preparing for their final exams in classrooms without air conditioning. From there, we made our way over to Chợ Lớn in Quận 5 to visit a Buddhist temple where an injured kitten followed us around and then a Catholic church where Ngô Đình Diệm and his brother Ngô Đình Nhu last sat before they were seemingly executed. Towards the day’s end as dusk befell the city skies, we had bành bột chiên and bò bía at a street-side eatery in Quận 11 before returning to the guesthouse.

conversations at the lake

During my recent visit back to Đà Lạt with my father, water has been a focal point, or location rather for both conversations and sightseeing. Đà Lạt, if not mentioned previously elsewhere, is a city in which much family history has taken place—my father spent his childhood summers here at his father’s house overlooking Hồ Xuân Hương daydreaming down at the docks about could have been in days past. A few months prior, I walked the circumference of this very lake developing and expanding on individualistic thoughts of my own about what could be.

In a sense, this is a city which links the past to the near present to the not too distant future. The air is still chilly during the later hours of the day, but not to the frigid severity my father describes when recalling the days when lit coals in metal pans were placed under the bed at night for heat—it is amazing carbon monoxide poisoning did not occur. The bullies of my father’s youth no longer stroll along the lake in numbers looking to pick fights for pocket change; nowadays, locals pedaling by on two-seater bicycles are common along with the occasional nighttime middle-aged man on a motorbike asking the visitors if they would like to get some coffee (local slang for: care for a prostitute?). The lakes and waterfalls of my father’s youth are still where they were left last—except now, these locations have been turned into unnaturally structured, and sometimes restricted, tourist hot spots.

The point of divergence from all this reminiscing, however, is that one probably should not continue to live in the past, but must look forward to what the future may bring as my father said during this trip. True, the past is a foundation for the development of a person, but it should not necessarily hinder who a person shall become in his or her future (tương lai). Continual movement, flexibility, fluidity, and functionality in terms of contributing to the development of and understanding the changing world seem more pertinent in this regard.

On another note, this recent visit to Đà Lạt has given me a new business/non-governmental organization idea involving art.

whim's a blur

Within this scheduled structure of relative stability, I feel as though my mind is slipping again. I'm drifting towards the path of other's whims and my very being is becoming but a blur. I am at a loss to adequately describe my motivation for further strives in resourcefulness, creativity, and individuality.

On a related level, the sociopolitical design here bothers me in that it is more restrictive than what I am accustomed to. People are afraid to speak and think freely, and this presents several obstacles to my research. I must take notice of what I do and say for worry of reprisal from the authorities. As such, some people whom I speak to fear having a greater level of knowledge on social and historical issues which are considered to be controversial. I would prefer to elaborate through specific cases, but identities must be protected.

The dissemination of information within this region exists on a differential scale when compared to certain events reported elsewhere in outside news media. In a sense, my relative expectations for awareness among the local populace on such issues as human rights and socioeconomic equality comes from the ethnocentrism of the environment that I have lived in for the majority of my life. This notion of thought is therefore unrealistic when applied here as the culture of conservatism is greater in these parts. Through limited knowledge of social issues and circumstances, those whom already live comfortable lives generally do not have much interest in what happens outside of their own being--a degree of social apathy is not uncommon here. It is generally the case that there is a very noticeable consensus or common level of agreement among the citizenry here in that people here seem to accept a great deal of things at face value. Of course, this could be an overgeneralization on my part.

On a less serious note, the following is an observation of a street scene from approximately two weeks ago. Odd how the relatively simple flow of life--people commuting on motorbikes, cars in the left lane, and even a middle-aged man walking past--seem to move at magnificent, and even complex speeds while one is standing perfectly still on a street corner for ten minutes or more. From the vantage point of an onlooker, each person living within a society has his or her own daily purpose, whether freely chosen or not, in order to survive.

beauty of the south

The morning language class on the eighteenth progressed at the ridiculous pace at which a detached tire without much of a purpose would probably choose to roll itself down the street, if it could. Life, in some ways, has become overly scheduled and routine here in recent days, perhaps even to where a lingering sense of mundane repetition seems to dictate what will happen next—part of this stems from always being busy with one thing or another, and living the life of a student on a study program. In a sense of the matter, I am bound to the social and structural obligations that I have gotten myself into this time around; however, this is not to say that my wish for continual growth through interaction and implementation of developing ideas will be confined to but one narrow path.

On this particular day after language class, I met with my friend Nguyệt, whom I had studied with in Hà Nội with on the CIEE program during the fall semester. This meeting of old friends immediately brought back a surge of memories from months prior—though our physical appearances were still comparatively the same as before, our levels of human development were now indescribably further along than before. It is my belief that the way by which a person presents his or her psychological demeanor to another human being, it changes over time. What changed about my friend was that she seems to have developed into someone who is more comfortable with a larger range of physical mobility than before; the person once at ease sitting in a room all day was replaced by one who is willing to walk the streets alone.

