Things We Lost to the Water

“What was wrong with these people? What was wrong with this place?”

As Hương struggles to adapt to her life in New Orleans, she repeatedly experiences panic and culture shock. Unfamiliar with American life, culture, and language, she struggles to communicate. Understandably, she longs for the familiarity of Vietnam, and as she tries to get her bearings is instead overwhelmed by differences.

“‘Let’s go home,’ she replied. ‘He said we should go home.’

‘But home is so far away,’ said her son.

[...]

‘I know,’ she said, more to herself than to him. ‘I know.’”

Despite her struggles to acclimate to New Orleans, Hương must take care of her children, who are themselves confused by the change. Tuấn, who’s old enough to remember Vietnam, commiserates with his mother in missing their homeland. This quote indicates that they still consider Vietnam home, while America is an alien and unfriendly place.

“‘I’m not American!’ he would say, reciting from memory what they taught him in school. ‘I am người Việt Nam [“Vietnamese”]. My father teaches the great and honorable literature of our nation. My mother is the daughter of our beautiful countryside.’”

Since Tuấn is old enough to remember Vietnam even as a child, he has a deeper connection to the country and culture than his young brother, Bình, does. Tuấn is proud of his heritage and his family, expressing it directly through his use of vocabulary and indirectly through his choice of language. Some of his phrasing may also represent mild indoctrination from the Vietnamese education system to uplift both urban and rural citizens and professions. All the components of this quote demonstrate the close symbolic relationship between language and identity.

“‘Don’t lie to your mother,’ she said. ‘People don’t go somewhere for no reason.’”

On the surface, Hương is chiding Tuấn for wandering off, but this quote has a deeper implication too. Although Công doesn’t respond to Hương’s messages, she hopes that they’ll one day reunite and refuses to fully let him go. In addition, without closure explaining how they were separated at the boat in Vietnam, Hương spends the next few years constantly wondering what happened—Công must have a reason for staying, she believes, because he wouldn’t abandon them for nothing—so this quote also expresses her belief in an underlying cause for his disappearance that night.

“Parenting was hard enough; parenting alone and in a different country was something else altogether.”

As a parent in Vietnam, Hương’s life centered on homemaking—she cared for Tuấn and Công, balancing their budget, making meals, and spending time with them. During the war, she had to hold the family together as they migrated from city to village and as Công healed and deteriorated. In New Orleans, as a single parent and an immigrant, Hương struggles every day to make ends meet and support her children without Công’s support and with many more obstacles in her path. This quote emphasizes her resilience and loneliness, as well as her weariness from her efforts.

“‘Timoun dyab [“Devil child”],’ [Addy] said, like an adult reprimanding a school of children. No one knew what it meant and they kept laughing. Ben knew, for reasons he did not understand, he wanted to be her friend.”

Although Bình knows little to no Vietnamese, he grows up “othered”: Because of his Vietnamese heritage and American enculturation, he feels alienated and distanced from both communities. He finds a kindred spirit in Addy, who like himself is a child of an immigrant, is a person of color, and speaks a non-English, non-European language. He can empathize with the ridicule she receives but also realizes the importance of friendship and found family.

“Ben’s mother and Addy’s father bonded over the fact that they were both immigrants—how hard it was to get the foods they grew up with, how their kids would never know what it’s like to live a difficult life, how easy their kids had it.”

Like their children, Hương and Addy’s father bond over their commonalities. While they don’t become as close as their kids do, this bond allows overprotective Hương to trust Addy’s father, resulting in Bình’s regular weekend sleepovers at Addy’s house. Although Hương usually mistrusts Catholics, this is an early example of her relaxing this skepticism around someone she likes.

