Get Up Eight

The in breath

and the out breath 

The lead up to Tet, and the in breath is

Deep

An all encompassing inhale, filling the collective lungs. All apace and flurry. Every other motorbike carrying a tree in its adorned, symmetrical beauty. 

These trees make their way across the city destined for front porches, where they sit in wait for the auspicious first visitor of the year. 

Deep breath in

and hold

Everyone, and everything, is in motion. Traffic, horns, organic to and fro, ebb and flow akin to major holidays anywhere in the world. 

Everybody has places to go, people to see, to do, to done.

And then, in an instant 

It all stops 

Exhale 

Says the country 

Exhale

Say the people

Take a beat and a breath and a moment to be with the ones you love. 

To be home.

With the exhale comes quiet. A pause in the midst of it all.  A chance to take stock, reflect on what has been, and look forward.

Take a break.

And, in a flash, the break is took 

Then.

In the interest of progress, of life, and moving on 

The city stirs again 

And when it stirs, things happen quickly 

Big inhale.

With the in breath, comes motion.

A garbage collector, resplendent in beige, stuffs the edge of the cart with a fruitless branch, all too recently adorned with blossoms. 

She works in the midst

of a flow of hundreds upon hundreds of motorbikes dotted with cars, everyone rushing this way and that, here and there.

This massive, tiny village of 8 1/2 million people. 

Takes an in-breath

and comes back to life.

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Over the past nine years, writing here has been a source of joy and pride.

Joy comes from interaction, from reading the work of talented colleagues around the world, hearing perspectives I would not have a chance to otherwise understand. From responses from dedicated readers.

Pride comes from putting in the work. Showing up, doing the thing, especially when I don’t want to. Being able to say,

I did that

Discipline is a tough one. Feelings of inadequacy, and the imposter syndrome, are real and challenging.

welcome to life

Asking the question,

am I enough

am I doing enough

persistently nags.

But I tell myself that it’s worth it, to keep showing up. 

We are in an age where we are told through the signal and the noise, to love AI. The refrain is shouted from the mountaintops.

It’s making our lives so much easier.

It’s happening, whether we believe in it or not, and we need to be able to navigate

So, we trot it out in front of kids. Gimmicks, shortcuts, ways to make life easier.

We note but ignore the depletion of our freshwater to nourish server farms, we note but ignore the notion that it steals, standing on the huddled backs of talented artists around the world, the ones who came before. We note but ignore the ones who put in the work.

I’m an 18% guy. As in, 18% ‘this is amazing’ and 82% ‘we’re all screwed’. So I try to keep an open mind.

Some of these tools and methods are indeed better. Easier. They save time and allow us to work less hard. But I’m still not sold on whether it is, on balance, working smarter.

Easier, sadly, does not always mean better.

We are entering the age of slop, the age of

what is real

A wise friend and colleague who happens to be a seasoned sailor regularly uttered two phrases that have stuck with me.

Being bored is an insult to your brain 

and 

life is effort

There is value in try, in cognitive load, in firing your synapses.

I could write a prompt to say:

1. parse the writing of getupeight blog, read and learn about it for writing style and particular writing craft moves
2. use this style to compose a daily piece of writing
3. capture the same style and share tidbits of interesting information about Hanoi and Vietnam
4. make the piece somewhere between 200 and 300 words
5. post to Slice of Life every day in March, with a quick descriptor

Job done.

But, why?

Easier is not always better 

Life is effort.

The glaze handed to AI around the interwebs on a regular basis gives me pause. People love AI like they love sport, like they love Tay Tay, like they love puppies.

Might as well spell it glaizing.

But my main counter is the value in struggle, in effort, and

in what is real.

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Two of them flit here and there, alighting on a chosen balcony, on the 15th story apartment building next door.

Another seems to be on its own

A lone wolf

This seems like a good spot

it must think to itself

But, does it really think things through much, this birdbrain?

I spot a fourth bird, wandering around the glass roof below. It follows the lines of the rectangular panels.

