Get Up Eight

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, as we are currently depleted 

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

Royal

Deadpool

Batman

Napoli

even a couple anti-heros in the crowd.

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 

They counter 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 here, 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.

---

---

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.

---

---

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.

---

---

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.

---

---

I have been invited 

I tend to say yes, too often.  Envision myself in a job interview, asked the standard question,

what are your biggest weaknesses

For me, among a few things, it’s this underlying urge to be involved. Sticking my nose In it all.

I tend to say yes, and partly because of that,

people tend to keep asking.

So my journey this year has been to adopt the philosophy: if it’s not a hell yes, then it’s a no.

And I think this is a hell yes.

I’m in a room full of Vietnamese colleagues, preparing for our Tet dance routine.

I am comfortable here, but also acutely aware of my position. An outsider invited to the party, out of kindness and generosity. A chance to lean into local customs. Not the first time I’ve done this, and because I say yes, the team keeps asking me to join.

This year, a traditional routine from the northern region based on many many years of dance, song, and pageantry.

As an old-ish guy, my dance moves are limited, but thankfully this routine is right up my alley.

Step step step kick step step step kick.  

Nothing that requires too much talent.

I am grateful for this 

Perhaps the days of making a fool of myself on stage are coming to an end.  And that’s OK.

The room buzzes, mostly with laughter.  The colleagues I find myself performing with are from a range of positions and levels. But performance and dance are common denominators, evening things out.

At the moment, everyone in this room is simply a performer. And that helps me to feel like I belong.

I watch closely, choosing one or two guides, whose feet mirror mine as they match the beat

Step step step kick step step step kick. 

We weave through the routine, five, six times, each time a step better.

I pull off my now sweaty hoodie. 

This is not a workout, but we are definitely moving and pacing, in sync.

And with each progressive turn, the jokes fly, the smiles grow, laughter cascades off the walls

and it is the best hour of my day.

---

---

I’m on my way back from lunch and wander by the ‘newish’ bathrooms when the sign grabs my attention 

It might be the cleverly designed graphic down below, keen outline of a mop, bucket, some cloths adorning

Or it could be just the way the sign itself is worded

Notice 

it says 

Cleaning Supplies 

Affixed neatly, 2/3 of the way up the door, its black-and-white lines contrast with the orange, brightly colored door.

Behind the door, I predict, is a wide array of handy tools, set up for Tet cleaning. Perhaps hung on the wall, maybe laid out to dry.

At this time of year, there’s a lot of prep, high value attached to neatness, tidiness, cleanliness.

All, on these godly days, next to kitchen godliness.

So, I do.

take notice

of the sign, and its location.

But am left wondering 

What is important to notice? 

How often do we stop

And see

Truly, see.

So, I stop myself. And with mischievous grin, gently push the door open. It turns with a creak

And I find 

An empty, albeit meticulously clean, space.

---

---

If there is one thing true about this group,

they are writers.

And, being writers, like me,

they have opinions.

I’ve just shared a couple of slices with them. One from me and another (after prodding of 8-year-olds) from a friend who’s also slicing this month.

That’s soooo good!

---

You should write about us!

Yeah! And see what the comments say!

They’re a lovely group of young humans. They push me on the daily, I nudge them. We bob, duck, and weave together, opening our days in song, celebrating one another with heartfelt and genuine kudos. Things are not always smooth, we have moments of struggle, but we persevere, stick together, and grow.

They launch into applause whenever a non-regular walks through the door.

They respond to my daily call:

time to make the room spic and spannnnnn

SPOTLESS!

Whenever I say ‘guess what?’

They respond in kind, with

chicken butt!

A family.

Spats, hiccups, nosebleeds, and all. But at their heart, curious, compassionate, creative young humans who bring joy to my days, just by virtue of being

themselves.

They care for one another, genuinely concerned, empathy and kindness a consistent and intentional choice.

So.

Today, I indulge. Typing onscreen as they take turns, co-creating our shared slice of life.

What do you want to share about our school?