After this brief lunch meeting at V3 Kafé followed by another goodbye, a scheduled tour of the Nike shoe making factory in Biên Hòa consumed the rest of the day. Owned by South Korean investors, employing over 18,000 workers, and under a contract with Nike, this factory was in fact, a factory—not that I have ever seen another factory on such a grand scale to make a meaningful comparison. Our student group was given a sort of constrained view of operations which had the goal of painting a good picture by the public relations management team, and a selected tour of the working facilities. Though the social mobility factor is indeed lacking for a variety of reasons which may include lack of a formal education beyond basic literacy, the workers here seem relatively content with having employment to support their families back home in their rural provinces where work may not be as readily available. The management here sees the factory as being beneficial to the surrounding community, and continues to view itself as such in the long-run.

The day after the Nike factory tour, our student group had an afternoon meeting with two of the political officers working at the US Consulate here in the city. These individuals commented on a variety of issues including Vietnamese Americans being arrested by the local government for attempting to leave the country with untaxed profits from house sales, current pressures on the Vietnamese government in correlation with various human rights abuses, the economic and political climate, and the feasibility of foreign business affecting social reform.

Days later on a Thursday would be the first time I would meet with a Vietnamese educator with his own views of the system for my research project. Humorously, he did not understand why he was scheduled to meet with me in the first place—he thought that I was a Vietnamese student whom required help with the English language as he has been teaching the language for a living here for decades. The introductory meeting went relatively well, and he scheduled for me to meet with two of his fellow educator friends the following day. When last Friday arrived, however, I had fallen ill to the common cold and was in no condition to have a serious discussion with a group of teachers. Fighting an onslaught of drowsiness brought on by the cold, I had trouble staying awake in their presence and excused myself to left the meeting early—I did get their contact information before I left though.

There is much more to write as I have not written for awhile. However, I need a break and will post another entry tomorrow.

bullets still work

Eyes looking off to the horizon, the range of vision is obscured by low-lying buildings covered in chipping paint and signs of social wear; jutting in the distance is the city skyline of newer infrastructure. A person on a motorbike zooms across the congested lanes of this southern space. On another street intersection, a tanned shirtless child of unknown ethnic background peddles for alms day and night. The slight breeze in the blistering humid air carries the heavy scent of what could be deemed as the city stench. Ears wide open to the life here--the blaring sound of horns and sirens in almost unison. Human transport services via self-employed individuals on motorbikes--xe om--ask "xe khong anh?" "Khong can," replies the foreign voice with the shake of a hand and local grime lining the esophagus. A guard in green, or cong an rather, marches in front of the consulate for the French. A worn-down AK-47 of olden days hangs on his right shoulder on his side--some people with red-coloured passports demand entry at the gate. I wonder if the bullets still work.

To detail my experience thus far in a different regard, I will shift to a more narrative mode that entails the memory of direct interactions. On the evening of the fourteenth, I returned back to Sai Gon via bus of the TM Brothers--I would not recommend this company as the air conditioning expelled varying levels of faulty lukewarm air that was not quite cool. Before it slips my mind to some other time, the highlight of my original bus ride via the Phuong Trang company to Mui Ne was when I witnessed the sight of an overturned bus on the side of the road. Also in the same day, I had purchased two Vietnamese language newspapers from street vendors, and surprisingly I could read and understand parts of the articles. Back to the nearer present, dusk had already set in and a man on motorbike inquired that I needed a ride (specifically from him, that is.) Across the street I exchanged some cash, and then bargained it down to 15,000 dong for a ride back to 1B Pham Ngoc Thach.

The next day would be a starting point of bad luck of sorts--after Julie flew into town from Ha Noi, she, I, Phuong, and Khanh took a taxi to get some lunch. The day was cloudy and it begun to rain; to add in a degree of excitement, three food places we stopped at were already closed. We settled on lunch at Nha Hang Thuong Hai over at 21-23 Vo Van Tan--here, the elevator was awkwardly positioned wherein there was little room for comfort upon exiting as a double glass door opening inwards was a mere meter from the elevator. Also, the food here was not that great. Some time after a few games of chess and scrabble back at Chris's, we decided to stop over at Le Duyen 3 hair salon on 46 Bui Thi Xuan so that Phuong could get a new haircut; however, the electricity went out so a long delay ensued. Did I mention that I had gotten a haircut a few days ago on the same street when I went there with Chris and Daniel? Mo-hawk, fo-hawk, something of the sort; it doesn't look much like a hawk though--maybe a malnutritioned porcupine when hair product is applied. Night fell, and back at Chris's house Ben made some spaghetti for dinner.

Later on, Phuc and his friend, and Ben's two friends who do some sort of humanitarian work stopped by for a few drinks and conversation before we headed over to a nearby club upstairs at Napoli followed by a stop over at a crowded Lush at 2 Ly Tu Trong. Where the bad luck I spoke of earlier really begins is after a late-night meal of mi hoang thanh (wonton noodle soup) over at Nha Hang Hai San Vi Ca Hoang Thanh on 77-89 Nam Ky Khoi Nghia--at least I attribute it to this particular dish from this night as Julie and Phuong are still both experiencing symptoms to a lesser degree today. A few hours later, my stomach was in great sharp pains from food poisoning, and bouts of diarrhea and vomiting continued until morning when Phuong rushed me over to Family Medical Practice clinic on 34 Le Duan. After a few hours on IV to rehydrate my system, I went back to the guesthouse where I met my fellow program participants (Dave, Philip, Tam, Tien, Long, and Matt) before returning to my room to some eat some chao before drifting off to a few hours of sleep. After this recovery, we had a group dinner at Bun Ta on 136 Nam Ky Khoi Nghia--the beef in my selected dish was in a state of rubbery overcooked-ness. The night concluded with live music performances by some opening acts and then Ngoc Anh over at Phong Tra Van Nghe at 14 Lam Son.