“A sense of happiness came over Hương as she realized this was the first time in a long time she had left the city by herself. She reminded herself there was more to the world than New Orleans, more than that city. She felt she needed to celebrate as she crossed the city limits. She imagined leaving. Her boys were off at school and they would come home and wait and she would not be there! The next day they wouldn’t go to school. They would stay home all week. They would fail their classes. The schools would visit. Not finding her there, they would call. Ms. Trần, they’d say, how could you abandon your sons? Yes, abandon, and all at once she felt guilty for thinking it. How could she abandon her sons? How could she even think of doing that to them? They were all alone in the world. She was just weary; that’s what it was—tired, old, and weary.”

As a young, single, immigrant mother, Hương is constantly exhausted by the effort and energy she expends every day to support her family. Thus, her innermost fantasy is releasing her burdens and living for herself. This vision conflicts with her responsibilities as a mother and her love for her children—and on many occasions leaves her horrified and guilty. Because she doesn’t relax as much as she should, Vinh takes on some of her responsibility starting from their very first meeting.

“It was when they were strolling along the river walk, eating ice cream cones, that she realized this had become her city, the place she lived but also a place that lived in her. She’d picked up its vocabulary, developed a taste for its foods, grown accustomed to its weather—the heat, the humidity, even the minor hurricane here and there. She remembered how scared she was when she first arrived, how she clutched her belongings (and her sons) close to her, afraid that something might happen. Nowadays, she walked freely, unafraid.”

The longer Hương lives in New Orleans, the more the city lives in her. This is a gradual, often unnoticeable change until it’s thrown into sharp contrast, such as when Hương, once a newcomer, shows Vinh around the city with all the knowledge of a local. Her realization of how comfortable and familiar New Orleans has become indicates how her sense of home is shifting from Vietnam to New Orleans, a home she created for herself and her family.

“If war had taught her one thing, it was that ideology—how you believed the world should be, what you would die to uphold—was always flawed, and though innocent on its own, it could lead to tragedy.”

After the trauma that Hương and her family experienced during the Vietnam War, Hương distrusts strict ideologies like communism. This distrust extends to religion, too, because of the lack of support she received from the Catholic priest when she left the Minh family as a young refugee. Although she accepts Vinh’s Catholicism, she refuses to let it influence her children, fearing the effects that indoctrination might have on them.

“‘I’m saying we can always choose to do good, even if we’ve done bad,’ Vinh said. ‘It’s why I look after you all. It’s maybe the one good thing I can do in the world. I’m here to stay, kid. I’m here to look after you and your brother and your mother. That’s what families do, you know?’”

Although Tuấn refuses to acknowledge Vinh as a father or even a father figure, he does his best to support Tuấn anyway. Here, he refers to his own experience as a soldier in the South Vietnamese Army to warn Tuấn to stay away from the Southern Boyz gang. Realizing that Tuấn is lost and frustrated and is scared of assimilation, Vinh attempts to reassure the boy that he can get all the support he needs at home—including Vinh—rather than chasing after a dangerous gang. However, even if Tuấn ignores him, as Vinh suspects he will, it’s never too late for a second chance either.

“He didn’t know why she kept bringing him up. He was tired of this father he’d never met, though she talked about him as if she didn’t want him to forget. But he wasn’t there to remember anything in the first place; what, then, was there to forget? The man played no role in his life, and Ben resented always being compared to him. Perhaps if he had known him, had memory of him, it would be different. Perhaps then he would say to himself, ‘This is the man I want to be.’ But that was never the case. To want anything more, anything else, seemed useless.”

Bình grows up as a third-culture kid, attempting to make his own connections to the community and culture around him. However, he becomes frustrated as his mother seems to thwart his every attempt—for example, religion—while holding him to impossible expectations, such as emulating Công. Although Bình was once curious about Công, the constant comparisons to a deified stranger wear on him, and he searches for a different father figure to fill the gap that Công left in his life.

“[Hương says,] ‘You can’t live in a place without water.’

Vinh says, ‘You can’t live in a place with too much of it, either.’”