School helps us succeed

We walk towards success

It’s fun because, I have no idea what to say – Y took my idea so I’m brainwashed

We scream every day at recess

There’s so much chaos on the playground

Um…

her head dips into her lap. She’s unsure what to say. She giggles. But her bright smile and brighter eyes say so much.

Now I remember, S drives me crazy!

T continues, drawing Sticks of Fate and calling the names of her peers one at a time, some are unhappy when their lot is drawn.

Noooooo! I don’t want to say anything

I don’t know what to say

She pauses, a broad smile on her face, and scratches her head. Rocking back and forth, she composes her ideas.

Amazing classes.

Amazing glasses?

Amazing CLASSES!

Next name is called.

We have fun everywhere!

School is wild as students yell at recess

Like the zooooooo

When recess comes we have a lot of injuries on the football pitch

We are in school for 7 hours and 30 minutes

I grin at this basic statement of fact, doing my best to avoid judgment as the ideas fly.

I don’t have any ideas. But I smile while I say it.

Me? Why?

Cause T picked you. It was the sticks.

After School Activities are the best

shrug

The lunch is good

Six seven is currently heavy in the rotation (I write).

(classroom erupts into a cascade of 6-7s)

Whoops, that was my fault. Yes, it’s still a thing in younger grades, despite the older students being over it weeks ago. I’ve been over it for months, but still, I chuckle.

When we do sticks, everyone screams

I don’t want to go!

Math is….tiring

The library is awesome

Recess allows me to play with my friends

H drives ME crazy

Everything drives me crazy

Giggles everywhere

I’m not sure if I’ll publish this one. Not sure it fits the slicing vibe.

You HAVE to! We want to see what people say!

I promise nothing, tell them we’ll see. But I thank them for their service, for joining me in a writing moment.

And, now, can’t wait to see what they say when they see the comments.

---

---

It’s become a sense of normalcy 

The air travel thing

From my perch, I try not to take it for granted 

Five hour layover today, we pass these moments in Taipei.

I initiate the hijinx by doing my goofy walk behind the small cart housing our carry-on bags. I’m not sure if this is one that will balance my weight, so I stand on the back and scoot, testing for balance.

Yeh, that works

The airport is long, wide, and clean. Shops everywhere, people stagnant, people on the move.

There is so much to see

And hear. Full of announcements. Generally Chinese but dotted Japanese, Korean, English here and there.

Three chimes, ascending, indicates that there’s news on gate changes, final boarding, announcements, and passengers who need to hustle

Elephant is well familiar with these halls, echoes, routines. And the airport itself is rich with options to whittle the hours.

We pause at the bookstore, scan the selection for a good English option, and browse the many magazines in different languages.

Since it’s Taipei, noodle soup is, of course, on the menu.

A washroom, roughly every 85m. I’m not sure if this by design is economical, or pencils out, but it’s decadent. Immaculate toilets, heated seats Japanese style, bidet, dryer, and all.

I’ve grown used to the luxury when I do my business.

It’s the little things.

But, of all this airport’s trappings, it’s the cart that gets the most enjoyment.

We try a couple times to scoot along, gripping the ebony handrail of the moving sidewalk. It powers us. And the cart goes astray, wiggling left and right. But that only fuels his enjoyment.

He pushes the cart off the rail and does a gentle spin coming right towards me.

360 baby woooooooo

I crack up

I’m gonna go one more time

He loops back to the start of the moving sidewalk, scootering his way along.

It’s not a crowded airport, there’s plenty of space, and we’re bothering no one.

Just a fun way to pass the time.

Well, maybe not no one

It’s his third time looping back, gaining speed, and spinning off when he almost-but-not-quite bumps a group of three huddled up and planning their next move.

They are unfazed, barely noticing the looping, cascading cart-turned-scooter

but we, suddenly, are no longer unnoticed.

Excuse me

We hear

Excuse me

You need to stop

That is not a toy

And me, being the responsible father, chastise elephant for being irresponsible.

You need to stop, R, come on.