Yesterday on the seventeenth of June started with a group breakfast over down the street at a place serving a variety of bun and Hue-styled dishes. There was a morning orientation where something or another took place, and then a group lunch over at Son Ha down the street. At about one-thirty in the afternoon, we met our local roommates--Hai (my roommate), Chien, Hanh, Thanh, and three others I will have to remember the names of later. We would take part in a day's worth of scavenger hunt activities through the city--the first was winning a game of tien len, the second was mapping the local area by pen and papar via the back of Hai's motorbike, the third was splitting open pumpkin seeds and removing the insides in one piece, the fourth was obtaining a stranger's family tree in Quan 5 (Hai did the talking and information gathering, while I went inside the local bookstore to purchase Haruki Murakami's South of the Border, West of the Sun translated into Vietnamese as Phia Nam Bien Gioi Phia Tay Mat Troi), and the fifth was putting together twenty pieces of a puzzle.

We ended up getting second place, and after Hai moved into the room at the guesthouse and some rest, Hai, Tam, Hanh, and I went to eat dinner. The first location we stopped at was a com binh dan; however, Tam is a vegetarian (for the most part) so we had dinner instead at a vegetarian restaurant called Bodhi Tree on Pham Ngu Lao. After the meal and teaching the Vietnamese roommates some informal slang, we walked around the backpacker area from park to shop to shop. One particular location stood out among these souvenir havens--an art gallery selling paintings made solely out of the wings of butterflies at 208 Bui Vien. True this may sound grotesque, but the paintings if one could call them that are really beautiful; also, supposedly the wings were only taken from butterflies that had already departed from this Earth. Two more activities followed: some overpriced orange juice at a spot looking out at the river bordering Quan 1 wherein I inquired about complex Vietnamese idea terminology from Hai and Hanh in exchange for the same in English, and a game of tien len back in the room which I took last place in (I now owe Hai a lunch.) To backtrack a bit to the backpacker district, which is the scene where we were walking further up and down the streets here, one can not but notice the overwhelming sight of handicapped individuals with missing limbs seeking alms to maintain their existences. Unlike the States and some other countries, Viet Nam does not have a social welfare system in place and seems to heavily rely on non-governmental organizations to alleviate these sorts of poverty, or otherwise have them go away somehow.

Today was a Vietnamese language placement test over at VLS--I got placed at intermediate so far, but if it is too easy, then I will get moved over to advanced. This would be good news for Trinh, who is teaching the intermediate class. Afterwards was a stop over at Poppy at 217 Nguyen Dinh Chieu with Phuong, Julie, Philip, and Son--a place specializing in frozen yogurt with toppings, which is owned by a Vietnamese woman named Thao from California.

days under the sun

As the title of this entry implies, I have been spent the previous few days in Mui Ne--swimming, lounging, reading, walking, eating, and sleeping. The waters were especially nice; they were at their clearest when the tide was in before noon. I have finally finished reading Murakami's Wind-Up Bird Chronicle; I probably should have bought that one book in Japan, but oh well.

To describe the city, I would say that the sun was blazing hot, the waters were wonderfully cool, and the peoples usually kind. On the first day there as I was walking down the beach, and a group of local children, done with school for the summer, stopped me to ask if we could play and if they could 'have' my swimming goggles. In a sense, the introduction of my foreign goggles brought a degree of unnecessary conflict among the children as they fought over who would be the first and next to use them. At one point in an unrelated matter, two of the children began fighting over something with one brutally pinching the other in unspecified areas. Not wanting to cause any commotion since I was an outsider here, I told them to stop fighting and let their oldest be the mediators. The struggle ended peacefully, if one could call it that, with one of the older boys consoling the one whom had been attacked.

Last night after my return to Sai Gon, I went to eat dinner with Phuong, Trinh, Son, and Khanh at a place called Son La near here. The food was decent, the decor jungle-like, and the staff all dressed alike. After that, we went to a place down Tran Hung Dao which served hot vit lon. I have the fried one, which didn't particularly taste like it had been fried. Thereafter, we hit up Lam's Bar on Bui Vien where we ordered a crazy cocktail served in a large flower vase while seated on the rooftop in the warm Sai Gon night air. The night concluded back at Chris's where we watched a bit of Training Day, talked to some IT friends of Ben visiting from Ha Noi, and a game of scrabble.

rewinded times

After a breakfast of Bun Bo the previous day, I happened upon Phuong, who was looking for me at the guesthouse, while I was walking around the area. We would then walk to Chris's house nearby to hang for a bit where I met Daniel, a Viet Kieu from the states whom interned at Green Bamboo Shelter, and Will. Relaxing there for a bit, I played a game of chess with Chris, and lost.

