Knock On Wood!

As I have said before, the Vietnamese are a superstitious bunch! As a matter of fact, a very high percentage of superstition rules most of everyone's lives in Vietnam. I don't know if this is due to the fact that Vietnam was a country that was isolated for most of its history; or there is just not enough knowledge and education ~ superstitions are handed down from generation to generation.

I have been thinking about this because my oldest son, who is in the third grade, will start to learn how to use the recorder. A note came home from school asking parents to send in six dollars for one, or 12 dollars for two if we wanted to keep one at home for the kids to practice with. I was filled with excitement for him because I remember coming home from PS 81 when I was a fourth grader with my very own recorder. I was ecstatic and promised myself I would do my best to play it well. That afternoon, I took the recorder out of my book bag and placed it on the sofa next to me. On our glass-topped coffee table, I neatly laid the music sheet; I was ready to practice. Smiling, I brought the recorder to my mouth and blew ever so lightly. The next thing I knew, my mother dashed into the living room like a mad woman, froth at her mouth, screaming "STOP IT!!!!!!"

What are you doing? she asked, her eyes bulging; put that away..are you calling the snakes??????
She scared me so badly that I started to cry.Put it away! Put it away!!!
And that was it.

I know that there is not a single person who totally disregards superstitions ~

Did you know that the reason we cover our mouths when yawning is so that evil spirits can't enter our bodies?

Or some of the reason we say "God bless you!"when someone sneezes are that the soul escapes the body...or our hearts skip a beat when we sneeze and we want to thank God for allowing it to beat again??

and knocking on wood is supposed to keep evil spirits that live in wood from coming out as so not to spoil our good fortune??

Friday the 13th; don't walk under a ladder; don't step on a crack in the road; don't break a mirror or you'll get seven years of bad luck...we all have our superstitions..but the Vietnamese are over the top in their beliefs. That is just the way they are..and even me..to some extent.

Maybe I wouldn't use the term "superstitious"..but I do believe in the yin and yangs of life..I believe in feeling a rapport for certain people..I believe in a human being's intuitive capabilities..i believe in feng shui(by now, I'm sure you all know that it is a 5000 plus years old system where it is believed that a string of bad luck or suddenly declining health can be directly attributed to a person's environment)...well..that is supersition isn't it??

As I get older and finding myself totally immersed in Western culture, I now feel very connected to my Asian spirit when it comes to these venues. I have always relied and trusted my vibes..allowing the waves to influence my decisions; even more so now that I am mature.

The Vietnamese have so many beliefs~

Never give an empty wallet for it will bring misfortune...

Never give knives as presents for they will sever your friendship ( I always have to give my mother a dollar every time she has brought me a cleaver)...

When you are pregnant, never ever wear a necklace..you will suffocate the fetus..
Turn away from ugly things for you may bear an ugly child (i thought this one was hilarious..yet I have tried to adhere to it)...

If you sneeze that means someone is speaking well of you...

Never sleep with your feet facing the door..that means you are inviting death (meaning it will be easy to carry you out of the room)...

There are countless more..I shall have to consult with my mother...but perhaps the most interesting ones for me have to do with Asian wedding superstitions and customs..

Vietnamese wedding customs are elaborate and very much respected by both old and young generations. I don't have too many photographs of my childhood in Vietnam, but one of the ones I have are of me sitting between my mother and my father with the groom and bridegroom standing behind us (most of our precious valuables were stolen at sea the first time we tried to flee the country..I didn't know it then..but the Singaporean authorities boarded our private ship and took all of our trunks that my mother had laboriously packed before we left Saigon..the second time, when we left for good..there was simply no chance to take anything with us. We have only a handful of photos that certain family members were able to hold on to through the end of the war years. I wholly believe that this is what contributed to my parents' utilitarian attitude and outlook that they live with these days - they are totally non-materialistic..they don't even have a sofa in their apartment..but I will elaborate more on this later.) The expression on my face was one of camera-shy and pride, as if I were in Camelot or somewhere on that afternoon or evening of the wedding; my life was probably very close to perfect...

What did I envision for my own wedding?

In Vietnam, weddings are the most memorable and unforgettable celebrations of your life..for better or for worse, they are once in a lifetime. Traditionally, and depending on your status, there is a long period of courtship. If your family was in good standing in the community, say your father was a politician or a doctor or someone well-educated, your marriage most likely would have been already pre-arranged to a family of similar stature since the time of your youth. As you grew and continue to follow the course of your life (as planned)..you will eventually become formally introduced and engaged. So many little ceremonious activities throughout the whole courtship but that was how things were done.

