Random Autobiography

I was born sunny side up

On a Tuesday morning in August. 

Once, I almost lost my father to a drunk driver

Once, I felt betrayed.

I gained a secret sister.

I have tasted the salt of my tears

And drank from cool mountain water.

I have climbed up volcanoes in Alaska

And skied down glaciers in Chamonix. 

I have lost friends from making mistakes 

And lost my way 

Only to find a new path. 

I have felt freedom 

Riding a bicycle through the streets of Vietnam

Getting my driver's license.

I held my newborn baby in my arms

And felt her fingers tickling my chest. 

I have watched time pass

Through the wrinkles on my face

The scars on my body.

I have felt the pain of breaking my nose 

And the longing for another child. 

I have learned from listening to others

To the words of lullabies 

And to the beat of my own heart 

Calling me back.

Dancing School

I went to a small, sheltered school in Portland, Oregon. There were 30 people in my class, many of whom I had known my whole life. Boys and girls played together, but we still stayed in our boxes. We loved to play boys chase girls in elementary school. I loved it, because I could show the boys how tough I was by wiggling free of their firm embrace. I also loved it, because it made my heart pitter-patter every time Spencer or Adam pursued and caught me. It was my earliest memory of flirting. 

Back then sixth grade was still part of the elementary school. I liked still being in the same building where I first learned to read, tie my shoes, and do cherry drops. I wasn’t ready to grow up or act mature. My world was still familiar and safe. Mid-way through the year, our teachers told us that we would be moving to the newly constructed middle school building. Most of my classmates embraced this change, however, I was frightened. I didn’t want my life to change and go from being a big fish in a small pond to a small fish in a big pond. 

But, change is inevitable. On Friday we were in our old building and the following Monday we were in our new building. New desks, new faces, and lockers! There were also new social rules. No longer was it okay to play with the boys on the playground. Now girls stayed to one side and the boys stayed to the other. Instead of playing four square and tetherball, we sat around and “talked.”

But, the defining moment of my transition was the next year in seventh grade. In the 90s, every seventh-eigth grader in the Portland Metro area attended Dancing School. My mom was so excited for me to participate in this long-standing tradition. When she was growing up in Portland in the late 50s, she also attended Dancing School. Alas, not much had changed from when she did it to when I did it. 

Girls were supposed to wear long, fancy dresses with white satin gloves and patent leather shoes. Boys were supposed to wear slacks, collared shirts, breast pocket jackets, and loafers. 

We arrived at the Scottish Right Center in Downtown Portland on Friday nights dressed appropriately. If you were not dressed according to the rules, you were sent home to change or if you had too many demerits, you were asked not to come back at all. Once you entered the ballroom, boys were told to go to one side and girls were told to go to the other. Members of each sex stood there awkwardly until it was time to form two circles: one on the inside for the boys and one on the outside for the girls. We were matched up with a partner and must curtsey or bow to greet the other. Then, we watched the couple (male and female) demonstrate a dance move that we were to practice with our partners. This went on for an hour, frequently rotating around the circle until you danced with 4-5 different dancers throughout the evening. Whoever you ended up with would be the one who would walk with you to say “thank you” to the chaperones (the adults who were watching out for any funny business). 

Once outside the building, the gloves, dresses, suits, and formalities were shed and everyone met up at Petros Pizza. Now that the uniforms were off, another costume was put on. For me, this costume was harder to put on. I didn’t have boobs, shave my legs, or wear makeup. I looked around at all these new girls from other schools. Ones that I had seen in the glossy magazines and on TV. They felt foreign and scary to me. But, also mysterious and desirable. They were the ones that got noticed and were popular. They were the pretty roses, while I was the dandelion. 

I watched how they dressed, moved, and talked. I wanted to emulate them, so I could fit in and be liked by the boys. That night, I told my mom that I wanted her to take me bra shopping and that I needed to buy a razor to shave my legs. This is despite the fact that I was flat-chested and hairless. 

The next Friday night after Dancing School, I put on my new uniform (bra, tight shirt, and mini skirt). I looked the part, but I still felt invisible. I have never been a good actor. 

It wasn’t until the following year that something switched. I showed up at Dancing School and this time I was noticed. I had something that wasn’t bought at the store or manufactured. That something was confidence. 