Practically speaking, Hương’s statement is true: Water is essential for life, and too much or too little of it can be fatal. However, she’s conveying a deeper meaning too: Water symbolizes memory in this novel, so the characters’ sentences express their opposing viewpoints. Hương refuses to let go of Công’s memory even as she ostensibly moves on to be with Vinh. However, Vinh, whom Công’s ghost constantly overshadows, points out that holding onto too many memories can be detrimental as well.

“All his life, it felt like she was trying to shape him, to mold him like a piece of clay into the man he’s never met. Didn’t she understand he was his own person? That he had his own flesh and blood and mind? That he was unique, one-of-a-kind? Why couldn’t she see that?”

Although Hương loves her sons and does her best to care for them, she’s blind to their struggles growing up in New Orleans. As she tries to keep Công’s memory alive for them—subsequently pressuring Bình to be someone he’s not—Bình chafes at the restrictions she places on him, especially because his identities as a third-culture gay kid already make him feel like an outsider. He’s also enculturated by a more individualized society—told to stand out instead of fit in—which adds to his conflicts with Hương and her dreams for him. Although his discovery of her lie about his father seems to kickstart their estrangement, in reality, all the little conflicts add up to the explosion, foreshadowing the disaster.

“‘It’s New Orleans.’ Hương shrugs. ‘It’s what we do,’ she says like a true New Orleanian. When someone asks her where she’s from, she tells them New Orleans, and they always say, ‘No, really.’”

Although Hương considers New Orleans her new home, she and her family will be forever “othered” because of their ethnicity. No matter how long she lives in New Orleans or what kind of passport she has, many other people will always consider her an outsider here. Her experience is different from her sons’ struggles to resist or embrace assimilation, but Hương has no choice—her name, her accent, and her phenotype will all preclude her passing in New Orleans society, no matter how disgusted she becomes with the tourists.

“‘There was a war, Bình.’

‘Ben.’ [...]

‘Ben. There was a war, Ben. Things go horribly wrong during wars. Even without wars, things go horribly wrong all the time. You pick yourself up, you move on, be glad with what you do have. That’s the best we can do sometimes.’”

Because he has no memory of Vietnam, Bình can’t empathize with Hương’s decision to lie about Công; he only feels the pain and pressure of the specter he has grown up with. Tuấn, on the other hand, remembers enough to empathize and is now mature enough to understand. Although he has lost a lot of his childhood heritage, Tuấn still remembers enough to be proud of it and demonstrates this through his use of his brother’s Vietnamese name. Bình, however, long ago rejected this part of him, choosing to assimilate and anglicize his name, indicating his closer relationship to American culture than Vietnamese.

“[Schreiber] must have seen him as some time of novelty, Ben thought: an immigrant boy who dropped out of high school who cleans houses (one house) and reads books. He was not a novelty, he was not some monkey. It reminded Ben of the tourists in the Quarter, pointing and staring at everything. The professor was no better.”

Ben considers his love of reading and writing a personal affair—one aspect of his identity that separates him from his family and community. Schreiber noticing and encouraging this passion is odd for Ben, yet he’s keenly aware of the layers complicating his relationship with the professor: race/ethnicity, class, age, employment, etc. People of Asian descent don’t often study literature; therefore, Ben is uncertain whether Schreiber’s support is genuine or merely like a circus act. This uncertainty makes him uncomfortable and adds another layer of complexity to their relationship.

“You can’t expect to be ready for everything. Sometimes things just happen whether you’re ready for them or not. Haven’t I taught you boys that?”

Hương’s statement to her boys reveals her desire for them to be flexible. Consequently, she seldom coddles her sons. Vinh later observes that Hương “likes emergencies” (265). She learned a lot from her experiences as a refugee and as a wife and mother. However, though Tuấn understands the refugee experience, Bình doesn’t, so her lessons didn’t stick. She’s so dedicated to her family, regardless of her own desires, that she doesn’t understand why Bình needs distance, even from Công’s funeral. Although she means well, Hương can misunderstand—she’s only human, after all.

