Actually, it's part deux and final, because it's too exhausting to keep track of stupid articles in the papers.
So today's latest news is: «Sizzling summer temperatures across the United States have sent flocks of consumers to their local ice cream parlors, driving up sales of frozen treats from sunny California to the muggy East Coast». GASP! PEOPLE EAT MORE ICE CREAM WHEN IT'S HOT!!! NO KIDDING!?
Next they'll tell us that children prefer ice cream to boiled broccoli!!
Faced with terrorism, the Pope has prayed for God to do something about it. Yes folks, the Pope prays! STOP THE PRESSES!
The following article by Nguyen Ivy is published in Tieng Magazine [http://www.tiengmag.com/article58.html].
The Impact of the Lack of "You" and "I" in the Vietnamese Language
Anh, Chi, Em, Co, Chu, Cau, Di, Ong, Ba, Bac. Anyone familiar with the Vietnamese language knows that there are few polite ways of referring to a second person or oneself by simply using the words “you” and “I”, aside from the using title of said person’s relation to oneself. As an American-born Vietnamese, I often wonder why my people have not adopted those vaguely direct words, equivalent to languages around the world, when doing so would be less mind-boggling on all of us speakers. We have had our chances to adapt, but somehow resisted that change after over a thousand years of Chinese occupation, followed by the French and Americans. Within this haphazard gumball-machine-like diversity of our terms of address, why did we not abandon all of these words for a simpler equivalent of “you” and “I”? The answer is simple: our system works a thousand times better.
Before I continue any further, allow me to digress a bit to provide a bit of background for readers less familiar with the Vietnamese culture: as typical of Asian cultures, we greatly value filial piety, and the elderly are looked upon with great respect and honor. A son is expected to take care of his father once he has grown until said father dies, and that son expects to be taken care of by his son, until he dies. All are respected, but each generation earns more respect as they grow older and gain more knowledge.
To quote Van Le, the former vice dean of the University of Saigon, "In our language, it is very difficult for children to be rude or impolite". The same goes for adults of all ages. How can we, when we are constantly reminded of our rank compared to the person we face? Everyone greets one another, even in everyday conversation, by their rank. Take a typical phrase for meeting an older woman, as in example. In such case, one would say “Chao Co, Co co khoe khong?” Co, in this case, means Auntie, assuming a close relationship with that person, regardless of geniality. In English, one would merely say, “Hello, how are you?” In this case, you can mean anything-you, as in a younger kid; you, as in an equal-ranking friend; or you, an elder. Said in the wrong tone or with the wrong expression and a simple statement like the above can be interpreted in ways unintended: the Vietnamese specificity is a thousand times safer.
The custom of referring to oneself by one’s rank or in third person is similar to the alternative to “you” in the sense that these terms establish clear boundaries and rank. Take for example, words a father might use to chastise his child: “Ba khong muon con lam do,” which translates to “I, your father, do not want you, my child, to do that.” In this way we know who is ordering whom-the father is definitely in charge. Reversibly, an irate, English-speaking father will say, “I do not want you to do that,” and the vagueness creates no boundaries whosoever. Who, exactly, is the father? I? You? The sense of respect for the father is lost with such an equal playing field.
From a perspective of one caught in the middle, is using “you” and “I” any different? Extremely, in the way that these two words level the playing field. I have heard again and again that American-born children are more sassy then Vietnamese children, and this answer shows why. When talking to my parents in English, these terms break down the formal barriers, and I can express more intimate thoughts without having to be interrupted with the reminder that they are my parents. The same goes with my teachers: the use of “ you” and “I” seems to make the teachers give us students more respect, and we give them less. Still, I always find myself a bit more sassy when using “you” and “I” with my elders. This sense of equality promotes the freedom of choice. We children are not compelled to listen to our elders, and are free to make our own decision.
Contrarily, the power of these terms to establish these boundaries is why there is such strong filial piety in the Vietnamese. After all, every time one talks with one’s family, one is reminded of the relationship, whether that relationship is with cousins, aunts, uncles, siblings, parents, or grandparents. Once the thought of leaving to make his own way in this world enters someone’s head, they are immediately reminded of the duty to their parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and younger siblings, simply by the way he addresses them. They are his family— he should not, and will not leave them. With that thought in mind, one can be sure of being cared for once we can no longer care for ourselves, as long as we do our duty when we can. That is why there are nearly no nursing homes and social security plans for the old in Vietnam-they will be cared for without question.