Apo

It was spring 1998. I was studying abroad in Vietnam with 12 other American college students. We were there to immerse ourselves in the culture, people, history, and land of this Southeast Asian country. We followed the rhythms of the day as day turned to night.

In the evenings, we ate Pho at street-side stalls. The heat and the aroma wafted from the bowls, as we sat on our plastic stools. We slurped up the goodness as sweat poured down our faces. We were ready to take our full bellies dancing.

“Where should we go?” Jasmine asked as she stood up from her stool.

Anne, who had grown up visiting family in Vietnam, said between bites, “my cousins like to go to a place called Apocalypse Now.”

I took out my Lonely Planet guidebook and read aloud, ‘Apo’ has been around since 1991 and remains one of the must-visit clubs in town. It's a sprawling place with a big dance floor and a courtyard, and its eclectic cast combines travelers, expats, Vietnamese movers and shakers, plus the odd working girl. Expect pounding techno.”

Melanie smiled, “Sounds like we at least have to go check it out,” then frowned, “I am not sure how I feel about the “odd working girl” but in this city, it doesn’t surprise me.”

We followed the directions from the book and made it to the entrance of the club. Spice Girls, Wannabe, was blasting from the speakers. The dance floor was packed with people, mostly Americans and Vietnamese. 

“I think we need some liquid courage,” I commented as we made our way to the bar. 

“Yes, please.” Anne agreed. “Em muon bon Bombay Sapphire Gin and Tonics, lam on,” she said in Vietnamese. 

With our G and Ts in hand, we headed to the dance floor. The music was thumping and the dancefloor was beginning to fill up with people gyrating to the music. I stayed on the periphery to get a better view and have some space. It was a little quieter and I could hear myself think better. 

A tall, dark, and handsome man came over to me. Oh no, I thought. I don’t know how to flirt. What am I going to say to him?

Since the music was so loud, he got close, a little too close.  “Hi,” he said. His eyes were the color of caramel.

“Hi,” I replied, fiddling with my drink straw. “Do you come here often?” 

Did I really just say that? I have been watching way too many American sitcoms.

“No, this is my first time here. My name is Jean. What is your name?” 

I detected a faint French accent. “My name is Hannah. What are you doing here in Vietnam?” I asked. 

“I am visiting from Cameroon. I am on holiday with some friends.” He motioned with his head to another corner of the dance floor. 

I had so many questions! I have never met someone from Cameroon. What is it like there? Is French the official language of Cameroon? My thoughts were interrupted, when Jean said, “Do you want to dance?”

“Sure,” Jean and I made our way to the dance floor. 

The DJ was playing Ace of Base. I closed my eyes and listened to the lyrics.

“I saw the sign and I opened up my eyes, I saw the sign.” Suddenly, I heard some kerfuffle. I opened my eyes to see five or six Vietnamese women hitting Jean with their handbags and screaming at him. I stood there motionless. What is going on? I thought to myself. He hasn’t done anything wrong? 

Jean was a big man, but looked powerless from the mob of angry women throwing their loaded handbags at him. He held up his arms to block his face, yielding to the injustice. It was then that I saw what the Vietnamese women saw: A black man dancing with a white woman. But, I didn’t feel what they felt. Were they trying to protect me? Were the women justifying their actions as brave and noble? This is so fucked up, I thought. 

“Dung lai!” I screamed. “Stop!” I pulled Jean away from the dance floor and ran to my friends, who witnessed the melee. 

“We need to leave NOW!” His friends also saw what was happening and ran out of there. 

All seven of us (four Americans and three Cameroonians) reconvened outside. 

“What just happened?” Jean’s friend asked in confusion. 

“I don’t know. I was dancing with Hannah,” Jean replied, as he pointed to me. “And then these ladies started hitting me.”

“Those women were racist,” Jasmine said angrily, “you were the target of their prejudices.”

“I didn’t think there would be racism against blacks in Vietnam,” Melaine said innocently.

I shook my head, “racism is systemic.”

From that night on, I started noticing microaggressions everywhere. The American tourists disregard of Vietnamese “street people.” The North Vietnamese disdain for the Western views of the South Vietnamese. The Vietnamese prejudism against Cambodians. Although these were isolated occurrences, racism and injustices did happen and still happen in Vietnam today. The night at the dance club proved that. 

