Oh, Hoàn Kiếm Lake!
Oh, Hero-King Lý Thái Tổ!
Oh, pork trotters with noodles,
and the star fruit tree on my balcony!
Oh, Hà Nội! May I count the ways in which I love you? You speak my 3rd language; you are my 9th home. And though, admittedly, that sounds less than romantic, can I help it that I was born into a family of modern-day gypsies? I have loved each of my homes, but you are indeed something special. And what do lovers do best but write each other love poems? Here, for you, Hà Nội, the first love poem I have ever written to a place:
For Hanoi, after a stroll along West Lake
And what if you do speak my third language? Have I not loved you as my own—yes, and even more than all the other cities?
Did I not just this afternoon discover a shred of quiet lakeside that took my breath—such was the contrast between
the joyful, eager madness
of a Friday route home and
the fishermen of this afternoon
who with such sedate patience cast
and reeled, cast again, and reeled.
With same such patience I have wound myself into your streets. Just to know
the taste of phở at dawn
the scent of the milk flower in fall
the baking heat and wet
when we all go about mad as hornets or
too tired to pick a fight.
Have I not felt
the quiet triumph
after downing a cà phê nâu nóng
before accomplishing a single thing and
the chagrin of spending three times the going rate on xe ôm?
Your charms and your traps, I have fallen for them all. Will you not acknowledge it?
I was not born into your rose-colored past, but I can see
as clearly as any your writhing present, and my heart
aches with the pangs of a patriot to see
Thống Nhất Park
laid waste in the name of progress and luxury hotels.
And the more subtle shock of peering from under
the ancient tiled roofs of
Quốc Tử Giám to see
Quốc Tử Giám to see
a bevy of tuổi 'teen' in plastic hip-hop sleek
with matching smirks.
Have I not loved you all the more for your contradictions?
I have been there in the green quiet, and the red smoke,
and the gritty traffic I have become
part of your scenery, watching you
attentively from under a banian. Will you deny it?
Oh, blazing,
running, crashing,
howling, growing city of my third language, so painstakingly learnt and loved—
Will you still take me for a tourist?
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phở = the national dish, a soup made with flat rice noodles
cà phê nâu nóng = hot espresso with condensed milk
xe ôm = motorbike taxi
Thống Nhất Park = Unification Park (formerly Lenin Park), the largest park inside the city
Quốc Tử Giám = the Temple of Literature
tuổi 'teen' = teenagers
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Now, about the title of this post. There is something about being in a foreign country, and especially about making that foreign country into your home, that makes you see your native land in a different way. I have never been one to be very patriotic. A brief survey of 20th century world history—even a glance at the morning news—was enough to replace any pride I might have had with shame at my country's bloody escapades. But as the holidays approach and my thoughts turn more frequently towards the land of my birth, for better or for worse, I have realized two things.
- First, that every country has its sources of shame. Some of Vietnam's sources of shame I have hinted at in the poem above. Consumerism, lack of respect for the environment, etc. But you will notice that it is equally full of sources of pride and affection that allow me to accept it for what it is. Why shouldn't it be the same with my own country?
- And second, that
The United States ≠ The U.S. Government
Or perhaps more accurately,
The United States > The U.S. Government
Even though the government is what holds them together, the states—and each distinct city and family within them—is its own animal, with its own set of flaws and charms. And while I still can't often hold my head up and proudly declare my membership in the "Yoo-nited States of Amerrrrica," I can indeed be proud of my family and of my city (whichever one that happens to be at the moment).
So today, even as I write love poems to Hà nội, I am feeling more comfortable with my identity as a native of the U.S. And I am confident that the ways in which I have learned to love this city will only help me all the more to love the next city I end up in. Isn't funny how things like this work sometimes? You have to love yourself in order to love others. You have to lose your life in order to save it. And sometimes you have to leave in order to really come home.
love,
Hannah