Although I had earlier stated that we Vietnamese chose not to use “you” and “I”, saying that we are unable to use those words would be truer. The Vietnamese social structure relies on the strength of different rank and reverence, and will likely crumble with the equality of reverence that “you” and “I” brings. We are an interdependent people, caring for the old and cared for by the young. If one were to assert the right to make our own decisions, the entire structure will crumble-the old must rely on social security and nursing homes, while the young do as they please. Sounds familiar? While we can go on living with that change in social structure like the Vietnamese Americans have been able to, I doubt any person will be as audacious enough to actually use those terms.
Similarly, the use of rank and titles to address others in the English language will face the same difficulties as the hypothesized introduction of “you” and “I” into the Vietnamese language. We Americans are too firm on individuality and equality to prostrate our egos in the face of superiors. In addition, I doubt any of us are willing to deal with the hassle of so many titles.
So, are these two cultures meant to mix? While some aspects of our culture are easily adaptable and changed, others like our language remain firmly individual. Like the two separate hemispheres each culture originated in, we can only meet at some points-the rest are on opposite ends of the world. Though change is always welcome, there is no gaining new ideas without losing the old, and in the interest of preserving our culture, maybe East and West are meant stay in their own hemispheres.
Thế giới binary
đâu có thể nào compress những đêm dài
đâu có thể nào undo những lầm lỡ
đâu có thể nào copy những cuộc vui
thế giới quanh đây ngậm ngùi
(những lá thư không phong bì)
đâu có thể nào paste hình ảnh vào tim nhau
đâu có thể nào new một tình yêu đã cũ
đâu có thể nào back up một buổi chiều
(hai đứa bên nhau thư viện vắng)
thế giới quanh đây trầm lặng
chỉ ánh đèn le lói giữa trời quen
đâu có thể nào preview một tương lai
đâu có thể nào debug một lời từ giã
đâu có thể nào delete kỷ niệm đôi ta
thế giới quanh đây xa lạ
(những lá thư không cần tem)
SongVinh
Franchement, je m’en fous des victimes du récent acte de terrorisme à Londres. Oh, bien sûr, si j’étais en face des blessés, des corps mutilés, des parents éplorés, bien sûr, cela me toucherait. Je ressentirais la même horreur qui a saisi le monde devant le spectacle des ravages de l’attentat du 11 septembre. Mais autrement…
Je lis sur l’Internet les témoignages de compassion et d’admiration pour les victimes londoniennes et les condamnations des auteurs de l’attentat. De nouveaux blogs ont été créés pour commémorer ce drame, certains blogs existants ont affiché des graphiques, des logos, des articles spécialement dédiés au courage des victimes. Moi, je suis incapable d’éprouver autre chose qu’une vague et fugace pitié, qui commence d’ailleurs à évoluer vers une certaine lassitude : oui, ok, ça va, on le sait que les Londoniens sont braves, rappel des bombardements durant la deuxième guerre mondiale, we are not afraid, bla bla bla…
Tiens, faisons un petit sondage : combien de Britanniques ressentent encore quelque chose pour les victimes du tsunami d’il y a quelques mois? Combien d’Américains sont déchirés par le sort des Irakiens tués ou blessés dans le dernier attentat?
Je ne dis pas donnant-donnant. Je n’octroie pas ma compassion en échange de la pitié de quelqu’un d’autre. Ce que je veux dire, c’est que la souffrance est fatigante à la longue, surtout la souffrance d’autrui. Si un de mes enfants était tué, que ce soit dans un accident ou un attentat ou à la suite d’une maladie, je ne crois pas que je lui survivrai longtemps. Mais les enfants des autres? Les parents, les conjoints, les amis des autres? Êtes-vous inconsolables sur le sort des Soudanais à Dafour? Pleurez-vous pour les victimes de viol au Congo? Les camps de réfugiés en Afrique, les massacres ethniques dans les Balkans, la torture en Iraq et en Syrie, l’oppression des femmes dans les villages d’Afghanistan, la prostitution des enfants en Asie du Sud-Est, l’abattage des enfants de rue au Brésil, etc…Tout cela vous coupe-t-il l’appétit? Ou est-ce que, comme moi, vous venez de commencer votre nième régime pour pouvoir rentrer dans votre maillot de bain avant la fin de l’été?
The need for simple human-to-human relationships is becoming increasingly urgent…. Today the world is smaller and more interdependent. One nation’s problems can no longer be solved by themselves completely. Thus, without a sense of universal responsibility, our very survival becomes threatened. Basically, universal responsibility is feeling for other people’s suffering just as we feel our own, It is the realization that even our enemy is entirely motivated by the quest for happiness. We must recognize that all beings want the same thing that we want. This is the way to achieve a true understanding, unfettered by artificial consideration..
HH The Dalai Lama
I'll see you there.