Around one in the afternoon, Phuong took me to a fruit kiosk to purchase some thang long and buoi for the visit to my great-uncle's home. Unfortunately, I have been away from this atmosphere for such a time that I forgot to bargain, so Phuong ended up taking care of that. With the newly acquired fruits, I would walk the rest of the way to my great-uncle's (but, not without a stop first to Incombank, and Kinh Do bakery.)

Their home has changed somewhat since my last visit in January--the walls are in the process of being painted light-green (leftover paint from a business of a relative), the folding screen for the first bedroom has been replaced by a sturdier wooden frame, with a newer folding screen, and there is now a washing machine. The time passed with discussion about the happenings of other relatives, the weather, things of monetary nature, and geographical calculations. The younger children, cousins-of-sorts, have grown since last; the youngest ones are now able to speak in varying degrees.

Later on, Chu Bao took me to dinner at a side street eatery serving banh cuon with fresh brewed sua do nanh.

The night concluded with a brief stop at Yoko (there was a new band, the speakers were a-crackin', and seating was even more limited), Lush (a shared bottle of overly expensive Johnnie Walker, seeing Ha and Phuc again, and meeting some new people), and another game of chess against Chris (I lost, again.)

I shall probably go to Phan Thiet tomorrow morning (three hours away instead of the six and a half for Nha Trang) for a few days of relaxing beach time.

good morning việt nam!

I woke this morning from a knock on the door--evidently the cleaning people were making their rounds at 8:30am. No problem I thought, I would just keep my eyes closed and let them do their thing; if my hearing is correct, the sound of shuffling bags indicates that this person emptied out the trash can.

Some time later, I actually got out of bed. It still has not completely hit me yet; I am back in Việt Nam after an absence of 5 months. For those of you who were wondering, cell phones sim cards still work after that long of a timespan.

First thing I will do today is eat some breakfast somewhere around here. After that, I need to stop by one of the small post offices and get more cell minutes added. Then, I will probably go buy some fresh fruits, stop by my great-uncle's home to say hello, and then whatever else comes to mind on this first morning back.

I have not decided yet, but maybe tomorrow I will head over to Nha Trang for a few days of beach time before the program begins.

jet stream heated toilets!

A quick update from Narita Airport in Tokyo, Japan...

After some delays due to inclement weather in and to Dallas, I have arrived on the other side of the Pacific.

Getting off the plane was a relief as the uncomfortable seating on the S700 AA flight caused me considerable lower back pain; perhaps it was my attempts at reclined sleeping that brought about this.

During the flight here, I was cramped between a Japanese guy who slept most of the time, and a Caucasian girl with facial piercings galore on her way to Guam. I passed the time on this flight with a few naps, watching a Japanese tourism video about Sai Gon, and reading Murakami's Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. On exiting the planes, I noticed that first class seating really did have foot rests and larger seats.

After mistakenly attempting to check-in at the American Airlines and JAL counters, I was told to board the bus to Terminal 1 where my flight to Sai Gon departs from Gate 34 at 6:35pm. Japanese airport employees sure are helpful, for the most part.

With some time to kill, I have decided to walk around the airport and take pictures of random occurrences and cultural icons. What is different about a Japanese airport? There are day spa and shower rooms located throughout where one pays $9/hr for a glorious shower. The snack and drink machines are lighted, kind of like the ones you seen in the Japanese movies and cartoons. The toilet seats are heated, and feature a jet stream washer (with automatic sensor!). Oh, and the book store has a lot of Japanese books; I was considering purchasing another Murakami book there (they have different UK-printed covers), but I haven't figured out how much the Yen conversion is.

Soon to be in Viet Nam.

life is here, here is life.

The days since last have passed quickly since my previous online posting; my habit nowadays seems to be one of which the expression of my thoughts and plans for future actions are described to those whom I speak to more frequently (in person). Other than this, I have also been keeping written records of ideas obtained and what not when the occasion merits.

After yet another semester back in the clutches of a functional university educational environment, I am back home in Houston, though briefly until early June when I depart once again for Việt Nam--this time, I will be in Sài Gòn for the duration with the general purposes of qualitatively researching education issues and hopefully interning with those affected with HIV/AIDS.

Two weeks before, I was back in New Orleans to volunteer--primarily with Boat People SOS, an organization purporting to aid those in the Vietnamese community affected by Katrina. This time around, I was with a group of four others: two from Texas A&M like myself, one from Baylor, and another from the University of Texas. Though I cannot generalize my experience into a few brief words, I will say that this most recent visit was very worthwhile and perhaps substantially more educational than the last in terms of in-depth discussions with a 'different side' of New Orleans. It turns out that I never did actually survey any women over the age of forty to raise awareness about breast cancer while there; what I did help in doing was convince Vietnamese business owners in the area to fork over funds for a free health fair to be given by BPSOS (with so many sponsors of the fair, I question the need for these additional funds and our methods for obtaining them). From these experiences with this particular non-profit organization, I may have decided that I would now instead work to create a for-profit non-governmental organization in the future as a way to have a freer range of operations not limited by what donors and grants would allow the money to be used for.