Pathways to where, I’m not sure exactly

I marvel at the neck, constantly in motion, back-and-forth, a massive logging saw, metronoming as the pigeon makes its way

And I still wonder what’s going on inside their heads.

This seems like a good spot

Am I safe?

What’s that thing?

Can I eat this?

And I wonder whether trading spots with these winged heads would be a step up

A less stressful life

Empty your mind

Focus on what’s right in front of you

Be present

And enjoy the ride.

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I’m a bit indifferent towards hospitals

Michael Scott didn’t like hospitals mainly because he associated them with sick people.

I’ve been at a few over the years. They’ve without fail been places of resilience, calm under pressure, and always, hard work

The one we’re at today has more of the same.

Service, with a compassionate smile

I don’t know whether I could have taken up a life in healthcare. I admit parallels to teaching exist.

We too are about mental, emotional, and physical safety. We too are about healing. We, too, are about making the world better, full stop.

But I don’t know that I could take on a career here. 

To wit, as I’m composing these words, a woman walks by, cradling a wee one in her arms. Couldn’t be more than a year old. Head shaven, and a line of stitches spanning her cranium.

On its hardest days, teaching is like brain surgery. 

But all analogies, subject to scrutiny, eventually break down.

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I’ve been a hockey fan all my life. 

Growing up just beyond the shadow of the Canadian Rockies, a life in and around hockey

is just what we do.

And the Olympics made me sad.

I’m not mad, just disappointed 

Never meet your heroes.

I grew up thinking hockey players were good guys, just out there, playing a game, living the dream.

oh, you sweet summer child

I know a lot of them are decent humans.

Albeit as interesting as a slice of buttered toast, controversial as a bag of pretzels.

We look to the famous, the stars in our eyes, to rise above.

Like Ali, and Kaep. Legends, who chose to use their platform and take a stand.

Whether justified or not, we ask them to use their lofty perch to push us all toward a more just world. Not just charity, but change.

Perhaps we are misguided. At the very least, we can ask them, at a bare minimum, to err on the side of kindness.

You’re playing a game, you know

As it turns out, growing up in an entitled, privileged, and whitewashed world entrenches biases.

And enables misogynistic buffoonery.

Who knew?

In these truculent times, the MAGA refrain has been to ‘keep your politics out of my sports’. Kaepernick? Out of line.  Black Lives don’t Matter here, unless they’re scoring touchdowns (and even then it’s a temporal, superficial love). Pride Nights? Keep your woke crap away from my rink.

Keep your (I mean your) politics out of my sports.

Unless, we win.

Then, we have our trophy of young athletes

paraded 

a white bread and sno-ring circus

Because, winning trumps all

These young beavises and buttheads kiss the ring, pounding beers with the Frat Boy In charge, squarely aligned

on the wrong side of history

I want to say they are pawns, manipulated, and like all useful tools, eventually tossed aside. But I won’t extend that much credit to the peeling orange. Chess, a cerebral endeavor,

is beyond him.

They are checkers, soon to be tossed behind the well-worn sofa when no longer amusing or useful.

I’m not sad, I’m just disappointed

At the end of the tournament, and at the end of the day

There are larger things at stake.

Like families, and futures, and hope.

And you, young he-roes,

are blind to what should be as clear as day.

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I skitter the bike up onto the brick sidewalk, turn off the ignition, and perch my helmet atop the side view mirror

Wander across the street and enter my favorite shop

Choose a low metal table adorned with chopsticks, napkins, spoons, and a tiny tray of chopped garlic and red chilies

As I squat onto the low plastic stool, I make eye contact with the bubbly woman, busy snipping at rice noodles with her kitchen shears, and placing small grilled balls of pork into bowls

She smiles at me, already knowing what I want

I wait only a couple minutes before she brings over a bamboo basket of greens, lettuce and shiso freshly washed and glistening in the sun.

With it, a plate of freshly cut rice noodles, and the fishy not fishy sweetened bowl of soup, sliced green mangoes, and carrots dotted with chunks of grilled meat

It’s a dipping meal,

One where process is equally as important as product

I find a balance. Greens, rice noodles, greens, rice noodles, back-and-forth

I allow the noodles to take on the flavor of the soup

Sweetened, just right

Slurp

Just as I’m starting to really enjoy my meal, he decides to sit, facing me

There’s not much room at any of the tables, so it’s common to have others sit down less than a meter away.

