Foreword
It still puzzles me how a girl gifted in foreign language (as proved by her 3 advances to the national language contest) finally found herself in the unfamiliar and vast realm of arts.
It still puzzles me how she quit her lucrative, fashionalble and reassuring job to start from cratch as an Arts student.
And it still puzzles me how she left behind the safety of thinkings and gave in to the unpredictable sway of feelings.
How life put me on the arts course
The way I feel
I read a lot as a kid, familiarizing myself with quotes and philosophies. I was, however, unfamiliar with loving kindness or affectionate words. Mom was too busy being jealous with Dad’s other wife. She could do nothing about it though. Dad was one of those old-style strict fathers. His strict rules and terrible beatings, among other things, squeezed his daughters into their closets. We could do nothing but suppress our feelings and shape a distorted outlook on life. I was his last offspring, whom he craved to be a son. A boyish name had been chosen before my birth. He was so disappointed with the fact that I was just another daughter that he didn’t bother to change the name.(I can’t delete the sad thought that I could have been deprived the chance of coming into existence had the sex scanner been around at that time). I remember well those days, everything. They are still vivid in my mind, like a slomo film that even time couldn’t erase. I was lucky though to be sent to kindergarten at the age of three. Hard to believe, but only then and there did I know something like a friendship. My sister Bay recalls I was often digging ground with a knife at the age of five. “What are you digging for?” asked she. “I’m looking for hell, replied I. Funny how my mind was inclined to tragedies before I could even think.
When I grew up as a kid, my sisters were already adults. My daily chores were to go collecting wood and trapping fish. While I waited upon the traps, I made friends with different curious shapes that I made from clay. I guess I picked up that habbit of talking to myself from those days. My favourite game was to build a small hut and create an imaginary happy family. How lonely I was! Lost in a large, empty house, I was often thinking up stories to tell myself. I needed to speak to myself so I wouldn’t feel alone. I needed to create imaginary friends so I wouldn’t sink in solitude. I craved love, to the extent of being jealous with those fortunate well-kept pets. I was often wondering why they were loving enough to carress animals but neglected me, their human fellow.
I don’t remember ever asking any of my six sisters if they ever felt happy in their lives. But I remember well that tragic day when I saw my eldest sister collapse at the news that her 2-year-old son had been kidnapped by her husband’s family. I could only watch her cry from a distance and with trembling fear. Since it was not normal crying at all. It was more like a mad laughter, mixed with loathsome tears that shed in streams. No, it was not the normal weeping of a 17-year-old girl who felt sorry for herself. I had been playing happy family, but I was at a loss for words to console my sister. Neither did I talk to anyone about what I witnessed and thought. I never put to them grown-ups this puzzling question, the reason why my seventh oldest sister, my eighth oldest sister and I couldn’t eat together while living under the same roof. Mom, Dad and my second oldest divided the burden of supporting us three. I accepted it as normal, as well as the scene of Dad living with another woman beside Mom, alternating children among them…
I sometimes look at myself in those rare pictures taken in my childhood and find a quiet girl, very sad eyes but hardly ever any smile. It was a girl who was puzzled by many questions and had to find the answers herself. It was a girl who was haunted by the sufferings of the people she lived with. She had no one to talk to, so she created herself two pal friends. Her classmates were jealous with her because she often received letters from two friends with nice handwritings, not knowing she wrote them herself… So lively were my created friends that I myself at times believed they were real. I drew a loving, caring swear brother. His looks were warm and kind-hearted, only imaginarily…
I grew up fostering a dream… that I would one day be a writer, listening to and writing about people’s sufferings and tragedies… I would search as deep as I could into sufferings and find out what tragedy in a human life is most tragic…
I grew up like a wild plant, rough and thorny as if to conceal the weak heart of a child who was always desperate for love. I was often on the verge of a rebel. I craved freedom. Or rather, I wished I could run away from my helpless family… My only practical escape though was to study. Towards the ninth grade I won myself a bronze in the provincial Russian contest, which gratified me with, better than anything, the bliss of friendship. (I had failed to associate with my peers before. I stayed in the classroom during breaks… When school was over they asked me to join them for a small party but I shook my head… I was rarely richer than two hundred dongs, which could only cover my bike parking fee). I joyfully moved to the provincial education bureau for higher training in one month and lived my happiest days. I didn’t have to be home before dawn. Moreover, my day was filled with laughters. I was able to talk to and share things with friends, I made my presence felt… I stopped looking for sufferings and leaned towards joy… My first ever picture with a smile was taken during this period. I was happy because I found love and warmth among human beings.
Approach
Nowadays, kids in my hometown may have better chances to get to know arts. But in my time, I barely had any. At the sixth grade I was lucky to have a drawing class every week. And that was all. I was able to score a 9 or even 10 in the subject, but I wasn’t drawn to it. They grown-ups wanted me to foccus on Russian, the subject I was best at. I had no idea about an Arts College at all.
I passed the exams into two universities in Saigon. So I moved to this big city, only to find myself even more desperate. Times changed and it didn’t favour my career choice at all. Russian, which had been a priviledge for either talented students or high officials’ children, suddenly became odd. Eyes rolled whenever I said I was a student majoring in Russian. I lost conviction myself. When I finished my part-time work and went back to the dormitory, I didn’t bother to study. Once again, I had to ask myself what I would do. Then a friend lended me his old Zenit camera. I read the hand book and learnt how to take photos. Life’s beauties delighted me as I was able to capture them, so I could forget my questionable future for a while. I also took photos of human beings as one of the many ways to support myself. Some said my portrait photos were cute and “arty”, which made me happy. And I found myself dreaming about a collection of nice portraits.