On another note, life in the Ninth Ward seems to be functioning--the people continue to live with their daily hardships and hopes, the yellow school bus runs to drop off the children at their homes, the McDonald's is still a bustling place where the youth gather, and there are still plenty of places to make U-turns. Some homes still lie in ruin, while other homes are undergoing the slow process of reconstruction. Common Ground has planted a vegetable garden of sorts to remove toxins from the soil, the blue house has moved to the one next door, some reconstruction efforts are underway to return the homes to the former residents, and a filming crew interviewed Malik. While volunteering there again, I did happen to meet two other groups of short-term volunteers: two individuals from Philadelphia and a group of students from Marquette who were there previously in March.

In regards to the rest of this blue-collar city, the mall on the other side of the river is undergoing a process of bulldozing, and tourism is dismal even on Bourbon Street despite the frequent commercials the city airs on television. The Superdome roof reconstruction, which reportedly cost $300 million, is complete, and there are a few businesses in town with grand re-opening signs. There is word among some locals that the lack of visitors is attributed to the fear of the hurricane season; in fact, many businesses do not bother to remain open late. Furthermore, there is the opinion that if another natural disaster comes through, the same will happen again if the city continues on without attracting in the technology and industry sectors.

spoken word

The following are two spoken word pieces, originally written towards the end of March and early April, which I performed last Wednesday, 18 April 2007 as part of U-ACT's "diverseSTORIES".

untitled

This life, peoples, 'things'--multifaceted and many.
Worries, expectations, fears, success, emotions.
What to do? Create something, intangible or real, perhaps.
Culture, ethnicity, race--socially defined.
It changes; the tide is never constant.
Adapt, participate, define, live.
Time, perception, existence, meaning--relative and situational.
Structured, boxed, confined? Speak the mind.


The Socially Attuned World, or something of the sort

Order, destruction; disorder, chaos.
Silence, eyes closed--out disjunction.
A button pops, a jar shatters.
Conversation, senses awaken--meaning ascribed.
Massacres with purpose, information, benefits.
Ethnic dominance, social strata--continuous cycles.
Ignorance, education, regurgitation.
Structure, unfortunate collapse--profitable aid.
Currency, wages, motivation for social changes.
Where it all begins; how it ends.

montréal: mes vacances! (part one)

Bonjour ma famille et mes amis! Comment ça va?

The subsequent narrative is a recalled account of my visit to Montréal from 20 March to 25 March 2007; some interjections and commentary from the present are added in to intentionally cause the syndrome known as ‘weary eyes’.

Tuesday, Mar 20

Today is a tad bit more exciting than the usual—for I will be disregarding the remainder of the week’s classes after the day’s morning fencing class (one in which ignorant individuals will later refer to me as a ‘samurai’ since I am the sole Asian-American). The drive back to Houston, a little over an hour is not tedious in the usual sense, since I have finally uploaded a new assortment of music onto my personal music device (as some of you may recall, I have had the same music on it since June of last year). My updated assortment of more recent music includes the Decemberists, Norah Jones, and various jazz songs; the latter is heavily influenced by my recent visit to New Orleans. Did I mention that I intend to return to New Orleans the week after finals? Anyone is welcome to come along and volunteer.

Later, the stop-over flight to Chicago is delayed for about two hours—I assume there are technical difficulties with the express airplane which seats somewhat over thirty or sixty. This however, gives me time to catch up on my leisurely reading of Haruki Murakami’s Kafka on the Shore—which later turns out to be by far, the most complex and interesting of his works I have thus read. In recent months, I have been reading more books for leisure and my own personal development; I rarely read for classes unless it becomes mandatory. My brother dozes off in the meantime, and the frozen foods which my mother has packed for our family in the Midwest are in fact still frozen.

Time passes at a relatively quick pace while I am reading; soon enough, we are on board and the airline peanuts are dispensed with drink. Flying through the nighttime clouds, and seeing the stars above the stratosphere frequently puts my reading on pause—I stare through the condensation at this passing scene for what seems like hours. There is a sort of peace here; for those who are too busy with the schedules of their daily lives, I would make the suggestion to just sit there and stare off at something and soak it in.

Once grounded, I put on a sweater which I remove from the luggage I have carried aboard—the weather in Chicago is chilly unlike Houston; I can see my breath as I exhale. When entering the airport gates from the outside on foot, I indirectly advise my brother to hurry up; unfortunately, I do not yet notice that an elderly man is moving slowly in front of my brother by use of a walking cane—at this point, I would have taken back these undirected spoken words. Minutes later, this elderly man refuses the use of a wheelchair offered by one of the airline employees at the gate; I commend him for his display of vigor at an age where society expects him to become feeble.

Outside the airport in the drizzling rain, my two cousins have come by way of car to take my brother and I back to their suburban abode in Glendale Heights for the duration of the stop-over time until the next flight. To our mutual content, our considerate cousins have purchased some food from Chicago’s Chinatown—beef chow fun and fried shrimp balls. Classical music is on the radio as we reminisce of old times and the new. At the house, my aunt greets us through sleepy eyes; everything is pretty much as it was when I was there in early January. Hours later, our cousins’ father drops my brother, cousin, and I back at the airport to catch the early flights to Montréal.