We barely make eye contact, and his phone immediately comes out,

Nothing to see here

And nothing to say.

I am not here to chat

it says

The wall is raised between us

As phones do

So, as I enjoy the slurp of my noodles, I lose myself in the latest news about my hockey team

It’s a brief moment to be here, by myself

Away from the stress of school. As I age, I’m realizing that I’m more of an introvert than I thought.

Need some time to recharge my battery.

But, his phone battery is full

As demonstrated by the all too loud, all omnipresent TikTok of the obnoxious person rating potential mates

She’s a

Zero

Zero

Not my type

How do I diplomatically ask him whether he’s aware that earbuds exist

But I hold my tongue for the moment

Until he swipes to the next reel

The one with the shrieking baby, followed by a smash cut to the baby and her mother dancing

It repeats three times

Blaring at the rest of the diners

LOOK AT ME

No one looks

Or says anything

I am being serenaded by the worst possible

Em oi

I quietly attempt to get his attention

Em oi

He doesn’t hear me at first, but when he finally does and makes eye contact, I make a dismissive wave towards his device

He’s not beligerent,

just completely unaware

As phones do

But once I communicate my distaste, he is quick to respond, and with a nervous smile, turns down the sound

And I am grateful.

I’m often nervous how these things might go. In this case he is sufficiently contrite and was simply unaware

The last thing I want is a confrontation

And luckily, he feels the same.

He continues to swipe, this time volume low, allowing the rest of us to fully taste this delicious meal, and avoid the distaste of his current diet.

I thank him, and give him a nod of appreciation

And wonder yet again, how lunch dates have gotten to this point.

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We are tightly packed.

17 deep

6 across

sardines, waiting our turn

tightly packed in oil

because oil, is what brings us all here. 

The packing process is mostly about sitting still. I imagine a time lapse, how it would reveal us making our way inexorably, towards our destination.

A fill-up, we are currently depleted 

A wide array of helmets, in front and behind, adorned on the sides

Royal

Deadpool

Batman

Napoli

Most of the massed humans are Vietnamese, waiting in line post-commute. They, we, all need our gas.

I do a quick count. roughly 60 bikes in front of me. And as I crane my neck backwards, spot 60 more.

I’ve been at this for 25 minutes,

middle of the pack. 

Normally, service at the pump is a flash. Three, four, maybe five different bikes in line. I go through my ritual of popping in the seat up, untwisting the cap, cash in hand, ready to move and follow the attendant’s instructions. 

They are quick to ask, a bit brusque, but mostly focused on keeping things moving, getting the job done. 

Because, together, we can.

Today, however, these normally-smooth, slick operators

are stuck.

I’m not sure what kind of fuel shortage is going on in Vietnam, but I do know that things are tighter than normal.  Mideast tensions find their way to Southeast Asia.

The seemingly endless flow of supply that we all too often take for granted, has hit a bottleneck.

Reason 1,473 that war is bullshit

And so, we, too, find ourselves in the neck of this bottle.  My usual three minute stop has been extended.

But it gives me the chance to, yet again, slow down and look around. 

I wonder to myself 

Where is everyone coming from 

And where might they be going 

Who are they

Students? Employees? Government?

I spot a couple obvious expats in the crew and immediately typecast them as English teachers. I’m sure they do the same to me. 

maybe they’re MI-5

But the overwhelming majority of folks here are Vietnamese 

And, as is custom 

The encounter this somewhat unexpected hitch in their daily commute with grace, empathy, and a sense for the common good. 

We are sardines, packed to the gills, but the sentiment is overwhelmingly

we are in this can together

together, we are canned

and

together, we can.

I imagine a similar scenario back home, where this sense of shared good is not always present, even at the best of times.