How can I say this without sounding vain and arrogant…
I used to be very beautiful when I was young. Not just pretty or cute, cause most young people are good-looking by the simple virtue of their youth. No, I was drop-dead gorgeous, the type of beauty that makes people walk into lampposts. Two real I-swear-to-God anecdotes to prove my claim. Geneva 1970s : I was working as a tour guide when I was accosted by a man claiming to be the Vice-president of the Miss World Competition Secretariat in England (he gave me his business card as proof). He asked me to write to him for the official entry forms so that I could get the necessary sponsors and become a contestant. Montreal 1980s : I was being followed on the street by a persistent admirer, so I found a policeman and complained to him : «Officer, this man is following me and pestering me!». The cop answered : «Can’t say I blame him!». He shooed the other guy away, then turned to me and asked for my phone number.
Now that I have established my claim as a beauty queen, let’s get to the real point of this post: looks do matter. Because of the way I was raised (very strictly), I was never really aware of my good looks nor did I know how to take advantage of them. I grew up thinking that people are naturally kind and helpful, traffic agents are normally forgiving and bus drivers always, always stop their bus and wait if they see you running from afar. It is well known however that good looking and/or tall people get promoted more often and are considered as more honest and trustworthy in polls. I've learned recently that parents tend to favour their better looking children over the homely ones. Yes, looks do matter and I was Queen of the world.
That world started crumbling as soon as I reached menopause. I inflated like a blimp and started losing my hair. Men no longer stare with open mouth when I walk in a room and customs agents are now demanding that I open my suitcases instead of waving me by with a smile like before. And I still get startled when I suddenly catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror because I don't recognize my reflection.
Last weekend I hit rock bottom. I went to a beauty salon to have my hair done. As he was washing my hair, the shampoo boy was chatting with another apprentice working at the sink next to us. Since he wasn't paying attention, he splashed my face with water. Without even turning off the water, he mumbled some apologies, grabbed a towel and started wiping away my makeup. Normally, it takes a lot to make me angry. Years of being «ugly» after my days of glory have cut me down a few notches and made me more tolerant and forgiving. But this time, I howled such a string of curses that the salon went suddenly silent and the owner came running to apologize and liberate me from the oaf. When I finally left the salon, my hair was dried and coiffed, but half of my face had no makeup and the other half was all smudged up. In other words, I must be the only woman in the world that leaves a beauty salon uglier and scarier-looking than when she first went in.
Don't hate me cause I'm not beautiful!
Pour le plaisir, sans cruauté aucune, sourire aux lèvres, on s'est offert une petite tranche de rigolade avec les perles du bac, qui s'enfilent joyeusement sur la Toile. Millésimées 2004 (en attendant le cru en cours), elles donnent une idée de ce que peuvent découvrir les examinateurs...
L'histoire est manifestement un grand champ de créativité pour les candidats. Parmi les affirmations détonantes, nous avons relevé que "Napoléon III était le neveu de son grand-père" , que les pères de la révolution russe se nommaient "Lénine et Stalone" . Que, "privé de frites, Parmentier inventa la pomme de terre"...
Si l'on remonte vraiment dans le temps, on peut encore apprendre que "les empereurs romains organisaient des combats de radiateurs" (des combats très chauds, on suppose). Clovis mourut "à la fin de sa vie" et Charlemagne "se fit châtrer en l'an 800" .
En sciences naturelles, il est intéressant d'apprendre que, "pour faire des œufs, la poule doit être fermentée par un coq" . Encore mieux : "les escargots sont tous des homosexuels" et "les calmars géants saisissent leurs proies entre leurs gigantesques testicules" , tandis que "l'artichaut est constitué de feuilles et de poils touffus plantés dans son derrière" .
On est aussi très heureux, et édifié, de savoir que, "pour mieux conserver la glace, il faut la geler" , et que 1 kilo de mercure "pèse pratiquement 1 tonne". Au rayon des mœurs étrangères, précisons qu'autrefois "les Chinois n'avaient pas d'ordinateurs car ils comptaient avec leurs boules".
Dans le concert des "têtes", il en est qui dépassent la moyenne avec ces assertions logiques : "Le cerveau des femmes s'appelle la cervelle" ; "le cerveau a deux hémisphères, l'un pour surveiller l'autre" ; "le cerveau a des capacités tellement étonnantes qu'aujourd'hui pratiquement tout le monde en a un".
Ouf ! On allait presque en douter, surtout en lisant cette bourde, qui vaut 20/20 : "La datation au carbone 14 permet de savoir si quelqu'un est mort à la guerre." Et cette dernière : "La terre rote sur elle-même." Là, il y a un hic !
So, anonymous colleague [Let's call her Lisa S., or better yet, L. Simpson], here's - belatedly - your more intelligent answer.