Wednesday, 21 Mar

The flight arrives in Montréal some time after nine—it feels like Canada again; the obese work-a-holics and poorly dressed are gone from sight, but the difference is that this city’s citizens speak predominantly French. My brother and I wait on a bench at the luggage claim for our cousin’s flight to arrive, before an airport employee informs us in a serious tone that it is not a suitable area to be waiting. Surely, the airport’s placement of the bench was by mistake, since there are no signs posted in English, French, or any other language stating that it is unacceptable to idle there. Down in the front after the security check, my brother and I resume our wait; meanwhile, I purchase a cup of Van Houtte Café (Le goût de l’Europe dans votre tasse). Alas, this does not taste much like Europe in my cup, but the caffeine contained within does work.

The flat rate by taxi to the downtown area is thirty-five CDN; it is not bad when divided by three. It would have been interesting to speak to our ethnic African-Canadian taxi driver about living conditions in Montréal, but none of us were adequately versed in French to carry on an in-depth conversation. At our hotel located near a local university, VIP Loft on Rue Ontario, we arrive too early and decide to walk around the area for a few hours in order to get a general sense of our new environment. Back outside, there is layered snow along the sidewalks’ edges and fresher mounds where human foot traffic does not frequent. The city is aesthetically beautiful—its architecture and layout are well planned. Graffiti is tagged throughout on buildings, but somehow it feels like it belongs in this urban landscape. Here is a picture of me with Presse Café on Rue Ontario in the background.



Soon thereafter on the walking expedition, we locate the Vietnamese restaurant on Rue Amherst, Phở Việt, owned by my cousin’s mother’s friend. It is a lively sort of place—mixed media paintings, drawings done by local children, and other oddities hang on the painted walls. The owner, well acquainted with my cousin’s mother from school days past in Việt Nam, treats us to a meal (by ‘treats’, I mean she does not allow us to pay for the food we order). After this filling lunch, we thank her for her kindness and make our way back to the hotel to check in.

The hotel itself is what some would call trendy; the room was well designed and visually crushes the likes of the similarly priced accommodations back in the states. To our dismay, the room initially only had sleeping space for two instead of our group’s three. However, this was soon remedied when the ethnic Indian receptionist brought up a folding bed—this bed was initially mediocre until it is replaced with one of sturdier quality on the subsequent day.

In the ensuing hours after this, my brother, cousin, and I visit the underground shopping district—which reportedly stretches on for miles much to those consumed in materialistic delight—near the metro stop at Place McGill. This quickly becomes a loss of interest, and we head to the streets of Ste Catherine where actual daylight exists. Of particular notice are all the nonchalant strip clubs with contact dancing which are located in every direction; other than these are restaurants, tourist gift shops, clothing stores, and convenience stores. The temperature in this district is below freezing; several beggars and homeless peoples live here in these conditions—later in the day after sunset, I give the remainder of my raisins purchased from a book store to an individual layered in clothing and blankets whom appears to be asleep.

Some time after wandering the streets of Montréal, the three of us locate the University of McGill. The road there is of interest—‘Urgence Kyoto’ is tied to trees, ‘Truth’ on a no parking sign, and ‘Je Vote’ on green colored signs throughout. Class still appears to be in session, as students who speak both French and English gather around toppled recycling containers where textbooks and other reading material has been discarded—I claim a copy of Edgar Allan Poe’s The House of Usher rather than children’s books or a hefty French-English dictionary. The visit to McGill concludes with being denied access to a museum where a lecture is being held for chemistry students, purchasing raisins at the campus book store, and stepping into the warmth of the library and underground cafeteria where diverse students amass. For reference, here is a photo of the university.




Upon leaving the University of McGill, my brother, cousin, and I stop in at a Presse Café located within close proximity. I almost pass for a French speaker when placing a simple order—the cashier discovers my ploy when I am unable to respond to unknown vocabulary. Time passes here at a leisurely pace; I cannot remember what we talked about exactly—I do remember eating raisins and looking at the posting board where the locals posted roommate requests and offerings of French tutoring lessons.

The sun sets on Ste Catherine, and it grows deathly cold—our next self-defined mission is to locate a suitable eatery. After walking a few blocks, I break off from my brother and cousin and settle upon Lebanese fast food at a place called Bahsa. The meal is good—vegetables, spiced chicken wings, humus, pita bread, and garlic mayo—it’s just what I needed. Half way through, my brother and cousin appear; evidently they have given up on walking in the cold to search for food.

The night ends with beers in the hotel room from the convenience store across the street and a late night adventure where we walk on ice.

(…to be continued)

vascon3

Friday afternoon after my mind-numbing Asian Governments and Politics class, I drove to Austin--a drive which lasted over two hours since I was stuck in traffic in College Station after filling up gas. I went to attend Vascon3, the largest and only Việtnamese-American student conference that I have ever been to. Truthfully, I did not expect much in terms of content; yet, after two days of conferencing in unnecessarily formal attire, I must say that it has greatly exceeded my initial expectations.