Although I’d like to hope that people would manage it with aplomb, and grace

frankly, it would be a mess

I’m so grateful to be in a place where this latest hitch is met with gentleness

and a sense that, much like these huddled motorbikes arrayed and soon to be greased,

fish in a can

we are lined up

we are aligned,

and we are in line.

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Where do we find hope

Deep breath.

Deeeeeeeep breath.

In, then out.

Crisp, unprocessed, alive.

And we don’t always say that in Hanoi.

The dark days, the ones when the air is lead, a weight on my chest

are heavy.

Last month was a rough patch, stagnant and stale, topping out (bottoming out?) at a heretofore ne’er seen AQI of 519.

Hazardous

my app diagnosed

Yeah, you don’t say

we’re number one baby

When the air digs in, hope truncates. We look down, dreams masked and muzzled.

Hope fades, just a bit.

By contrast, this morning we can see for days.

Buildings reflect our joy from across the lake, inky, watercolor, vibrant finishes. Bright blue sky salutes us.

On a morning like this, we can breathe, and see, deeply.

On a morning like this, all is forgiven and forgotten.

Hanoi has so much to offer, even on the bleakest of mornings. Atmospheric, moody, still rippling with currents of family, and life.

But on this sparkly morning we get all this, and more.

What’s the opposite of oppressive?

I park my bike just inside the school gate and with a skip in my step make my way across campus towards my room.

butterflies prance about.

Even the tiny fish pond feels more alive today. Sunlight pings back off scales. The swimmers eye me, grinning.

And not only the swimmers, everyone I see seems lighter, engaged, and dare I say, hopeful today.

I enter the silent room, slip off my shoes, and do my lap,

click

click

tap

click

turning on lights and activating the screen

When I hear it

FLLLTFLLFLFLLFFLFLFLFT

FLLLTFLLFLFLLFFLFLFLFT

FLLLTFLLFLFLLFFLFLFLFT

what in the world

I glance toward the large weeping plant in the corner.

FLLLTFLLFLFLLFFLFLFLFT

The leaves shake and shimmy, to and fro.

gecko?

rat?

snake?

I peer in closer to see the whir and panic of tiny beating wings. They joust with the window, scurrying to and fro.

This tiny winged friend has decided to say hello,

and apparently to stay a while

Over the years, different schools and iterations, my classroom has variously had flies, hornets, spiders, mice, rats, and, famously, dozens of tent caterpillars (remind me to tell you about that one).

But, it’s been a sec since a bird joined the mix.

For now, it’s just me and our tiny feathered friend.

But I know if he remains until after the kids enter, the only thing that follows

is chaos.

jump scares, shrieks, sprints straight out the door.

In other words, the perfect learning environment for eight-year-olds

Time is of the essence. In the few minutes I have before kids walk in, I take action.

I slink over and corner the little one in the west window. He is still, soundless behind the cushions.

what if he’s dead

it’s hopeless

My co-teacher walks in and greets me, our usual exchange.

how are you

good, how are you

ok, not much to say except, there’s a bird

A what?

A bird. In the room.

Her exclamation of surprise is followed by

where

I dig through the cupboard to find a basket and slightly larger thin white plastic cover. Move to the window and ease the pillows away from the wall.

I hope this works

Hey, little one

It’s alright

I’m going to help you get out of here

For some reason, I am good in a crisis. I go to a different headspace, cease overthinking and opt instead for measured action.

I am calm, some might even say hopeful?

In a matter of seconds, I’ve cornered the terrified l’il one against the wall.

I slowly ease the narrow cover just enough away to slide in the lid. And pull this new package gently away, listening for any panicked movements.

He’s in.

There is nothing.

Stillness.

Is he okay?

I’m tempted to lift the cover and check on him when my better sense reminds me

get him outside

So I do the right thing, sneak out of the classroom, down the stairs, and across the playground to a quieter, more secluded spot.

Young humans, being young humans, are curious.

what’s in there

we had a visitor, I’m going to free him

is he cute

yep, very

I tenderly make my way to the edge of campus, pressure on the lid firm, steady.

