Fragments of Home

The Refugee as Abolition: Commemorating the 50th Anniversary of the Fall of Saigon

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The Refugee as Abolition: Commemorating the 50th Anniversary of the Fall of Saigon -

Bao Xiong

12 April 1998

I held out my two small hands,

Steaming warmth, yet it never burns.

The cold water used to shape it cools the heat,

A perfect ball of rice, a simple gift.

The vapors rise from the cooked rice ball,

Touching my chin, my mouth, my nose,

Climbing higher like a soft, invisible cloud,

Carrying with it the scent of salt and warmth.

Dampness seeps into my nostrils,

A salty, comforting sniff of home.

Afraid it might fall apart,

I glide it upward, slowly, gently,

Catching the vapors as they rise.

My tongue rushes out in anticipation,

The first grains breaking into my mouth.

Salt mingles with sweetness,

Soft and tender, warm and salty,

A symphony of simplicity.

It is nothing more than rice and salt,

Shaped into a humble ball.

Yet, it is delightful,

It is magical,

It is my mother’s special treat.

3 Dec 2000

Across the street from my house, there is a Chinese grave that is like a little playground for my friends and I. The top is made of smooth concrete, which is great for some games. But today, we decided to play marbles in the dirt area behind the grave. The ground there is soft and bumpy, perfect for shooting marbles.

I got down on my knees, pressing my thumb into the dirt to steady myself. My middle finger flicked forward, sending my marble rolling toward Mai’s. I held my breath, hoping it would hit, but it missed completely!

Mai grinned at me and smirked. “Too bad! Watch and learn,” she said. She crouched low, lining up her marble with her eyes. Her thumb dug into the dirt, and with a quick flick of her middle finger, her marble zipped forward. It hit Chue’s marble perfectly, sending it skidding to the side.

“Ha! That’s how it’s done,” Mai said proudly, standing up and brushing off her dusty hands.

Chue groaned and reached into his pocket, pulling out one of his marbles. It was shiny and blue. “Fine, here,” he said, handing it to Mai. That was our rule: if someone hit your marble, you had to give them one of yours.

“I’ll get it back,” Chue muttered, crouching down for his turn. He squinted at Mai’s marble, lining up his shot carefully. His thumb pressed into the dirt, and his marble shot forward. But it hit a bump in the ground and rolled the wrong way, missing Mai’s marble by an inch.

“Missed again!” Mai said, laughing.

“My turn!” I said, ready to give it another try. I crouched down, steadying myself with my thumb planted firmly in the dirt. I flicked my marble hard, and this time, it rolled straight and hit Mai’s marble perfectly. It knocked her marble closer to Chue’s.

“Yes!” I shouted, jumping up and grinning.

Just as Mai was about to take her turn, we heard a noise in the distance—drums and cymbals echoing down the street. We all stopped and turned to see what was happening. A group of people was walking toward the grave, speaking in a language I didn’t understand. They were led by Chinese lion dancers.

The lions were bright red and gold, with shiny costumes that shimmered in the sunlight. They moved like real animals, twisting, jumping, and swaying to the rhythm of the music. People started coming out of their houses to watch, their eyes wide with curiosity.

Then came the firecrackers. They were loud and smoky, popping and crackling in bursts. Some of the little kids nearby covered their ears, but we kept watching. As the group got closer, we moved to the side but continued watching to see what these unfamiliar people were doing.

The group carried trays of food and gifts, placing them carefully in front of the grave. They lit candles and incense, and the sweet smell filled the air. We stayed quiet, observing the entire ceremony from just a few steps away.

When it was over, the group left some of the treats behind—fruits, candies, and even a few little cakes. One of the men noticed us and smiled, handing one of the colorful candies to a kid nearby. Then, he waved toward the treats, signaling us to take some for ourselves.

We didn’t wait for him to do it twice. We grabbed a few candies and ran off, laughing like we had found treasures.

After the group left, we went back to playing marbles. The dirt behind the grave was full of little trails from where the marbles had rolled, and our hands were covered in dust. We kept playing until it was dark, the sky turning deep blue above us. It was the best day ever!

4 March 2003

I sat squished between Mai and Chia in the backseat of a black pickup truck. It was taking us home. As it slowed to a stop, Mai jumped down first and told me to grab my bag from the floor by my legs. It was stuffed with our clothes and the few things I wanted to show Mom. Mai told Chia to take one of the two big boxes of milk cartons we had brought back as gifts for our younger siblings. She lifted the other one. Mai can be so bossy sometimes—well, a lot—but we always listen to her. She’s the oldest, after all.

As the truck pulled away, the three of us stood in the yard for a moment, taking in the welcoming sight of the house where we had so many memories. Everything looked smaller than I remembered. I stared at the small yard where we used to play. The dirt ground was still uneven and bare. On one side stood the big kon tho jar, as tall as me, still sitting there and filled to the brim with water. It was where we used to take our baths outside. Mom had even laid wooden boards on the ground next to it so our feet wouldn’t have to touch the mud. In the corner of the yard, not far from the jar, was the qos ntoo tree. I think I can reach its leaves now! I used to climb that tree to pick young cassava leaves for Mom. She loved eating them with salt and rice.

