Faking It

[Busan, 3/11/20]

I will never recover from this. Buying grocery this dawn, I said “đậu que” [“string beans”] when I meant “đậu bắp” [“okra”]. Exposed as not just an alien but a fraud, I should hop on the next mini bus, straight to the airport. Only in Antarctica will I be able to conceal my eternally unbleachable shame.

In 2003, I was gobbling weisswurst at the Christmas market in Munich. Having just arrived from Bozen by train, I was delighted by everything. Since the two ladies at my standing table spoke no English, I tried Italian. Though one matron’s Italiano was much better than mine, I manned up and chattered away. I fucked up royally, however, when I declared how thrilled I was to be in “Berlino.” This is not Berlino, she snapped, clearly disgusted. This is Monaco!

In 2019 in remote Ea Kly, a town of 18,000 almost no one visited, I sat in a crude café before dawn. Seeing me ordering another coffee with condensed milk, a man asked if I was, like him, a truck driver? During a lifetime of desperately faking it, this had to be one of my proudest moments. “Each night,” he shared, “I must drink three cups of coffee, two cans of Red Bull and smoke a bunch of cigarettes, just to stay awake.” So buzzed up, he couldn’t sleep during the four hours allotted for this purpose. To make a profit, all trucks exceeded their load limits, so he had a budget to pay cops along the way. Since it was too expensive to drive during the day, he mostly navigated in darkness. Pretending to understand, I nodded and chuckled. I can barely balance myself on a bicycle.

In Busan in 2020, I found myself in a Vietnamese restaurant, Bạc Liêu, with a bunch of middle-aged men. These Viets were in South Korea to visit their daughters and grandchildren. Their sons-in-law were likely to be close to their age, if not older. For some context, I translate from a 2006 article in Dân Trí:

Ha-gi Jeong, 46-years-old, flew to Vietnam on a tour designed for single men. He wanted to find a wife strong enough to work with him in the fields. After careful scrutiny, Jeong finally decided on a girl with the duskiest skin but firmly muscled. They married three days later

Now their lives are quiet and rather sad, with cultural differences their separation. She cannot speak Korean, he can’t speak Vietnamese. They talk—and they rarely talk—with the help of a language learning book. Nguyễn Thu Đông, 20-years-old, does not want to wake up at 5 to work in the rice paddies. She also doesn’t care for the smell of kim chi.

The men in Bạc Liêu spent much time talking about Cần Thơ landmarks, streets, businesses and even personalities. Overwhelmed by the foreign, they fiercely evoked their native province. In days, though, they could go home, unlike their permanently exiled daughters, more or less raped nightly.

With my northern accent, I was already an outsider. To not distance myself further, I didn’t let on I was an American. I only admitted to have come from Saigon.

Smelling fishiness, one man joked, “He’s a godfather [đại ca].”

Another, “He’s an intellectual. I can tell.”

A third, “He’s from Saigon, so he’s already better than us!”

By saying I had taken buses all over, I more or less gave myself away. With a longer stay visa and English skills, I had many more options than Viet visitors. Trying to blend in, I was, again, faking it.

In 1987, I lived with my aunt and uncle in Northern Virginia. (They were just here in Vung Tau.) We all worked in Washington DC, a city that exuded power and influence the way Manhattan flaunted its sophistication and wealth. A bushleaguer by temperament, I couldn’t warm up to either. Commuting back and forth, I saw the Pentagon twice daily. At the end of each grinding week, we’d celebrate with a dinner at Phở 75. Sometimes we’d visit Sizzler Steakhouse. Having fallen asleep in the back of the car, I had to be woken up when we arrived. When some guy asked me, “Well done, medium or rare?” I muttered, “Spare.”

In Philly, I had given poetry readings and even hosted a poetry interview show on UPenn’s WXPN. I had attempted a novel. Suddenly, though, I was exposed as a fresh-off-the-boater who couldn’t understand basic words, but that’s you, too, prancing poser! Misspeaking, mishearing, misunderstanding and misbehaving, we’re all just hoping, moment by moment, no one can see we’re just faking it. Only the most charitable might deem our cluelessness and appalling behavior as somehow touching.

Constantly nagged and haunted by defeats and insecurities, we rejoice at other people’s failures and sufferings. The more spectacular, the more satisfying. Protesters of the Gaza genocide are grossly outnumbered by those enjoying it, if only quietly. If you wake up tomorrow to hear, say, a nuclear bomb has obliterated any city, even one within your nation, your eyes will light up and your heart will race. Gleefully, you’ll devour all the porn, in words and images, that comes with this stupendous catharsis.

Walking into McGlinchey’s during the Tiananmen Square protest, I saw so many giddy faces. The promise of mass violence beat watching the Phillies lose another game. That distant turmoil kept everyone entertained for more than a month.

Tsunamis, volcanic eruptions, record floods and freakish hurricanes also make spectators feel more alive and blessed. With unspeakable disasters increasingly frequent, folks are getting bored. They better have something really mind blowing on deck.

Mishaps and misadventures can also be appreciated artistically. This year, Aaron Judge was the American League’s best hitter and fielder. This Yankee’s only error occurred during the decisive game of the World Series. To mess up at the worst moment is so poetic and beautiful! Uncle Sam seems prone to outshine Judge.

[Vung Tau, 12/6/24]

[12/6/24]

[Vung Tau, 12/7/24]