During the 60s, I was living in what used to be called Saigon. My family was relatively well off, so we supported the government in power and the US occupation of Vietnam. My grandpa especially was a fervent admirer of Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon. My classmates and I were too young and too stupid at the time to understand politics or care about it, but we used to ogle those handsome GIs that were milling about in Saigon and we listened to US music every afternoon (and yes, to that Good Morning Vietnam guy). So you could say that whatever bitterness I have against the United States, I did not develop until much later on.
I'm not going to list all the sins and the stupidities of the present American administration, they are well documented on the Internet and in the foreign (i.e. non-American) press. Since the Vietnam War, I've learned to accept that every country acts to protect what it considers to be its best interests and that non-whites can be mass murdered by whites without any hope for redress or justice, at least during my lifetime. I also used to believe that somehow, the United States are special and that, being the only superpower left, they can afford to actually walk their talk. For if you are the strongest, richest, most influential country in the whole frigging world, shouldn't you also be the freest, most generous, most tolerant country? The centre of the universe, where people from every where else would want to congregate to bask in your wisdom and your glory? HAH! Big frigging HAH!
And that's why I am anti-american. Just as I think that women can be as stupid as men, but stupidity is forgivable in women because most of them are kept uneducated and ignorant, while men have all the chances and opportunities to become enlightened and yet they remain just as stupid.
Bien sûr qu'il est pédéraste et pédophile, c'est évident: 99% de ses photos publicitaires le montrent en compagnie de jeunes garçons. La famille de proxénètes qui l'a traîné en justice n'a pas obtenu satisfaction mais ses autres victimes ont été richement dédommagées et se tiendront coi. Bien sûr qu'il y a une justice différente pour les riches et les puissants. O.J. Simpson l'a bien démontré.
Bien sûr que l'avenir sera difficile pour sa dernière victime, qui aura non seulement à survivre le cirque médiatique, mais aussi à faire face à ses camarades d'école et surtout à ses parents qui l'ont vendu à tous les niveaux et sur tous les plans. Il y aura sans doute un film, et sûrement un livre-confession de la mère éplorée, à temps pour les fêtes.
Et pourtant, malgré tout, je suis contente que le jury ait pris la décision qu'il a prise, car un séjour en prison l'aurait complètement détruit, physiquement et mentalement. Tant de talent gaspillé...
Last week, I had to leave town for a few days (no, the CIA wasn’t on to me, nor was the RCMP…yet). I took the train on the way out and the plane on the way back. Let’s compare the experiences.
Train
I arrived at the train station 10 minutes before departure time, waited 10 minutes in line and boarded quickly by showing my pre-bought ticket (first class). Found my seat without any problem and started reading the plentiful papers and magazines that were thoughtfully displayed right at the entrance of my wagon. The train departed on time and two minutes later, somebody was pushing a cart along the aisle offering us (free) refreshments: wine, beer, juice, munchies, etc, along with a menu. On her way back, she took our orders. Fifteen minutes later, dinner was served: green beans and asparagus salad, grilled salmon served on a bed of couscous with roasted vegetables, three kinds of cheese, then a fruit mousse for dessert. Wine flowed freely during the meal, followed by brandy or Porto. On arrival, I quickly left the train and easily found my way to the taxi station where a cab took me to my hotel door in five minutes.
Plane
I had to leave for the airport two hours in advance of my flight: one hour to get to the airport (because my departure time coincided with the rush hour downtown) and one hour for security checks. My bag went through the x-ray machine, but I also had to show my boarding pass and an ID, take off my jacket (two passengers had to remove their shoes) and go through a metal detection gateway before walking for kilometres looking for the departure gate. There was some delay, so we had to wait for another half hour, sitting in uncomfortable plastic chairs where a nervous passenger shook the whole row with his twitching legs. We eventually boarded, but not before showing our pass and our ID one more time. My seat? First row, right next to the emergency exit, of course, which meant: 1) no window, 2) no access to my handbag during the flight because there was no seat in front of me under which to place the bloody handbag so it had to be put away in the bin above the seats, 3) I was in charge of opening the door in case of a plane crash and 4) the bathrooms are way in the back, but I would have to climb over two other passengers’ laps anyway to go pee. There were no meal or any such nonsense, although we were offered coffee or soft drinks. After the plane landed, there were some curses or something that prevented the doors from being opened right away so we had to stand in the aisle for ten minutes with the air circulation turned off (but not the elevator music). Then, once we got into the terminal, we had to – again – wander aimlessly for kilometres, going up and down elevators, before reaching the luggage carrousels. More wait, then off to the taxi stations where I had to haggle the rate with the taxi driver. And finally, after half an hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic, home sweet home.