But photography didn’t seem to give me the motivation I needed. The other day I came upon a picture of a Japanese girl. She was dressed in the traditional Kimono, her face radiating so much gentleness and dignity. I immediately drew her with a pencil. My room-mates all said what a gifted girl I was.(They found it very amusing as I said I picked up the gift as a kid when I drew maps so well that grown-ups often had me do it for them). Then I went on to draw a portrait of my imaginary swear brother. I was more than happy when I completed the work. I felt he was very real now. Towards the beginning of 1995, I came upon a newspaper ad by RAJCI, a company that organized jobs for educated people, saying they were to offer a free drawing course for students with limited budgets. I jumped at the chance. The course last no longer than one and a half month but it succeeded in awakening a passion in me. I started to draw portraits for my friends as birthday gifts. My heart was filled with happiness as I watched the delight on their faces. When I later took a proper drawing course as part of my preparations for the exams into the Arts school, my trainer sai though that the RAJCI course didn’t break good grounds for me at all. However, I still cherished it as an important initial cause that lead me onto Arts.
Turning point
It was 1996. I still didn’t have a chance to join the Arts school. After all, it was too new-born a passion to help me convince my family. They saw no valid points in quitting the University for a childish liking, as they saw it. I had inquired a switch to the Asian Study department since the first year. They turned me down although my points far exceeded their entrance parameter. Badly demotivated, I failed to complete my last two years in the Uni. I wanted to start with my new passion, but my basics were poor (I still drew portraits the way I drew maps). Neither could I afford the training for the entrance examination. My father’s policy was very clear, that his children would got the 4 year tuition fees only if they made it to a Uni. The Arts school unfortunately didn’t qualify as a Uni for my family.
There I stood at the dead lock of a high way pursued since my childhood, while the new-born passion was extinguished. Short of alternatives, I opted to learn Japanese and left my course for fate to dictate. Not knowing what I really wanted, I was lost. I sank deeper into my closet. My cofidence gone, I stayed away from everybody. Sadly, it was then that I more than any time needed somebody who cared.
“O solitude, what is there in me
That keeps thou on my flee?
How I tries to run away
Exhausted am I, still thou stays!”
...
“Straying cats cries…
how violently
admid the nights!
I am not a straying cat
because my chest breaks apart
as my own howl
keeps coming back to my heart!”
It was now 1997. I had been able to get a B degree in Japanese. So I applied for the job of interpreter for a group of Vietnamese who were about to work in Japan. I took the interview mainly to check my language skills. So when they said they wanted me, I was at a crossroad. I still craved to learn Arts. On the other hand, I was afraid I was too weak-hearted to survive the strict working environment of Japan. I saw hope though in the prospect of getting out of my boring life and improving my Japanese, so I could later dictate my own life.
The year was 1998. There were, however, unwelcome surprises on my path. My job turned out to be not only interpreting but also physical work like others. The Japanese bosses understandably wanted to make the most out of their cheap labour source, which left me with almost no free time to go about and talk to native people as part of my plan to improve my knowledge. As I finished working at 9pm every day, I felt drained. We had to work too during weekends and holidays. As they wanted to prevent us from leaving, the bosses made us live within strict and even unreasonable regulations. Very rarely did I find a chance to go about. I was able though to make an emotional connection with a nude statue by the river. Work pressure, bruised nationality pride and misunderstanding drove me crazy. I didn’t feel I was living like a human being at all. My head ached with issues that I couldn’t find any solutions for. There were times I was given first aid on the ambulance due to my depression. And the climax was when I was so mad that I put my hand into the steam compressor. I fainted, but I didn’t lose my hand. After a week of rest, I decided I would leave everything and go home to my country.
The year was 1999. I went home after working in Japan for one year. They felt sorry for me, but I didn’t care. I would start from the beginning with two empty hands. My only gain from my trip overseas was workmanship and psychological growth.
“From now on, lets be good friends
O solitude! Show me your approving hand
Even if a laughter is very gentle
It will be amplified by emptiness, to a thoudand times!
Having searched for a soulmate all my life
To warm up my frozen heart
And to disspell the haunting dark
So my sadness belittles, and my happiness doubles
But as a rule in life…
What you search is often out of touch!”
I was able to stand on my own feet. I succeeded in making my Japanese boss look at me with respectful eyes and saw to the fact that not all Vietnamese went overseas purely because of money. I still co-operated with him whenever he went to Vietnam on business. Neither did I habour resentments. When I managed to retain my hands after that working accident, I knew what would be my next choice.
The year was 2000. When I got the news of passing into the Arts school, I also received an invitation to work for a labour export joint-venture company, which offered quite high a salary (apart from other sources of income that could even surpass my salary). I had to think a lot. My family understandably disapproved my Arts choice. I knew the chance for such a job only came once in a lifetime and it wouldn’t be awaiting me. I knew it would guarantee a stable life and reassuring future. On the other hand, I was not sure about my Arts potentials. Embarassing too was my belated beginning while most of my peers were consolidating their careers. And above all, the job offer was also a love declare. I was at the threshold of touching love. Why not put my ambition aside and look after the couple happiness, something I had always envied. And yet I was afraid, that business would drain my emotional side. While I had faith in Arts and was willing to pay for the choice, I had no such thing when it came to couple relationship. I couldn’t be sure about the lasting of love. I couldn’t be sure either that I would love the work and not be depressed again.
Leaving behind disapprovals and suspects that I would again only go half-way, I went inside the Arts school and started to discover the complex multitude of emotions.
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