The birds are extra chirpy this morning. My husband already went to Aunt General’s store to get some coffee and pick up a few things from the pharmacy.
“So around 1 we do tea,” he texts me. Today we will have the Tea Ceremony/Wedding Ceremony to make our marriage official in the eyes of the family, and more importantly to honor grandparents.
Dad alerts me that grandmom has been vomiting this morning. I give dad two Zofran and instruct him on how to explain to her to take it under the tongue. When my husband gets back, we discuss what more to do for her. He gives her a cocktail of pills and we plan to do IV fluids later.
After having a little breakfast, I suddenly have a dizzy spell and lie down. This pregnancy has been the weirdest thing my body has ever gone through.
“Babe, everyone is here already. We need to get ready,” he wakes me, “How are you feeling?”
Naps can be a cure all for the most part. A little groggy and confused as to why we are being rushed to get ready one hour earlier than discussed, I trudge about, putting on my dress, fixing my hair, and applying picture-appropriate make-up.
“You guys need to hurry.”
I put my jewelry on as I waddle down the stairs. A room full of aunts, uncles, and cousins await us.
Everyone is seated in a square around the great room where we will stand in the center facing grandparents and parents.
Uncle 4 gathered everyone’s attention, and then grandpop lead the ceremony. I have no idea what was said, but there were lots smiles and laughter. My husband and I then went around serving each family member tea as Aunt General poured it into cups for us. After each individual took a drink of tea, they would present us with their wedding gift (either monetary or jewelry). At the conclusion of the short and sweet ceremony, we gathered for photos. When we dispersed after pictures, I felt someone grab my hand; Aunt Gentle led me away to a private area of the house. She pulled out of her pocket a beautiful yellow gold charm bracelet. She said somethings, but I have no idea what. I gave her a big hug and thanked her. She tried to put it on my wrist, but had some difficulty, so suggested my husband do it. So much grace.
Immediately following the ceremony we are each driven off as passengers on motorbikes over to Uncle 5’s house for the afterparty.
Vietnamese culture is very reminiscent of the Mexican culture I am used to. Patriarchal and segregated. Men eat together and enjoy beer, throwing trash on the ground under the table, taking shots, lounging. The women prepare and cook the food, serve the men, and once the men are fed the women eat and then clean up. My husband is an exception to this rule. He has an aversion to this particular aspect of the culture, and instead chooses to help the women and sit with the women, and help clean up. A couple other male cousins closer to our age opted to sit at our table as well.
But backing up, when we first arrived, my husband took me on a walk around the neighborhood with one of the little cousins who is 9 years old. She approached me first, beaming with pride as she introduced herself in English as Alena. Come to find out, that is her English class “American” name. Her real name is the Viet word for Okra. Her father named her and her siblings after vegetables. So there is Okra, Corn, and Cilantro (or something like that). Okra came with us on our walk. My husband has a great appreciation for flowers (as does dad)—particularly sunflowers, which bordered the narrow road.
“I want to take you to meet the first girl I helped by raising funds for a heart transplant when I did my year of social service here.”
We walked a eighth of a mile down around the corner, “I’m pretty sure this is the house.”
He was right. The young lady’s mom came out to greet us, set us up on their patio, and brought us iced tea. She then woke her husband up who was napping on the hammock inside. With a big grin he came to greet us. A few minutes later the young lady, now in her early twenties, came out to greet us. She is very small for her age; no bigger than a lanky 12-year-old. Her size can be attributed to congenital disease affected multiple organ systems. After chatting for a bit, we excuse ourselves and head back to the party. At the party my husband helps me get set-up to help the women cook the meat (he knows me well). After most of the meet is cooked, half the women and I head over to the “women’s table” to enjoy the food we’ve prepared. Fresh jumbo shrimp, pork lettuce wraps, rice porridge with meat and veggies, duck, chicken, and an cold glass of Pepsi on ice (not that I would anyway, but it’s frowned upon for women to drink beer). I am straight pounding down those pork lettuce wraps. For whatever reason, Aunt-in-law 5 is impressed by the fact that I know how to eat a lettuce wrap. Thank you, P.F. Changs.
Once the time is right, my husband and I help the women clean up and knock out dishes. More brownie points for me! I guess it is expected that as an “American girl” I would just sit back while everyone else would do the work. My mama and Mexico raised me better than that. My husband says they were making comments like “Oh, she’s a normal person like us.”
After dishes were on the drying racks and the patio was mostly cleaned up, we thanked the aunts for coordinating everything, and then headed back to the house to check on grandmom.
I get back to the house first. She’s been very sick since after the tea ceremony, Aunt Gentle notifies me through dad as she rubs grandmom’s arm. I start preparing the IV fluids for her before my husband arrives. When he gets to the room, he agrees and we move forward with IV prep. Unfortunately, she is so dehydrated that I am unable to get an IV on her fragile veins. I stick her a good 7 times with the metal needle, with nothing but leaky veins that won’t take the needle properly. We decide to hold off on IV fluids and, instead encourage her to drink water, which she tolerates well. We spend the evening with her until she goes to bed, making care plans for the next day. Cousin Sassypants has graciously been at our beck and call for anything we need—including ice cream!! She brings ice cream and we enjoy it together. Mom opts for the durian ice cream. I will warn you, if you are ever offered durian fruit, just say no. Don’t even be polite about it. Durian smells and tastes like the nastiest egg fart you can fathom. 1/3 of Vietnamese loves this fruit (mom being one of them), the other 2/3 (and I assume the rest of the world) agrees on durian being detestable. Some even complain of the smell causing headaches. Durian is banned in hotels and public transportation across Vietnam. Even uncut, it can have a faint smell. Once upon a time, my husband was part of the odd 1/3 of durian lovers; story goes he brought a durian on a bus and had a bunch of passengers complaining to him that his durian was causing them headaches. I’m not sure if it was the embarrassment or just a change in palate that switched him over to the 2/3 of normal people.
As you would guess, I did not opt for the egg fart ice cream, but rather the trusty strawberry.
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