You can guess where I’m going. My bubble is so desynchronized [(All together) How desynchronized is it?] I sometimes feel like an alien myself, trying to blend in with the Earthlings so as to not attract any attention, while being barely able to conceal my impatience with the people around me. For instance: I have a home phone (landline) for my Internet connection and because my banker said that I would look like a shady character without a regular telephone number. But I am using my cell phone as my main phone and whenever someone asks for my phone number, I look suspiciously like a shady character going «Um...uhh.. let me look at my PDA». Each time I give someone my home number, I also give them my cell phone number and tell them repeatedly: «Please put the cell phone number as the main number, don’t bother calling my home number, I will not pick up the phone, remember, don’t call me at that number». It’s no use, they keep calling the home number, get a message that my voice mail box is full and get all pissed off. I even have some close friends saying: Well, I didn’t call your cell phone, cause I didn’t want it to cost you money.
Other instances of unsynchronized lives are my tastes in music or my use of the computer. For some reason, all the people I know that are my age have stopped listening to any type of music after the eighties. They’ve heard vaguely of Eminem, and they don’t know about techno, house or trance or any such nonsense. Computerwise, they barely know how to open Outlook to read their emails so don’t ask them to open any attachments. I have a friend I’ve been trying to teach how to forward jokes she received without forcing her correspondent to open twenty attachments before reaching the joke, but she still doesn’t understand, so now I just delete any email of hers that contains jokes. All in all, my friends’ knowledge of computer technology is hard to distinguish from my 82-year-old mother’s knowledge.
On the other hand, I must look like a retarded old coot to my children and their friends because I don’t know Nas or The Game and when I instant-message my children, I type much too slowly for them and I can’t read their stupid abbreviations, except the ubiquitous LOL, ROTFLMAO and IMHO. I don’t feel bad or embarrassed about that because that’s how it should be, considering the age difference. But why am I so many light years ahead of my peers?
My son, the athlete
Last Monday, I was having supper with some friends. We were sipping our lattes when my cell phone rang: my youngest son Forty had a fall while practicing some acrobatic moves and dislocated his pinkie. He was being taken to the Hôtel Dieu Hospital and I should go meet him there.
I spare you the details of the ordeal. I arrived at the hospital at 10 something and we did not get home until 3 in the morning, 95% of the time were spent waiting. They reset his finger and put it in a brace but we would have to return tomorrow morning for an appointment at 8:30. So the next day, we were back at 8:15. In the parking lot, the attendant asked me how long I was going to be and I naively said: Oh, about an hour or two. He didn’t burst out laughing, bless his heart, but just looked at me funny and said: Gimme a deposit of 12$ just in case. This time, we did not get out until 3 in the afternoon. Forty’s finger is now in a cast and, guess what, we have to come back on Friday at 9:30 to remove the cast, so I figure I will have to clear my agenda until 4 or 5 PM that day.
My mother, the tragedienne
I was reading blogs on the web when suddenly my mother appeared on my side. I have taken back the key to my apartment which I gave her in a moment of weakness, so I was not expecting her arrival, but she has taken advantage of today being cleaning day and the cleaning lady leaving the front door open because she has to clean both our apartments.
My mother, all solemn and tragic, said: «I’m here to beg you to stop being angry at me.»
— [startled] WTF? Please go away.
— I don’t have much longer to live, you know. Please don’t stay mad at me.
— You’ve been saying this for the past five years. Would you please leave me alone!
— So, are you still mad at me or not?
— Mom, I don’t have time for your childish games. It doesn’t matter whether I’m mad at you or not, I don’t want to be with you. So if you’re trying to get me to say that I will spend more time with you, I’m telling you right now that I won’t and I will continue avoiding you as much as I can. I don’t want you to spy on me or to check on me or to keep calling me for no reason. I used to care, now I don’t anymore, so just go away.
— But you know that I worry that something bad happened to you if I don’t see your car in the parking.
— Again, it’s your problem, Mom. I keep telling you to get medical help for your condition, but you keep refusing to see a psychologist, so I will not bear the consequences of your craziness anymore.
— What if I promise you that I won’t do these crazy stuff again.
— You’ve been saying this for years now, and every month or so, you go nuts and pull your crazy stunts again. Look, we’ve been having the same conversation over and over again. Enough with your drama queen act and your tragic scenes take two. Just go back to your apartment and leave me in peace.
I’m marking down this date, to see how long it will take her this time before she has another attack.