But the chastising is tempered with a gentle test of his hair and a quiet chuckle.

And once we get around the corner, out of sight from this diligent employee, we share a giggle and fist bump.

We are cracking up.

And we know and can appreciate that she’s just doing her job

But as far as her assertion that the cart is not a toy,

we beg to differ.

---

---

I don’t hear the voices, yet.

The men are surrounded.

Deep in the city

deep in the forest,

the forest, which is deep in the city.

The sidewalk has been transformed over the past week. Once a spacious thoroughfare, all city, it has instead become a small forest. Peach blossom trees, rooted in their ornate planters, waiting to be taken home in advance of Tet.

At first glance, the trees appear to be uniform, little to distinguish them.

But it’s in the body language of these two men that I realize each planter, and more importantly, each tree, is unique.

The men scrutinize.

Pausing, chatting quietly, listening, gazing,

intent.

They listen, for the voices

of the ones who came before.

This is the future of their family on the line. Choosing the right tree to take home, the one that will ensure prosperity, growth, and happiness for the coming year.

It is a decision not taken lightly.

And so, as I watch these men, amongst these trees, I am aware of the weight of it all.

I don’t know exactly how they will make their decision, what will tip the scale, and which tree ends up on their doorstep.

I do know that they are carrying their family on their shoulders, the voices of ancestors in their ears.

To my untrained eye, these trees all look the same.

But these men, in their lack of haste and bounty of patience, provoke me to slow down,

look more closely

and listen to the voices that remain.

---

---

I’m an otter

Lying on my slick back, letting gravity do its work. Sliding here, slipping there, the other members of my pack doing the same.

Do otters travels in packs?

We move, in time, in unison

but our movements are not always expected, and there are larger species about.

SUVs, garbage trucks, and the occasional bus interrupt our fun.

In a hurry tonight, dipping and darting.

Signal lights, once a suggestion, have changed in the past year. They are more tightly controlled, and therefore more tightly adhered to. Where once motorbikes would skirt yellows (and often reds), now they stop and wait.

When a directive goes out, it is heavily enforced. There is an implementation lag, but considerably quicker than in a less conformist country

In Vietnam, the whole moves as one.

They are better citizens than I.

Because, today (and I promise only today), this otter is in a hurry.

I need to get home, an online meeting starting in less than 9 minutes. My slip and slide so rudely interrupted by a signal (as happens from time to time) which persuades me to wait.

My fellow otters slow down, urging without urging me to do the same. We’re all in this together, after all.

Ah, what’s the harm of sneaking through this one time

I accelerate through the turn and the red light, but throw on my signal, an offering to the traffic gods.

I catch up to those who went before, noticing beside me a babe, fast asleep astride a motorbike laden with four. At the handlebars, the older daughter, papa at the wheel, our beautiful snoozing cherub, and mama in the rear. I’m swept into her snoozing, knocked out, oblivious to flow and chaos around her.

---

My paternal instincts jolt

I remember

dozing child

on my chest.

I am transported, through time and space.

My boys,

out cold

my chest, the safest space for them in the universe

my heart, leaping, looming, loving larger with each breath.

Those are forever moments.

Stamped, remnant.

---

When I snap back to real time, to see my new friend.

Resplendent in beige and a dapper cap. His police baton gentle but firm, guiding me aside, for a chat and a fine.

And, inevitably, a delay.

I don’t have time for this

I slow my pace, acutely aware of the reality

Uh oh

He’s got me

Without strategery (I lack that facility in the moment), I fix him with a befuddled stare. One that says, on its surface

Have I made a mistake, Officer?

But, underlying this look, is the question we each ask ourselves.

Do I really want to deal with this

Do I even have time for this

Navigating the complexities of cross-cultural communication, on a Sunday evening?

In this economy?

As I slow my pace to within earshot, he answers both of our questions at once, with a nod and (I’d like to imagine) a wink.

Di, di.

Go, go.

I nod in his direction, a grateful smile on my face, and ease back into traffic and up to speed,

letting gravity do its work.

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