Monday, July 10
Our first day of teaching at the Foreign Language Center in Cao Lanh. My morning class is composed of 25 children, seven through nine year olds. They are tiny, tiny children. I can't believe they are more than five years old.
They greet me with a loud and cheery, "Good morning, Teacher!." Their teacher admonishes them that next time they should greet me properly, and not yell.
I am to be a teacher's aide, mostly working on pronunciation. I say a word, and they repeat it. I immediately understand why such help is valuable. Vietnamese is a tonal language. Many of the sounds that exist in the English language do not exist in Vietnamese, and vice versa. This is why it is so difficult for an English native speaker to learn Vietnamese, and why it's difficult for Vietnamese to learn English.
The teachers, despite their hard work, still speak with a Vietnamese accent, and pass this on to their students. For many students – both children and adults, the Global Volunteers are the first native English speakers they've ever encountered
I close out my morning class by teaching the children how to play Red Rover, Red Rover. Oh, how they loved it!
They depart the classrom after wishing me good-bye: "Good-bye, Teacher! See you again!"
I am very glad I've come to Vietnam as a volunteer and not a tourist.
My parents' friend
After morning class, UyenThi and I set out to find the one person in Cao Lanh that my parents told us to contact. We call her Co Ba, because she is the third child in her family. She and my parents used to teach at the same school in Tram Chim, where I was born.
We have Co Ba's address, but it doesn't mean much here in Vietnam. By asking a succession of people if they know where Co Ba's home is, we are pointed further and further into a winding complex of unpaved alleys that connected small homes with the main road.
Roosters crow even though it is ten-thirty in the morning. Women squat over fire pits, roasting corn, banana cakes, and other delicacies.
We finally arrive at the open door of Co Ba's home. An old woman, about four and half feet tall, wearing glasses, her hair neatly rolled into a bun, looks at us in a confused manner – my parents had not written to her beforehand. I clasp my hands and bow to her in the traditional Vietnamese greeting, and I introduce myself and UyenThi. I tell her my parents' name, and watch her eyes light up in amazement as she comprehends who we are.
She takes my hands firmly in hers, and leads us into her tiny house. We remove our sandals before entering, as is the Vietnamese custom. The floor is neatly laid with red tiles. Every inch of wall space is covered with icons of Jesus and Mary. A black and white TV perches on one shelf. A hammock, no more than five feet long, hangs from a metal stand.
We tell her our parents are well, and update her on each and every extended family member. She has not seen most of our family in 25 years. My father's sister did visit her a couple years ago, and gave her some money which she used to build houses for two families. She promises to take us to see the families and their homes, so that I can take pictures for my aunt.
In her house is young man of 22, whose education she sponsors. She raises money from family and friends, both from Cao Lanh and the U.S., and sends him to college to study computers. Other money is used for school supplies and clothes for small children in the rural areas surrounding Cao Lanh.
Not for the first and last time on this journey, I am astounded and humbled by how a woman who has so little devotes her time to giving to those even poorer than she.
We show her pictures of my parents. To my delight, she says I have my mother's dimples.
Evening classes
My class in the evening is a bit different from the morning one. The students are mostly teenagers, with a couple adults. They can read and write English well but want to practice their conversational English skills.
I introduce myself to the class in English. They stare at me for a while. Then one student asks me to write my name on the board. I do so – Vietnamese style, last name first: Tran Thi Hanh Quyen. There's another moment of silence. Finally, another student asks, "Why do you have a Vietnamese name?"
I am stunned. So much for passing as a local! I realize I don't look Vietnamese to them. It must be my clothes (though they're all wearing western-style clothes) or my height (the average Vietnamese person seems to be about 5 feet tall).
I explain that I was born in Vietnam, and that my family and I came to the States in 1975 as refugees.
They ask, "Why did you leave?"
Not knowing how else to respond, I say, "Because when the war ended, we had to go."
As the class comes to a close, I can tell they still can't quite figure me out – am I American or Vietnamese?