There were a bunch of workshops on topics which included, but were not limited to: Boat People SOS, rebuilding New Orleans, domestic politics concerning the Vietnamese community, how to create your own non-profit organization, spoken word performances, a brief Vietnamese language course, Vietnamese film and media, human rights issues in North Korea, global poverty, and sex trafficking issues. Overall, the experience brought forth a new level of awareness on both domestic and global issues concerning the local Việtnamese population living in America, and those living in Việt Nam.

updates, a few

I'll update in a few days with an extensive posting on what I did in Montréal. Until then, hold onto your uh, seats.



Today is a national day of remembrance--I have probably lost my PNY 128mb USB jump drive (likely left in a computer in the on-campus lab after logging off.) To all the good times, USB; you will be missed.

Oh, I got the acceptance e-mail from CET the other day; Việt Nam this summer!

a cafeteria conversation

An aged African American man sits across the table. A simple 'hello' is all it takes to learn more about him. There are two of us who speak to him. I ask him how long has he lived in these parts. This is all it takes; he replies, "all of my life, though I had been places in my youth. This is my home." He says that people worked their whole lives for this structure, but lost everything within one night. He said people lost families, and their homes. His house, once down the street, is gone now. Many homes, he said, are left ungutted.

He spoke of governmental inefficiency, of having nothing left. In a few days, he said, he'd go visit the neighboring town to visit friends he hasn't seen in a year. They are all he has left, he says. All I can do in the meanwhile is nod, provide my attention, and let him continue his words. He appears upset, his facial expression changes, and he speaks of governmental funds to encourage people to return--but what can two hundred to three hundred dollars a month do? After his rhetoric question, he abruptly leaves the table. I cannot finish what I am eating.

the lower ninth ward

Shattered lives lie in ruin--these homes no longer on stable ground.
Numbers name the dead; sometimes none, other times more.




TFW, DDA, and FW, what have you found?
Once vibrant though neglected; the attention has come too late.



Material life, tatter cloth, broken glass.
Some have returned, others not.




"Bulldoze this house," "No trespassing."
To examine the aftermath, filming crews have posted signs.




"R U Back Yet?" on a car. When will you return, if ever?
Empty plots of land where homes once stood.



A blue bridge on the horizon, what was this for?
A patched wall; is this enough?

where hearts are

Today, I want to ask, a question which I have deemed to have some intrinsic worth, "What is conversation?"

What I shall ask from you, is to consider this question of structure (no matter how mundane it may seem at first) among the other things which may derive.

eight hours of this life

The following is presumably an eight-hour account of a day’s worth of moments, previously written for my social research class in order to analyze one’s social susceptibilities and impartiality, which I experienced on the twenty-fourth day of January in the calendar year two thousand and seven, which may be ultimately be different from other day to day experiences. I would like to interject at this point that my life in its current state is a relatively simple one, requiring only a minimal amount of actual cognition in order to function. There may be lapses of time and space as memory often eludes me during seemingly idle time, thus this account may actually contain more or less than eight actual hours worth of material due to space limitations and time constraints.

The morning alarm buzzes, that loud annoying blare which beckons me from my slumber—which has only been short-lived due to my late-night adventures in reading a comic book purchased the previous day promoting a life more meaningful. Eyes groggy, I look over and decide that it would be better to resume sleep for two more hours instead of attending the day’s first class. It is not only a lack of motivation which aids in this decision, but also the opinion that sleep is more preferable than being subjected to material already previously learned in another course two years prior, only this time being taught with the limited understanding of the underdeveloped commoner in mind.

Striving to fall back asleep, the alarm clock makes its announcement again some time thereafter. The world is all smiles this morning; I predict that today may just be a good one. After a hearty breakfast of a frozen delicacy reheated in the microwave, and making the sandwich which I will bring along for lunch in order to cut costs, therefore accelerating the accumulation of savings for future travel expenditures, the bus stop down the street awaits me. Standing in the cold with the hope that it will not rain, I notice an aged bearded African American man dressed in military clothing parched by time walking with a slight limp across the street. It seems that not only have I noticed him in his daily habits, but also I have been noticed as a possible source of information concerning public buses which may aid in transporting him to his destination in Snook. I mistakenly inform the man, possibly aged beyond his years by societal neglect, that the buses only go one-way on this street. Not entirely knowledgeable on the subject himself, yet having previously taken a bus to Snook from this location once before, the man decides to wait patiently at the bus stop to ask the next bus of its destinations. Minutes later, my assumption is proved to be incorrect as a bus with a purple marker passes on the other side of the street. Noticing the passing bus, the man makes his way down the street with hopes of catching the next one.

When the doors of the bus to campus open up where I have been waiting for some time, I take notice that I have never before seen today’s driver, who is an African American male student wearing a head covering closely resembling the sort children wore in years prior, with the fuzzy colored spherical collection of threads atop included. Taking a seat in silence aboard this heated refuge wherein the usual variety of hip hop radio music is playing overhead, I ponder if this new driver is in fact one more akin to the upbeat Caucasian influence, or one who is quick to react due to his ethnic and societal upbringing. Along the way, another student boards the bus—one of Vietnamese ethnicity, who I assume to have figured out by eavesdropping on a conversation about sports days earlier. Arriving at the campus near the library which faces in the eastern direction, the driver makes an extended stop where a plump and upbeat Caucasian female student boards the bus. They seem to be friends as they merrily discuss the dramatic lives of their fellow student bus drivers who host large festivities where alcohol is the beverage of choice. At this point, it seems that the driver, who is the former rather than the latter, will not be operating the bus towards the Memorial Student Center anytime soon. This becomes evident when he announces to the two passengers that a transfer to bus three would be wiser if there is a need for hurry.