“‘It [the trip to Vietnam and Công’s story] made me wonder.’

‘Wonder what?’

About what we hide from each other, Tuấn wanted to say, about what we don’t know about the people closest to us. ‘I don’t know.’”

While Hương and Bình have been familiar with keeping secrets for years, Tuấn’s behavior is generally more transparent, especially as a young adult. Even when his family disapproves of his choices (like Thảo and the Southern Boyz), he openly defies them. Although he’s aware of Hương’s lie about Công, he empathizes because of the circumstances. However, during his trip to Vietnam, when he finds his childhood home torn down and replaced and learns the truth about Công’s choice to abandon them, Tuấn becomes more aware of all the secrets he doesn’t know. Nevertheless, because of his decision not to pry and a desire not to estrange his brother, all he can do is hold his tongue, keeping his own secrets too.

“Professor Schreiber told him history happened in cycles. One thing happens, something reacts to it, it all disappears from consciousness only to return later.”

Bình recalls Schreiber’s reference to the cycle of history and memory. This also calls to mind how certain traits, behaviors, and events happen again and again—but sometimes to different characters. The idea of “cycles” is an important motif throughout the novel and appears in a variety of forms, such as the varying stages of the water cycle (and their symbolism) as well as Nguyen’s writing style, which loops between present day and flashbacks—and repeats phrases and metaphors to both emphasize them and change their meaning.

“For the last four years, Ben had been grateful for all that Schreiber had freely given to him. Yet there was the feeling of incurring debts—debts that he could never repay. It was unfair to the professor, who acted like a father to him. It was unfair to his own father, who he had never had the chance to know, who never had the chance to know him.”

Because Bình never had a constant, realistic father figure growing up—except Vinh, whom he rejects—Bình doesn’t know what to do when he does encounter one, particularly one to whom he isn’t biologically related. His relationship with Schreiber was already complex because of the layers of American societal norms (see Quote 18 above), but all his extra academic support creates an amount of debt that Bình feels unable to properly pay back. This, on top of his other apprehensions and negative experiences with academia, leads him to seek a more independent path so that he can escape from yet another mentor trying to choose his path for him.

“Yet, if he were honest with himself, everything here was boring. He thought he would find some connection to his father and in that way his past as well. At the very least, he thought he would have a good time and learn to live life passionately, the way the French supposedly do so well, and live it on his own terms.

Yet he had none of these. He had nothing. He regretted his decision to stay with Michel and in Paris. Michel was a kind enough man who once had big ideas. But nowadays he co-taught geography to middle schoolers. How people changed, he thought and wondered if he had changed, and, if so, how much.

But there was no time to worry about that. That was the past. He had to think about the future and what he would do now.”

Bình initially travels to Paris in part to understand Công better but mostly to find his own path. He has adventures and meets Michel, who appreciates Bình for who he is as a person, just as Bình wanted people to do back in New Orleans. In addition, Bình embraces his rebellious streak when he joins Michel’s band of Communists. However, even from the beginning, Bình was disillusioned that the real Paris was nothing like the literary one. This disillusionment continues as he and Michel gradually settle into normal adult lifestyles, a lifestyle that Bình chafes at without any answers as to what to replace it with. He thinks about it, but his conclusion remains elusive until the end of the novel.

“But they will get through this, Addy is sure. [Her and Tuấn’s] families fled their lives in other countries and built new ones from scratch—out here in the swamp. They not only survived but thrived. They come from hardy stock, and this makes her proud.”

Although Hurricane Katrina is devastating, and Addy and Tuấn (as well as Hương and Vinh) struggle to evacuate safely with loved ones, Addy’s optimistic. She’s aware of the struggles they all faced as immigrants and how they overcame them; she believes that they can do so again if necessary. Addy values how much they support and look after each other; with this support, starting over is definitely possible, if not easy.