Squat in the grass, anticipating what comes next.

please be okay, little one

we need more of you in this world

I would later text my expert friend, who confirms our interloper was most likely a Plain Prinia. He’s upskilling me on my local bird knowledge (as of now, my basics are: there are many here that we don’t see or pay attention to).

And now, as I watch our little friend flurry away, a darting sudden freedom, I am assured, there’s at least one more little birb

still out there

in the world

making his way

and giving us hope.

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It’s a rather spectacular morning.

I pop out onto the patio, and birdsong is everywhere.

Interspersed with motorcycles cruising down below, distant horns marking their territory, and the crow of our neighborhood roosters.

The village is coming to life.

Once upon a time, I concerned myself with the brightness of our solitary street lamp 

Ugh

I thought to myself 

It’s so bright and annoying 

But it’s all relative.

We received word recently that the block immediately in front of our house, currently populated with tin-roof slatted homes, small gardens, and a smattering of healthy trees housing birds, is slated for demolition.

Not sure how exactly they’ll tear it down and whether they maintain the existing trees.

I worry.

We don’t know what will happen to the families that live here. There’s probably about 10 different sets of relatives, displaced, preparing to move, micro-businesses and homes alike.

They, being Vietnamese, and therefore resilient, will make their move with determination and, presumably, understanding. 

I complained about the brightness of the streetlight 

They now may (with good reason) complain about being uprooted, displaced, forced to move. 

It’s all relative, eh.

For now, our rented home has been spared the wrecking ball.  Beyond just our street, a massive construction project is taking place all throughout this enclave in Hanoi. A sparkling Opera House, a brand new, massive government building, and a series of parks.

The rich will be getting richer.

There are challenging flipsides to ‘progress’.

People deal with massive changes to their lives

While we, stand by, very much guests here. 

It’s all relative

we are sad for our neighbors, these families, Vietnamese born and raised, who now too feel that they too are guests, and disinvited from the party.

Progress moves, governments make decisions about what they think is best. But these decisions have consequences, and they are all relative.

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wah

Her utterance is abrupt.

What’s up

There’s a critter

And he looks like he’s dead

I cruise over to the sink, unsure what I’m about to see. I peer over the edge and see my little buddy

My buddy, because I’ve seen him in these parts, many many times. He does the hard work of pest control.

A rusty, faded green, four adept and sinewy limbs, suction cupping their way up and down our walls and the other night, on the ceiling.

He waves at me, sometimes. I mean, not actually waving. But I do think he’s greeting me.

Usually, though, he mostly just sits in wait. Waiting for me to turn off the lights, provide space, get out of his way.

Flies of the drain and fruit variety make their home on our first floor. Not enough to be a nuisance, yet enough to provide a thriving and mostly balanced diet for our gecko bud.

It’s not only bugs that keep him fed.

The temptation of honey nut O’s is too much, and where there’s a will, there’s a way.

I recall the random morning a few months back when I mindlessly reached for the cereal box and tilted it towards my bowl.

Out comes the usual cascade of o’s,

but on this day there’s a surfer, riding the wave

cowabunga dude

he follows the oatstream waterfall, leaping to the edge of the blue ceramic bowl (catches his hind leg briefly) and skitters away, a bolt of green. Freezes on the vertical surface of the island.

If I don’t move, you can’t see me

Toddler vibes.

Quite the presumption.

And while I appreciate his gumption,

I’m quite aware that this box of cereal is no longer fit for consumption.

In the weeks since, we’ve been more diligent about proper containers for food storage.

No follow-up incidents.

But this morning, as I run a bit of water into the sink to cajole my buddy to take a hike,

he doesn’t move.

Oh crap

He might be dead

I peer more closely, and as the water slips in, he briefly moves his leg.

Is he just stuck in there?

I grab a paper towel and gently cover him to lift him out. He wiggles and waggles, I giggle and gaggle, and attempt to secure him without severing him

wander to the open door and place him on the entry tiles just adjacent to the street

you gonna be okay buddy?

I steel myself, ready to watch and wait. Expecting him to sit, sun himself, properly convalesce

when, instead

he looks back at me, winks,

shakes his moneymaker

and scurries into the mist.

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