Soon after the moment which I thought myself to be in a hurry, the imposing signs stating that it is disrespectful to walk on the grass come into my line of sight. Alas, I realize that I am much too early for my next class, and thus have some time to spend idle in the room where one would assume by its name to find worldly flags. Seating at one of the several tables where there is always an empty seat between two individuals, I power up my dependable portable computer only to be caught off guard by the sudden announcement that the Philippine Student Association in conjunction with the LT Jordan Institute was conducting a cultural rattan performance for any willing viewers. To my equal surprise, approximately twenty individuals not already in the space enter from the hallway to view the performance. Unsurprisingly, the other student seated at my table, dressed as if hunting animals was part of today’s agenda, stands up with a look of annoyance and leaves some time during the performance. Replacing the void left by this student minutes later still during the performance, is a female student who sits down leaving the usual comfortable space between the table’s occupants. When the performance ends, I begin clapping to show my approval—my fellow table companion notices my clapping and chimes in seconds later perhaps to show politeness. After a second performance minutes later, she no longer bothers to clap. At this point, I notice that I recognize one of the Filipino American students performing in the dance. However, I cannot recall his name having met him only once the previous year while volunteering my time at concessions to cook and sell greasy food items to the spectators of a home football game in order to earn a small sum of money for an organizational event which ultimately did not occur. I decide against my better judgment, and remain seated in a state of being preoccupied with the wonders of e-mail, attempts at reading news in Vietnamese, and other forms of contact communication available via the World Wide Web.

In the moments shortly after the performance ends, the table is once again devoid of any other life. I blissfully enjoy this time online, only to be distracted some time later when an older Caucasian man and his younger recently graduated accomplice join the table to discuss with each other business, their distaste of the youths on campus these days, and the other aspects of life which bring them joy. The older man is attempting to establish contact with the network without wires, and employs his young accomplice to inquire how he would go about doing that when they notice that I am surfing the world’s domains on my portable computer. After I provide a brief explanation, the older man appears dismayed that he does not have an account with the university in order to achieve his goals online. In the meantime, his younger self utilizes his cell phone to discuss the marvels of business transactions and to inquire what is for dinner. After some more time passes, the older man expresses his yearning thirst for liquid consumption to which his young accomplice responds that food and drink are not allowed in this room, so the sign outside says. It is here that the older man points out, to his younger accomplice, a student seated on a sofa with a drink sustained within a paper cup. Surprised that this rule has not been enforced, the young accomplice agrees that the older man should be able to drink sodas here if other individuals are allowed to do it in the same space. Since I figure that the amount of idle time I have left is dwindling, I stand up to make an exit leaving behind my two compatriots who are busy in their sly methods of soft drink consumption.

Arriving in the building where my second class of the day is held, I once again notice that I am much too early for class. I take a seat against the hallway wall, and before long one of my fellow classmates appears and says hello before asking about the day’s assigned coursework. Our discussion concludes with him offering me a stick of gum, to which I politely refuse as my lips are already chapped by the winter air. He takes his own place along the wall leaving a comfortable distance between. Moments later, a talkative female classmate appears and plops her notebook onto the floor next to where I am sitting. She enjoys giving me advice on studying for the French language placement exam which I have signed up for, as well as talking about her displeasure of having to work after class and being mistaken for being Hispanic, which she is not in her opinion. When class is about to start, my fellow classmate seated along the wall some distance down asks which room class is to take place in. Both my non-Hispanic classmate and I assure him that it will be in the room next to where I am seated, but he walks down the hall to check the other rooms anyway only to return a brief time later.

In the classroom, I make the proper introductions with three of my fellow students as I do not yet know their names—the two from just before and an Asian American female student seeking to quickly advance out of the class. Imparting my knowledge of the placement test which I had gained the previous week from the non-Hispanic student and the professor teaching French onto her, she becomes enthusiastic at the idea of testing out of the class. Realizing at this point that I have no paper for which to write on, I request a sheet from a classmate. The victor to distribute me the paper is the now enthusiastic student seated next to me.

To address the questions regarding ‘sociological themes,’ I would answer that my entry reflected what occurred accurately as it was viewed through my own lens of perception, though not without a degree of predisposition. Keeping a journal gives one the ability to further analyze events, in which the writer interacts, with greater insight in how the writer/researcher perceives those around him. This in turn may suggest that everyday experience is more subjective rather than the near-impossible attempts at being more objective sociologically. To help reduce the amount of subjectivity, the researcher could learn to become more desensitized towards the happenings of the world—a highly trained mechanical being of sorts. Alternative accounts could have been given in a list-like format with no description of personal thought, or perhaps as a removed party not paying much attention to detail. Consequently, style makes all the difference in level of interpretation. A person observing me might have seen an individual who looks like any other in the sea of students without expression of a particular mood of content or discontent. In addition, predispositions about personalities and ethnic biases might dramatically alter the account.