When I was growing up, my grandma—my ba noi—visited our family every Sunday, bearing gifts of Vietnamese foods and candies. She also brought old Vietnamese newspapers that she salvaged from racks outside her supermarket—papers she used while teaching me her language as we sat side by side at the kitchen table. As she read each article aloud, I would trace my finger along the dots, lines, and curves of words with unfamiliar accents and intonations. I loved listening to my ba noi as she pronounced words like hon dao (island) and co hoi (opportunity). I remember her wrinkled hands, perfumed by jackfruit and homemade egg rolls, carefully turning the yellowing pages of the paper.
At 10 years old, I didn't always sit quietly during the language lessons, but my ba noi was patient and persistent. She was equally patient and persistent during our cooking lessons. When I hung up my apron in frustration after numerous attempts at wrapping spring rolls, she always encouraged me to keep trying. And on rainy days when I craved bun bo hue (beef noodle soup), she drove across town to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant for the best warm, hearty broth.
When my ba noi picked me up after school on the days my parents were at work, I could hear loud Vietnamese music blaring from the speakers of her 1999 Toyota Camry. We would walk around the park, and she would ask me what I had learned in school that day, how my friends were doing, and what I wanted to eat for dinner, all while quizzing me about the colors of the flowers and trees (mau vang for yellow and xanh la for green) and the days of the week (thu hai for Monday and thu sau for Friday). When I got distracted or forgot the same Vietnamese word for what seemed like the hundredth time, she gently encouraged me to try again or pay closer attention.
These memories and life lessons have stayed with me, and now that my ba noi is in her eighties and has Alzheimer's disease, I have found a way to repay her. Every weekend I drive to her house, bringing necessities and meals, including her favorite chao (porridge) and banh bao (steamed pork buns). On good days, when she feels conversational, we watch soap operas and exchange quips in Vietnamese. On harder days, when she can't find her medication or returns my greeting with a blank stare, I try to be as patient and loving with her as she was with me during my childhood.
On these visits, my ba noi has taught me something else: Life should be lived in the moment. My ba noi doesn't worry about her troubles tomorrow. She knows she can't control the future. What I have with her—sitting together on the couch, watching her favorite Vietnamese soap opera, and eating her favorite foods—is what we have now. I see her big eyes and sweet, peaceful smile now. I feel her tender hug and grandmotherly wave goodbye now. So now is where I stay, with my ba noi.
Michelle Tram is a medical student at Albany Medical College in New York and hopes to continue writing.
