Notes From Hanoi
by Jan Beecher
Thuy Anh is married, has a degree,
and a three-year-old daughter.
When she gets home from her second
job at night, she makes greeting
cards to sell at a shop she runs
on weekends. Last Fri., I held Thuy
Anh in my arms while she cried.
All her time spent at work is time
without her little girl and she hates
it. I understand. I remember myself,
20 years ago, crying all the way to
work after dropping my son off at
daycare.
All the women I work with in
Hanoi are mothers. Most of them
are in their late twenties or early
thirties and their children range
from newborn to perhaps 12 or
13 years old. There are a few of us
that have older kids in highschool
or university. Everyone has their
baby’s picture somewhere on their
desk.
At lunch, we talk about our
kids—who is still breast feeding,
who refused to go to bed last night,
who has a test at school this week,
who finally remembered to phone
his mom. Parenthood, it seems to
me, is like international glue. Take a
room full of mothers who have never
met, bring in a baby, and watch
what happens.
Arlene, my fellow WUSC partner
here at the college, has her fourand-
a-half year old daughter, Maria,
come with us when we travel
to present workshops. As soon as
that little girl climbs on the bus or
enters the room where some formal
feast is being held, the atmosphere
changes. Through translators and
knowing smiles, we all become parents:
attending to her, watching her,
telling stories about our own little
ones. Granted, Maria is blonde and
blue-eyed and sticks out like a sore
thumb in this country, but I have
seen the exact same effect caused by
the fat cheeks and huge black eyes of
Thuy Anh’s little girl.
Fortunately, children have that
effect on people.
Last Sun., we went to a pagoda
with a few Vietnamese friends. I had
been bugging to go to this pagoda
because I knew it was an orphanage
and I wanted to send my prayers
and my donations their way.
Than, one of our friends, was a
regular there, so she led the way.
The pagoda was similar to many,
with an urn full of burning incense
sticks at the entry and several depths
of altars for worship and offerings.
The only difference was the little
kids running around in their PJs
and raggedy clothes. One industrious
pair of preschoolers were pushing
a three-wheeled wagon around.
It made a horrible noise when the
metal axle scraped the tiles of the
courtyard, but their giggles certainly
made up for it.
After our prayers, we walked
over to the residence. Than disappeared
through a doorway and
came out with a sleepy toddler in
her arms. The little girl curled up
to Than like she was her mother.
“Does she know you?” I asked. Than
shook her head. The little girl stared
at me.
Each dark little room had four
to six beds, much like a train berth,
curtained and decorated with old
blankets and towels. Inside, they
smelled of dampness and the rice
goo that Vietnamese feed their children.
“Room mothers” kept an eye
on the “tenants.”
The “tenants” were either left at
the pagoda’s gates by their parents
or found abandoned in the urban
monstrosity of Hanoi. Some begin
their life here, and some end
up here after their parents give up.
Some even stay long enough to become
“room mothers” themselves.
The orphans are healthy and
well fed, but they are starved for
contact. I looked around and realized
half of the adults had a baby
in their arms. “Many people come
to this orphanage to spend time
with the children,” Than explained.
Because it is so close to the city, it
is handy. I couldn’t help but think,
“Petting zoo.”
After a tour, we settled down in
the nursery, where several visitors
sat on a large bamboo mat with babies
in their arms.
Two older children sat in front
of a TV. One of them was playing
with the keypad of an old cell
phone. He had just made a call, and
was talking to no one in particular.
When he eyed my digital camera
and grabbed at it, I let him check it
out quite thoroughly. The batteries
were dead; I figured he could do no
harm.
Once he figured out it wasn’t
working, I think he felt sorry for
me. He pulled me down to sit beside
him and then he rested his
head on my arm. Eventually, he
curled up on my lap. I kissed the
top of his head.
I couldn’t help but wonder: how
hard did that little boy’s mother cry
when she left him?