After that night I was able to walk away and go back to the freedoms I have as a white American. Jean did not. I wonder where he is now and how he remembers that night. I wonder if he feels free. 

Gravity

“Let gravity do the work,” instructed my dad. I was small and needed some speed to get through the deep snow. We were skiing in Sun Valley, Idaho and it had snowed overnight. I had never skied in this much snow before. 

Some of my fondest memories are of skiing in Sun Valley. My family visited this mountain town every spring break and some winter breaks to ski on its world-famous ski runs and light, fluffy snow. At age 4, I took my first turns down Dollar Mountain in Sun Valley. I wore jeans, oversized ski boots, and a gap-toothed smile. I loved feeling the wind rushing by my head and the gravity pulling my body down the mountain. My dad would put me between his legs, so I could learn how to move my hips to make my skis arc. Soon, he let me go, so I could try on my own. At first, the runs were flat with little risk, but as I got more confident, the terrain became more varied. Eventually, I was skiing with my friends through the trees on runs called, “Dilly Dally Alley” and “Grandma’s House.” 

‘Let’s do that again,” I screamed in delight to my friend Nell. We would load the chairlift and do another lap until our toes and nose were cold and then we would go into the lodge for hot cocoa and french fries. When the day was done and the lifts were closed, we would drag our bodies home and regale our families with all our fun adventures. 

These spring break weeks were what I longed for all year. I loved being in the mountains and as corny as it sounds, “being one with the mountains.” I loved the challenge, the euphoria, and the adrenaline. I went back to these feelings every year, and eventually, boundaries got pushed and the challenges got harder.

My dad wanted to take me down Fire Trail, a black diamond run, the hardest classification for ski runs. The run veered off from another run and disappeared into the trees. It was so long and steep that I couldn’t see the bottom. The snow was also up to my thighs. My heart was beating inside my chest and my legs felt like jello. My dad was an accomplished skier. I looked to him for how I should ski: confident, effortless, and strong. I skied all over the mountain with him on groomed runs, but this was my first black diamond, powder skiing run. He took off first to demonstrate how to angle your body and let your skis float on the snow. He stopped part way down, so he could watch me and give me advice. I lined up my skis to face down the hill and pushed off with my poles. I made a right-hand turn and went to turn again, but could not get my skis to come with me. I ended up falling forward with my head facing downhill. Cold snow crept down my jacket and into my pants. 

“Dad, I am stuck!” I screamed in fear. 

“Throw your legs over your head,” he responded. I did what he told me and voila! I was back in position. I stood up shakily. 

“Don’t overthink it this time. Just point your skis downhill, lean back, and let gravity do its work,” my dad hollered. 

Okay. I thought. Easier said than done. But, here it goes. 1, 2, 3…

I leaned back and pointed my skis downhill. To my delight, it worked! I met him at the bottom with a hug and sheer adulation. 

“Can we do that run again?” I said with a smile. 

Challenging Assumptions

I was raised to be modest and to take up as little space as possible. I was told to cross my legs and suck in my stomach. 

We went swimming down at the lake. I had just gotten a new bathing suit. It was a one piece polka dot bathing suit. I loved the way it hugged my belly and made me feel sleek in the water. 

“Girls, fudgiscles!” my friend’s mom yelled to us across the lake. My favorite, I thought. I swam fast across the lake and dried myself off. 

“Here you go, Hannah,” as she handed me the fudgsicle, already dripping down the stick from the heat. 

I closed my eyes and tasted its sweet, chocolatey goodness. I tried to lick it all up before it melted all over my hands. It was gone in seconds. 

“Mrs. Brewster, could I please have another?” I said politely, remembering my mother’s expectations and lessons on manners. 

She reached into the cooler and was pulling one out, when my mother swiped it from her grip. 

“Hannah, that is enough. That suit barely fits you as it is.” 

I was crestfallen. My new one piece, polka dot bathing suit was no longer like a second skin, but more like a sausage casing. With my mother’s words, I no longer felt beautiful in my body. People assume that body weight is a sign of health. Since that day on the beach, my body has become a commentary on my health and my social status. I don’t want to reiterate that in my own daughter’s life. I want her to love her body: the curves, the rolls, her birthmark. Our bodies may only be on loan, but they are our bodies in this lifetime and they are beautiful.