The sun was still out, but nobody came outside to greet us. We had been gone for over a year—long enough to miss Hmong New Year, Loy Krathong, and Songkran. As I stood there, a wave of memories from the night we left swept over me.

I remembered seeing the black pickup truck for the first time, parked outside our house late at night. It was the same truck that had just brought us home, but back then, everything had felt rushed and unfamiliar. They told us we were going to a temple in Chon Buri to study for free. It wasn’t strange for kids like us to go to temples for school if our parents couldn’t afford it—lots of people did that. But we had to leave in the middle of the night so our too-young siblings wouldn’t wake up and try to follow. My parents hurried us—Mai, Chia, and me—into the truck, tossing a few of our belongings into the back. We left so quickly I barely had time to process what was happening. 

By the time we arrived in Chon Buri, the sun was already up. I guess it hadn’t really been the middle of the night like it had felt when we left. I had slept through the entire ride, and Mai had to shake me awake. As we walked into the temple, I noticed nuns and teenagers sweeping leaves in the courtyard. A group of kids surrounded us, their faces full of curiosity. Were we new kids staying at the temple? Visitors? Or were we someone’s family, finally coming back to take them home? I didn’t know it then, but I would soon be one of them.

8 August 2004

I woke up feeling groggy. I had slept through the entire flight to America and didn’t even know we were about to arrive. I stared out the window, taking everything in. It all looked so different from what I was used to.

As we drove to our new home, the houses along the street caught my attention right away. They were big and sturdy, made of bricks, wood, and other strong materials. I couldn’t help but think about our house back home, with its bamboo walls and a roof made of wild grass. Back there, every monsoon season meant leaks and wind howling through the cracks. But these houses looked solid, like they could stand up to any storm.

When we arrived at our house, the first thing I felt was the cold. It wasn’t like the cool mornings back in Wat Tham Krabok; this cold was sharp and seemed to sink into my bones, making me shiver. Even with my jacket on, I couldn’t escape it. I hugged myself tightly as I followed my family inside.

Soon, people I didn’t recognize started showing up. They smiled warmly and told me they were my aunts and uncles, but I had never met them before. They spoke Hmong, but their accents sounded a little different, like they had been living here for a long time. I just nodded and smiled back, not sure what else to do.

These strangers brought so many things with them—food, blankets, clothes, and even some furniture. They filled our new house with everything we needed and more. It felt strange to have people we barely knew taking care of us, but it also felt nice. Someone handed me a soft, warm blanket and said it was for me. I held it close, already feeling a little more at ease.

Our new house wasn’t fancy, but it felt strong and safe. With all the things people brought and the way they welcomed us, it was starting to feel like home. I’m still not used to how different everything is here—the cold, the houses, and the people. America feels strange, but maybe it will be a good kind of strange.

24 Nov 2005

Today in class, we made stone soup! It’s from a story we read yesterday called Stone Soup. The story was about two brothers who helped a village come together to make soup by sharing what little food they had. But the best part wasn’t just hearing the story—it was getting to make our own version of the soup today!

Our teacher told us to bring one small thing from home to add to the soup. Some kids brought vegetables like carrots, potatoes, and onions. Others brought rice, spices, or even tiny pieces of chicken. I brought a handful of salt because that’s all we had at home. The teacher said it didn’t matter what we brought, as long as we brought something to share.

When class started, the teacher had a big pot of water heating on a hot plate. Right in the middle of the pot was a big, smooth rock. It looked funny sitting there, but it was supposed to be the “magic stone,” just like in the story.

One by one, we added our ingredients to the pot. Someone started with carrot slices, then came potatoes, onions, rice, and even a few pieces of chicken. When it was my turn, I sprinkled in my salt carefully. The teacher stirred everything together with a big spoon, and soon the whole room smelled amazing.

While the soup was cooking, we talked about what made the story special. Our teacher said the soup wouldn’t taste as good if everyone hadn’t contributed something. That made me think of my home in Thailand. Even though we didn’t have much food, my family always ate together. I remembered one time when my mom cooked one package of MAMA noodles for all of us. She added extra salt and a lot of rice to stretch it into a big soup, and it was enough to feed all seven of us kids. It wasn’t fancy, but it was warm and filling, and we were all happy.

Finally, the soup was ready. The teacher scooped some into little cups for everyone. We sat together, tasting the soup and talking about what we liked best. It was warm and delicious, but it tasted even better knowing that we had all worked together to make it.

20 April 2010

They tell me I was Chinese,

From mountains shrouded in mist,

Where rivers carved the paths of time,

And history can’t be dismissed.

They say the Miao once thrived,

In valleys lush and green,

But wars and rules drove us away,

To places we’d never seen.

They tell me I am Hmong today,

A wandering people spread far and wide,

From China’s heart to distant lands,

Still carrying Hmong with pride.