Things We Lost to the Water

These chapters—and the themes and symbols they introduce—mostly center on the idea of Vietnam as home and the struggle to adjust to life in New Orleans. Hương, newly arrived from Vietnam, is traumatized from the war and the separation from her husband, Công. She’s completely dependent on assistance from the church that sponsored her but quickly realizes that the church’s support is unreliable. This forces her to become independent and self-reliant, completely focused on protecting her family, even at the cost of her own well-being. This is most evident in three instances: her reluctance to join Kim-Anh at the bar, her panic and guilt in the New Orleans street, and her decision to lie to her children about Công’s abandonment.

Although Hương and Kim-Anh are fairly close in age, their lives differ significantly: Hương is a single mother who knows little English and is trying to support her young sons, while Kim-Anh is childless and is supported by Frank, a white American. While their relationship can be tenuous, Frank is dedicated to helping Kim-Anh create a better life in New Orleans, and his citizenship and language fluency help pave her way. Kim-Anh still must work but has the time and energy to party in her free time—and the youthfulness to explore the more vibrant American fashions. Hương, on the other hand, has been forced to mature earlier and more quickly: She must consider the expense of childcare and the time that working takes away from housework; she dresses in more muted colors, similar to the Vietnamese styles she sees when she returns for Công’s funeral. Even if she were interested in partying—she isn’t—her duty to her family has already subsumed her personal desires, highlighting one of the novel’s major themes: Family Versus Self.

Although Hương accepts this duty and loves her sons, the stress wears on her. In her earliest days in New Orleans, when the city is at its most foreign and confusing to her, Hương struggles to even communicate that she wants a job. When she loses her key to surviving in New Orleans—her notebook of English words—she becomes overwhelmed by stress, panic, and culture shock and lets go of Bình’s stroller in the street. They narrowly escape being hit by cars, and when Hương realizes what she has done, she’s horrified and feels guilty for hours. Her stress is understandable, but her life is so consumed with caring for her sons that any slip-up, however minor, feels exponentially worse. Tuấn and Bình are all she has left, so she devotes all her energy to raising them and shielding them from the world’s harsh realities.

The desire to protect her sons leads her to lie to them about Công’s abandonment. Fearing that they’ll be as devastated as she was by the news of his abandonment, she decides that giving him a false heroic death will help them accept the news that he won’t be joining the family in the US. This decision later has enormous consequences, particularly in terms of father figures, emphasizing another of the novel’s main themes: Fatherhood/Parental Influence. However, she reasons that at least in the short term, the boys can grieve and adjust. Hearing that his father is dead severely affects Tuấn, who still remembers Công, but Bình is oblivious. Hương’s decision thus has by far the greatest immediate effect on her older son, but because of the obliviousness of childhood, he fails to discern the truth even when the evidence is right next to him. Therefore, Hương believes that she has succeeded in her goal of protecting her children.

At the same time, Hương can’t realistically protect her boys from everything. While she struggles with the logistics of creating a home for her family in New Orleans—foregrounding another of the novel’s major themes, Making/Finding a Home—Tuấn and Bình struggle to live in the US, Tuấn most of all. Like Hương, Tuấn’s strongest identity is that of a Vietnamese citizen. He gives a speech (in Vietnamese) proclaiming this fact, and his mother encourages this pride, signifying the symbolism of language as identity. They both consider Vietnam home, but, as Tuấn tells Hương, “[H]ome is so far away [from New Orleans]” (17). Tuấn feels this disconnect further through his own experience, which highlights the book’s other main theme: Immigrant Experience versus Identity. His experience in New Orleans so far involves the bullying he receives at school. Donald, a white boy, constantly humiliates him and gets him into trouble because of Tuấn’s Vietnamese language and culture. Although Tuấn takes revenge for the bullying by setting Donald’s dog free, the experience indelibly changes him: He’s proud of his heritage, but if he doesn’t assimilate, he’ll suffer the consequences. Although he fights it, enculturation is inescapable: He observes that even his thoughts have begun to change from Vietnamese to English, indicating his shifting identity. Bình accepts this change more easily because he has no connection to Vietnam to replace; he simply rejects ridicule for safety by changing his name to the more American “Ben.” Tuấn doesn’t understand this decision because of his desire to maintain a connection to Vietnam, but Bình’s experience is different from his—by assimilating, he has nothing to lose and everything to gain.

This section of the novel introduces the idea of water as a symbol of memories and their constant resurfacing, which plays a major role in the story. On Page 1, a hurricane siren triggers Hương’s flashbacks to the Vietnam War and her escape via boat—traumatic memories that fade but never entirely disappear. Đinh-Fredric, obsessed with his father and determined to go back to Vietnam, is often found in or near the Versailles bayou; Hương discovers him in the bayou on the same night that she reads Công’s official letter of abandonment. When Hương tells her sons that Công is dead, she chooses to do so by the ocean; although she hopes they’ll forget him, she’ll remember.

Hương’s decision to keep this secret and her attachment to Công are depicted through the symbolism of letters/mementos as attachment. Although Hương was separated from Công when the boat left Vietnam, she never gave up hope of reunion. At the refugee camp, she sent many letters; in New Orleans, she switched to tape recordings. Công’s missive is itself a memento, a photograph from their happier prewar past. However, even when he returns her tapes to her, she doesn’t throw them away; she keeps everything in a secret shoebox even after Công cuts off contact. Although Hương wants her sons to forget and move on, she herself cannot—the memories are too precious to her, and they’re her last, tenuous connection to her homeland.