There were about a hundred people at the maestro’s house: lots of Vietnamese, most of them his students, some Chinese, some Japanese, some Caucasians, a lot of them Russians. We went straight to the kitchen to put down our potluck food and meet the master’s mother, a lovely and gracious 87 year old little lady. Guests were milling around, waiting in line to pay respect to her and the master’s students were busy setting up chairs in the living room for the concert. The master himself was nowhere to be seen. Fongue was busy networking, shaking hands with the men and kissing and hugging the women: he’s probably the only person there (beside the master) who knows everybody. I was busy admiring the master’s superb bougainvillea, with its massive heads of magenta flowers cascading down a trellis.
By 8PM, everybody was seated and one of the students went to fetch the master, who was resting in another room. Standing ovation when he arrived, tan and smiling. The concert was a wonderful treat. The master decided to play exclusively Chopin pieces. His Fantaisie Op. 49 almost brought tears to my eyes. But during some of the pieces, I thought I heard some accompanying trumpets, although I couldn’t find the source of those sounds and nobody else seemed to notice them. The audience being composed of adoring fans, each piece was followed with thundering applauses and the master graciously gave an encore.
Then we were directed to the reception room where the buffet was set. Guests who brought food went to the kitchen and proceeded to prepare and serve their respective dishes. I brought a salt-steamed chicken with sticky rice and a chicken feet salad. Fongue brought a shrimp and pork salad and something else. There were also fried noodles, egg rolls, lots of sushi, tabouleh salad, cold cuts, etc.. For dessert, three cakes, a giant fruit salad, some Japanese strawberry thingies, etc..
After I brought my chicken and chicken feet salad to the buffet table, I went to the kitchen with my plate, and ate leaning against the stove, because the crowd was just too overwhelming. Because of Fongue's stupid idea, I was too full to eat anything more than a few egg rolls. Soon I was joined in the kitchen by a few people I know and we talked pleasantly about the concert. That’s when I found out that the trumpets I thought I was hearing were actually some guy snoring loudly during the concert.
I also got to talk to the master’s mother who just got back from Vietnam. The master eventually came to join our group and promised to do more private concerts after he gets back from his tours abroad. And we’re all invited!
P.S. I’ve got compliments for my coral necklace! And a Japanese potter/painter whose work I admire said that the minute she looked at me, she knew I was an artist, because my clothes and my jewellery were so creative! And I took pictures of the bougainvillea before we left! What a perfect evening!
La communauté vietnamienne en Amérique du Nord est frappante par sa similitude avec la communauté cubaine à Miami, en Floride. Toutes deux sont composées de membres de l’élite bourgeoise (additionnés, dans le cas des Vietnamiens, des rescapés de l’armée sud-vietnamienne), férocement anti-communistes, qui traînent encore la nostalgie des privilèges de leur classe sociale et rêvent de reprendre les rênes du pouvoir. Tous ces anciens ministres, professeurs, directeurs, ingénieurs, etc..se sont retrouvés dans un nouveau milieu où leur rang social, leurs études supérieures et leur richesse matérielle ou culturelle accumulés au cours d’une vie antérieure n’ont plus aucune valeur et où leur origine ethnique les condamne d’office à une infériorité implicite parmi la population d’accueil.
Mon père, qui possédait des plantations d’hévéas au Vietnam et était millionnaire, n’avait pas pu trouver d’autre emploi que celui de placeur dans un cinéma de Montréal. Il n’était pas le seul dans cette situation. La plupart des hommes de son âge n’avaient pas la formation requise pour occuper des postes de cadres, ni l’énergie nécessaire pour faire des travaux manuels et se retrouvaient donc seuls et oisifs à la maison. Par contre, leurs femmes, plus débrouillardes de par leur condition de femmes, plus adaptables à leur nouvel environnement, découvraient pour la première fois un monde de libertés auxquelles elles n’avaient jamais goûté et se lançaient sur le marché du travail avec d’autant plus de fougue qu’elles reconnaissaient le levier de libéralisation que leur donnait leur nouvelle autonomie économique. La famille traditionnelle est éclatée: le patriarche, déjà humilié quotidiennement dans ses contacts sociaux et professionnels, n’est plus respecté à la maison par sa femme qui souvent gagne un salaire plus élevé mais qui doit toujours assumer la totalité, sinon l'essentiel, des tâches ménagères, ni par ses enfants qui se rendent compte rapidement que leurs parents dépendent d’eux comme interprètes des arcanes de la société occidentale. C’est ainsi que se créent ces traumatismes psychologiques et ces chocs culturels et générationnels, sources de souffrances non exprimées et d’insatisfaction chronique qui sont le lot des familles de réfugiés vietnamiens. La culture asiatique ne reconnaît pas cette branche de la médecine qu’est la psychologie, et encore moins la psychiatrie. Les blessures du cœur restent non dites et non traitées et les cas de déséquilibre mental les plus visibles sont sources de honte et d’embarras.
