Personal essay: stephanie vogel
Departure
When deciding to leave, I never used to think about all the collateral goodbyes. All that changed as I was packing up and leaving the house I had shared with my now ex-boyfriend for several years.
Since being handed the keys, as customary for expats living in Vietnam, we had a woman who helped us with housework. I asked that she not be there when I packed up and made my way down our Phạm Ngũ Lão alley for the last time.
I heard the door open as I was emptying my closet. I was immediately agitated – assuming it was the boyfriend with whom I’d been having drawn out conversations, always unresolved, about infidelity. I really wasn’t in the mood. I made my way downstairs to check anyway.
There she was. Chị Nũ. She hardly spoke a word of English and I, the worst kind of immigrant, never learned more than enough Vietnamese to feed myself and get a xe ôm to drive me around. But I knew this woman, deeply. In a way that only time and knowing glances allows. With her, I’d learned that shared spoken language is not required for much of the important stuff. I had seen her through 2 pregnancies, a malignant tumor diagnosis, surgery, and chemotherapy. I certainly didn’t need Vietnamese to understand that when she dropped her things, collapsed to the floor, and grabbed my legs, she was imploring me to stay.
Still grounded, she snatched the Vietnamese/American dictionary off the shelf, frantically rifling through the pages. I made my way to the floor as she pointed to words. He’s broken without you and it’s time to forgive. I said không (a word I did know, no) and then pointed to the word for trust. I burst into tears. She burst into tears. For a long time we sat on the floor, touching for the first time in our years’ long acquaintance, hugging like sisters who were going to be separated forever after. Which is exactly what we were.
The older lady who lived next door policed the alley. She sat on the stoop all day long with her mangy dog and always spoke to me in French. My kindergarten French tickled her. The dog loved me, but I swear the night I accidentally ate dog meat he permanently stopped coming to me. Walking past her that day, tear-swollen, with my world’s possessions crammed into two small suitcases, I didn’t know what to say. Our neighbors always knew everything – a very authentic Vietnamese neighborhood situation – so I knew I didn’t need to explain, but with my actual grandparents gone, she held a special unspoken familial role and I felt I needed to say something. She smiled and gave me a thumbs up and said, “you alright” – I’m not sure of the precise meaning she was trying to convey, but I chose to register, “You’re going to be alright.” It was exactly what I needed to hear.
