XIn Chao Vietnam/I found my muse

The mother of all beauty pageants was held in Nha Trang, Vietnam this year. Home of VinPearl, my favorite place on earth. Though the Miss Universe committee was trying to emphasis diversity by choosing the South East Asian coastal country, they fell flat when they chose Jerry Springer and washup Scary Spice, Melanie Brown to host the event. First, I did not even recognize Scary Spice from her Spice World days. I thought she was some super tan judge from another reality show competition. Wait, doesn't another spice chica do that? right, Ginger! Second, Jerry Springer, the host of a trashy talk show, did not fit in with the world-class feel of the venue. If they were aiming for hosts that would be universally recognized, they could've picked much more cultured and grounded people..
Don't get me wrong, the whole event wasn't a flop, just when Miss USA slipped and fell on the steps of a staged pagoda in the evening gown portion. Gracefully, she got back up and signaled the audience to clap. You go Miss USA.
As for the ladies, over half of the finalists were from a Spanish speaking country. My faves? Mexico, Venezuela, and Dominican Republican. Sorry Columbia. but the underdog i was rooting for? KOSOVO. She is truly the rebirth of Angelina Jolie. Surprisingly, Ms. Vietnam made it the top 15. uuh doesn't that look a little fishy. Can you smell the Nouc Mam? Though, I love the Viet representation. yay Viet chicks.
Unlike, the hosts, the five final girls were very respectful of their host country, saying Xin Chao Vietnam before answering in the Q&A section. Mexico had the best annunciation and tone. Did Jerry or Mel do the same? Yes they did! At the end, when Venezuela was crowned, their send off was a loud and strong XIN CHAO Vietnam! Let me put this into perspective for you Americans. Jerry and Mel B saying Xin Chao Vietnam is like Donnie and Marie Osmond at the end of a Miss America pageant saying HELLO USA when the curtains are about to go down on the show.
So, do I have any positive comments. Yes. After each commercial break, my pal Jerry would advertise different tourist destinations throughout my beautiful country, from Sapa to Hue to Saigon, except they called it Ho Chi Minh city. (ugh) Hopefully, since the program was broad casted worldwide, the little tidbits would put this once worn torn country on the map and bring in the Dongs in tourism to stifle the 25% + inflation rate. But then again, such a future would compromise the pristince landmarks that are already falling victims to rising resorts and asphalt highways. That's a conversation for another time though.

-Cynical Exile

Where's My Muse?

Since starting this blog, I've had several topics that I wanted to write about, but I never could elaborate on them. So instead of letting my pen run idle, I m going to list potential topics of interest.

-Social and Economic stratification between Asian Americans in relation to how many generations their families have lived in the States.
-How I am going to use this blog to find my life calling.
-A Review of Asian Lunch Trucks at Penn
-The Eccentricities and social sacrifice that comes with being a Ph.D.
-Developing stereotypes for Asian Greeks

Which ever one tickles my muse first, I guess. or something completely different.

Rambutans, Dragonfruits & Logans

“Mua ca di,” “re lam, re lam, mua di chi,” chanted the morning lot of wives, daughters, and mothers, as they called DaNang awake with the offers of their men’s early toil. Before the ceremony, the farmers rose to pluck their dew-wet sacrifices from crawling vines, towering trees and medusa bushes. The fishermen cast their nets before the sun shown its light on the deep blue pacific. The women, cloaked in cotton or silk pajamas, laid out their rambutans, dragonfruits logans and guavas in woven bamboo baskets to sacrifice to the waking city. In wooden crates, ice crystals clouded over ivory squids, rosy salmons, and metallic skipjacks.
Concentrating on holding my breath in the rancid outdoor market, I felt a tug on my pants and looked down. A six year old girl dressed in a thin, dirt-stained t-shirt and torn Biti’s sandals gazed up at me and held out a paper crane. She uttered the words “800 dons.” After I glared at the crane and then her, I swiftly walked away. Within seconds, a swarm of dark faces and skeletons flocked to my side and offered me everything from bamboo trinkets to jasmine incense.
Frantically, I found my mom waiting for Ba ban ca to gut and clean the white squid she needed for her sea salad, and rushed to her side. She saw the trail of desolate children and glowing eyes behind me and handed me ten bills of 10,000 dons. I glanced at the money, then the tatters on their backs and then my crisply ironed khakis. After I reached out to give a little boy 10,000 dons, he scuttled away and left me with a sea of wide eyed stares. I swallowed and leafed out the rest of my bills.
Ba ban ca gave my mom the cleansed squid that she prepared for our lunch with my Ong Ba noi in Que, the countryside, that afternoon. Our trip to Vietnam that summer freed my mom from her nine to five manicurist shackles and revived the ethnic cook in her. She once perfectly seasoned her pho with cloves, coriander, cinnamon, peppercorns and Hoisin and Hirachi sauce and timely cooked her noodles so they did not stick to the pot. Nowadays, she carelessly measures each spice and finds time to cook in between working and spending time and with my sister and me. Seldom finding time to combine her passions, my mom uses the kitchen counter as her podium. Last fall, while she was stripping carrots of their skin for the chicken pot pie, an American staple, she lectured me about preserving my culture. “Don’t forget tieng Viet,” she said, with her broken English. When she was throwing out wrinkling, rotten tomatoes left on the windowsill, she turned to me and said “Try to work hard in school. Con don’t want to be like me,” a blue collar worker that answered to other people.
She accepted her blue collar position to open up a life of opportunities for me. She gave me the keys to two cultures, but I only discovered her gift at the market that day. America, the land of opportunity, can teach me how to drive a car and do the groceries at the Acme, but Vietnam shows me who plants the banana tree, cares for it, and harvests its fruits before Acme receives the bananas sitting in its produce aisle. Vietnam keeps me rooted and gives me Que, a homeland, to return to, where my grandparents and great grandparents have lived for generations. Both countries have raised and taught me what it knows, but I have to decide what to remember.