C’est pour cela que les vieux dinosaures de la communauté vietnamienne, tout comme ceux de la diaspora cubaine de Miami, résistent par tous les moyens à l’intrusion d’une réalité implacable et inévitable. Ils savent au fonds d’eux-mêmes que leur jour de gloire ne reviendra plus jamais. Ils auront beau protester, boycotter et blackbouler, ils vont à contre-courant de la marche inéluctable de l’histoire. Leur haine du régime en place les rend aveugles et sourds à tout progrès ou développement favorable au Vietnam et leur patriotisme intéressé les place paradoxalement du côté des envahisseurs et des tortionnaires du peuple vietnamien, dans la file avec les Français et les Chinois d’antan. Ils vont en groupe manifester devant le Parlement canadien à Ottawa ou protester contre l’arrivée à Montréal de tel ou tel artiste du Vietnam.
Conversation typique avec ma mère, qui fait partie de ce groupe de réactionnaires :
- Pourquoi protestes-tu contre le concert de X?
- Parce que c’est un communiste!
- Mais ce n’est qu’un artiste. Qu’est-ce que tu lui reproches vraiment?
- Il représente le régime Vietcong, ces-sanguinaires-qui-oppriment-le-peuple-en-empêchant-toute-liberté-d’expression!
- Et en quoi est-ce différent de ce que fait ton groupe?
- Tu es partie avant la venue des communistes, tu ne sais pas de quoi ils sont capables.
- Oui mais, en quoi défends-tu la liberté en empêchant X de donner son concert?
Ces parangons de liberté étendent leur mainmise sur la diaspora vietnamienne, dans tous les domaines : les commerçants et les artistes soupçonnés d’être favorables au régime communiste sont boycottés, les citoyens suspects sont ostracisés (voire décapités, dans un cas célèbre, durant les années 70) et les journaux et revues communautaires sont remplis de propagande et de mésinformation.
Et pourtant, les émigrés vietnamiens retournent au pays par milliers. Ils préparent leurs voyages en cachette pour ne pas être accusés d'aider l’économie d’un régime haï, mais tout le monde le sait, puisque tout le monde le fait: les Vietnamiens ne peuvent vivre loin de leur terre natale. Certains retraités y retournent chaque année pour échapper aux rigueurs de l’hiver, bon nombre d'octogénaires achetant avec leurs précieuses devises étrangères l'illusion d'une virilité et d'un prestige longtemps déniés auprès de jeunes femmes en quête de dollars ou d’une voie de sortie. D’autres expatriés, plus jeunes, sont attirés comme des phalènes par un marché avide d’investissements et des politiques économiques permissives. Le Gouvernement vietnamien accueille à bras ouverts ces fils prodigues dont le retour renverse l’exode des cerveaux de l’avant-guerre, mais comme dans tout pays du tiers monde où les lois les plus libérales sont adoptées sans être pour autant appliquées, ces nouveaux entrepreneurs n’ont aucune protection effective et nombreux sont ceux qui, navigant sans boussole sur les eaux troubles de la corruption bureaucratique vietnamienne, se retrouvent détroussés, sans recours, pour n’avoir su choisir les bons pirates à soudoyer.
Le Vietnam a un bel avenir devant lui, malgré tout. Malgré les tonnes de bombes non explosées qui sont demeurées enfouies dans son sol, malgré la dioxine qui perdure encore dans les eaux, dans le vent, dans les arbres et dans le sang des hommes et des animaux, malgré l’incompétence, la corruption et l’incurie des vieux vétérans de l'armée de l'Oncle Ho qui s’agrippent encore farouchement à leur mandat du ciel, malgré un régime politique désuet qui freine le développement national pour des principes socialisants devenus sans objet, mais dont on ne peut se débarrasser, comme un morceau de papier toilette resté collé à la semelle du pays.
De temps en temps, je pense à mon pays d'origine, mais de moins en moins souvent. Je pense à ce petit pays de rien du tout qui s’est attiré les foudres d’une super-puissance située à l’autre bout de la terre et qui a reçu, en punition d’une faute inexistante qu’il a fallu inventer de toutes pièces, des milliers et des milliers de tonnes de bombes et de matières pathogènes. Je pense à ces millions de vies anonymes, victimes arbitraires de massacre, de torture, de prison, d'exécution sommaire, parfois sous les yeux des membres de leurs familles. Je pense à cette avalanche de souffrances inexplicables déversées depuis des centaines d’années sur ce peuple. Je pense à tous ces crimes commis avant, pendant et après le départ des derniers soldats étrangers sur une longue liste d'envahisseurs, crimes qui resteront à jamais impunis. J’y pense et je me dis : What the fuck? Comment ça marche déjà, ce bidule de karma?