My parents were not promised to each other. My father was 30 years old when he arrived in Saigon from North Vietnam and my mother was about to turn 19. The previous summer she had won the title of Miss Saigon and her mother and brothers and sisters were doing their best to shelter her from any male amorous pursuits. I don't even know how to tell this story from the beginning (because it would take at least a million words and i am not able to produce them all right now)..but my father saw my mother through the window of her older sister's tailor shop and was totally captivated..and that was it. From that moment on, their lives were never the same again and not a single member of my mother's family was happy about it. Who was this tall, curly-haired man? (some people have often mistaken my father for Indian because of his wavy hair and his tall height; his eyes extremely large and almond-shaped) Anyway, my father was basically a nobody at the time and that was not what my mother's family had wanted for her. Needless to say they fell desperately in love and eventually eloped despite my mother's family practically taking her away and hiding her in the countryside at their summer home in Binh Duong; their wedding was never officially accepted!

In our family, history repeats itself time and time again; was it a curse that doomed us when my parents broke all the rules in 1960 and eloped? I would have to superstitiously say yes to that!!!!

A Vietnamese bride wears red on her wedding day for red is the symbolic color of love and passion. We never wear white...which is the color of mourning in our country. White headbands or barrettes are never allowed to be worn except by those who have a death in their family. Before the wedding takes place, the groom, along with his family, serves tea to the bride's family. If it is accepted graciously, the ceremony and wedding will proceed. At the wedding the groom wears a black ao dai (our traditional tunic) to differentiate himself from the other men. He can later change into a silky blue or gold tunic as the wedding party progresses. Lots and lots of food are served at the wedding and liquor pours freely - this makes everyone happy and the day will not be forgotten by all. There are egg rolls, some type of steamed fish, and definitely the prerequisite roast baby pig; its skin all puffed and crispy, its body adorned with snowy white steam buns and sweet fruits. Then there is the traditional music and dancing til the wee hours of the morning (which I guess is typical of any wedding customs)

I basically grew up in America and was not envisioning that sort of wedding although I knew I would probably have to have it as well as my american dream wedding. I dreamed of a long white gown and an elaborate train; little cute children throwing flower petals as I walk up the aisle of a packed St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City. I imagined dancing all night to a famous band's music at Tavern on the Green or Windows on the World (jeez..can't believe it no longer exists...) Most importantly, I dreamed of my dream man. He is kind and humble, fun and loving..giving in to all my needs and wants, the perfect father for our children. The wedding as I wished would have happened if I had married the man that my father has chosen for me since the age of 15...but I didn't and that spectacular wedding never occured. What actually happened was that I DID meet the man of my dreams and we were married on a cold February day in a courtroom in City Hall; my two best girlfriends at the time in attendance. I was 20 years old - the same age as my mother the year she eloped with my father...We didn't even have wedding bands; we exchanged the rings we already had on - I gave my husband his ring, and he gave me mine's.

Weddings can be celebrated in endless, special ways. It is the marriage itself that is sacred and holy, one of the most important celebration and union in one's life- the bond and promise that two people make and cherish with one another; lives intertwined forever. And knock on wood but it will almost be 20 years since that faithful day.

Scent To Me

Long ago, when I was a child, I never thought about the soaps that my mother used, or the fragrance that she wore; my mother always smelled good, and safe, and pure...and that was it!
To succumb to her embrace and hugs and kisses was all that I ever wanted.

My mother smelled clean and musky; fresh and happy all at once. To hear her voice chatting away to our cook in the kitchen upon returning home from Regina Mundi (a private school for girls that educated me formally in kindergarten and first grade) was security that there would be something good to nibble on after changing out of my school uniform. There could have been coconut curry noodles steaming from a pot on the stove, or sweet banana and tapioca pudding drenched in cream; waiting to be scooped and eaten. Sometimes, there was just hot rice and french butter with squirts of Maggi (a really yummy soy sauce out of Switzerland way back when~it is still made today by Nestle, i think..and it is delicious on almost everything)
If I was really lucky, my grandmother would be there too and the whole kitchen hustled and bustled with the sounds of an open market.

The whole family gets involved in the cooking process in Vietnam. One member would be in charge of the soaking of sweet rice or mung beans; another the task of peeling and deveining shrimps (which are plenty in Vietnam) another braising, stewing or caramelizing chicken or pork....there is always a cooking chore growing up Vietnamese and I was more than happy to take the whole scene in. Our kitchen was a happy place that always produced memorable meals and endless conversations; it was there that we spent most of our days. It is there that my memory becomes vivid; there where I can recall most of my past; there that inspires me to re-live with my own family now.