So this evening, when my son directed me to a similar website called Wondir, after so many years of doing without, I was full of hopes. Alas! The new site is a dud! Repetitive, dull questions from mostly incredibly, eye-rollingly stupid people, half of which seem to be pregnant and the other half looking for answers to their homework questions.
I'll give them a month or two to clean up their act. But the search continues. The quest is still on.
It's a sad thing, really, because nothing could be more pure and innocent. I'm talking about the handholding of course, not the mercantile relationship between the Bush family and the Saudi kingdom.
In the Middle East, as well as in Asia, it is perfectly normal and common to see men walking hand in hand with other men or women holding hands with other women. When I was a little girl in Vietnam, during the war, a frequent sight would be a couple of RVNA soldiers on leave, walking hand in hand on the street. Soldiers with guns and grenades hanging from their belts, holding hands, for crissake!!! It didn't raise any eyebrows, then. On the other hand (pun barely noticed), if it were a woman and a man holding hands in public, the disapproving scowls or the contemptuous smirks from the crowd would be enough to shame the couple into hiding.
It was only later on, when I went to Europe to study, that I realized that the Western culture considers such mark of affection between two people of the same sex as exclusively sexual. Consider these two contradictory paradigms. In the West, touching is ok between a man and a woman, but depraved between two men or two women. In the Orient, touching is sinful between a man and a woman, and perfectly normal between men and between women. Which culture is right?
This is what I suggest: how about taking our minds out of the gutter, or rather, how about taking love, sexual or otherwise, out of the gutter, and accepting any consensual demonstration of affection as normal or even desirable, 'cause, really, what's more heartwarming to you: two people hugging or a fistfight?
And speaking of movies, I’m really fed up with white people critiquing non-white films, especially Oriental films. Now, being a reasonable person, I don’t think that one’s race should interfere with one’s judgement, but when it comes to film critiquing, it seems like a white critic only has two attitudes: paternalistic backhanded compliments («It’s not bad,… for a Chinese film») or paternalistic extravagant compliments («Superb scenery, an unforgettable story infused with deep poetry and profound wisdom»). As a Vietnamese individual, I can tell you that all Vietnamese films have shitty dialogues and barely acceptable actors. It’s nobody’s fault: the country has only been at peace for the past 30 years and actors have traditionally been considered by society as scum, the equivalent of gypsies and prostitutes. It will take some time for the industry to gain experience and enough prestige to build a local pool of writers, directors and actors worthy of international esteem. But because of the prevalent political correctness and the physical beauty of the land, Vietnamese films have been riding on a wave of sympathy at various film festivals to collect numerous prizes and awards. My theory is that these awards are given to foreign films because the white judges are dazzled by the exotic scenery and the strange clothes and interior decorations. In the case of Vietnamese films, the stories are practically non existent, the action usually switches between slow and very slow and the dialogues are artificial and woodenly read. BUT the landscapes are gorgeous.
The same incompetence is displayed by food critics, although the situation is not as bad as in the film critique field. I once read a critic (I think he was Indian, Ashok something) complain how bland a Vietnamese dish was, adding in the last paragraph: «At the end of our meal, the waiter asked us why we didn’t use the dip sauce provided». And God knows how many food critics have been comparing the Vietnamese «pho» noodle-soup to bouillabaisse, oblivious to, or more likely ignorant of the fact that, as a country, Vietnam predates France by thousands of years. Apparently, these people get a salary, on top of having a corporate credit card to pay for their meals. So I’m just gonna say it and deal with any flaming afterwards: Food critics, economists and meteorologists are the three professions where you can say just about any nonsense you want and still keep your job.
Well, the whole incident was videotaped and you can watch it here: http://www.sptimesphotos.com/video/office.html
According to the tape, this was not the first incident where the police had to be called. I don’t know her medical situation, but she probably has some kind of attention-deficit or hyperactivity problems that should be looked at. My ex has a daughter who displays the same behaviour, although in her case it was compounded by a complete laissez-faire policy from the father. My point (and I’ve already made it in a previous post (http://samsarashmamsara.blogspot.com/2005/02/to-spank-or-not-to-spank.html) is that sometimes, you have to physically snap a child out of an emotional turmoil manifested in a temper tantrum, by force if necessary. In the case of the girl in the video, the handcuffing was a good move, and seemed to be the only trick that broke down her hostility and defiance. Maybe it’s my Asian side, but I don’t think it’s normal to let a five year old child wreck up a place, because the adults are afraid to be forceful and take charge of the situation.
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