My mother, who prides herself in the domestic arts, was and is an excellent cook (but you already knew that from my other entries, right?) Back then, she had the tiniest waist, and the most delicate hands; she could do almost anything and everything...and of course, I worshipped her. Although each of us three kids had our own room, we always gathered and slept on a big bed in my mother's room; and she welcomed us each and every night ~ hypnotizing us to sleep with her melancholic songs and her 1001 Arabian Nights stories. I could not have imagined a better childhood (or a better first childhood, i should say)

After arriving in the United States, things changed overnight. We no longer had my grandmother, or any other family members around us. We no longer acted as though we were floating by life on a fluffy cloud; things just changed and they changed drastically. Childhood wasn't as pure and innocent as it could have been; we were just too busy trying to adjust to our new lives that everything else got lost in the shuffle. Yes, there was still sibbling fun and naughtiness, but in trying to get used to our new status of "immigrants in America," we had to grow up quickly in order to fend for ourselves. We had to learn a new language to survive, make new and foreign friends, and take care of each other~for all the nannies and cooks and drivers were no longer around. And because my parents had to do the same (and i'm sure it was so much harder for them) time that would have normally been indulged on us went to gaining new survival skills.

Yet, it is a part of my childhood, and I know I would not have wanted it any other way for the lessons that I have learned would not have come to me if we hadn't been uprooted from our homes. Ultimately, in the end, it is family that is important, and that could be in any country at anytime..as long as we are together.

I think I was in the fifth grade when I discovered my mother's scent. She and I were strolling around Woolworth's on the upper west side of New York City by our home, when my mother paused at the soap section and picked up a brown-packaged bar of soap from a gift basket. My mother brought it to her nose and said, "they have it!" She was puzzled and excited. She couldn't believe that she found her fragranced soap; the one she used everyday of her life in Saigon. I really didn't think of anything other then she found the same soap that she used to use..I was only 10 and not old enough to make the correlation until recent years..but that was the scent of my mother, the air that I breathed. After all these years, my mother found her sandalwood scented soap again. ***Living in America has changed my mother, she said, she eventually switched to Irish Spring. "Much fresher" she declared!!***

I haven't thought about this story in years. It is only recently with my own scent and self-discoveries that my mind jogged back to the sandalwood soap. Being female and indecisive and particular, I have experimented with many fragrances in my life. There was Paris by Yves Saint Laurent, Paloma by Paloma Picasso, Chanel No.19...and the tried and true Chanel Cristalle which has been my faithful companion for many years. I have read that a woman should have just that one true fragrance~so that she may leave her mark behind. And so, it was a couple of weeks before Christmas, when I was perusing the fun Anthropologie store in Westport for some bathroom cabinet knobs for my kids, that a little fragrant bottle caught my eye. I glanced at the name very quickly and picked it up and pulsed a spray to my coat sleeve and walked away. I found my little green crystal knobs and left the store. On my way home, I kept bringing my sleeve up to my nose and inhaling the intricate smell. I really liked it a lot and that was it.

A couple of nights later, my husband and I left the kids with our friend Catherine, and went across the street to our neighbors'holiday kick-off party. I got dressed and before leaving spritzed some Chanel Cristalle on my hair and neck. Throughout the night, the fragrance that has charmed me wasn't that inspiring somehow. In the midst of the throngs of people at the party, I stood to the side and thought of the little bottle at Anthropologie; thinking that I must go back and smell it again; I must get it!

The only thing that I was able to conclude was that I was changing; evolving into a slightly different person with different needs and wants (i know it sounds dramatic..but to me it was very clear and logical) When I got back to the store, the displays had just changed and the fragrance wasn't in its spot. I looked around and didn't see it anywhere. A very knowledgeable salesgirl tried to help me find it. After sniffing all the fragrances and not coming up with the right one, she asked me if I may have meant Voluspa, which was a home fragrance. I said, I didn't think so. She went off and brought back a very familiar looking bottle (the one that called out to me days before) called Voluspa Champaca Bloom and Fern..a room fragrance!!!! I sprayed it to my coat sleeve again and realized that I had definitely changed~ I became an aroma room spray person! The two of us laughed together and I went off with my new fragrance to pay for it. Leaving the store I was full of energy and excitement. Living with Voluspa for the next few weeks or months will determine if this is what I will succumb to. So far, I love it! I have been spraying it on my clothing and coats rather than directly on my skin; the fragrance still intoxicating ~evoking many moods and feelings.

Special memories, like special scents, stay with us somewhere in the midst of our emotions - awaiting their release and recall. There is room within us for so much; our capacity for love and longing, learning and yearning. I am truly blessed to be where I am today and cannot imagine my life in any other place besides here and now. 2007 here I come!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!