Charles Waugh (2013)

Translator's Statement

Receiving an NEA Literature Fellowship means a great deal to me. Translation, and its ultimate goal of understanding someone else and their culture, is the key to a more peaceful world, and Americans benefit from every single one of the translation projects the NEA has sponsored. But I feel a special sense of responsibility working on translations from Vietnamese writers. The war ended long ago, and yet, so much between our two nations remains misunderstood and unresolved.

The impetus for the first book I did with Nguyen Lien -- Family of Fallen Leaves -- was to share with Americans the repercussions of what has been called the greatest environmental injustice of the 20th century -- the use of dioxin-laden chemical defoliants by the U.S. in Vietnam. Millions continue to suffer today and the dioxin's teratogenic properties mean that even the children and the grandchildren of those directly exposed now suffer. We hoped the book would let Americans see what their actions wrought, and to let their hearts lead them to make some restitution.

Many Americans have no idea about Vietnam other than what they've seen in movies, or that it was the location of a horrific war. But of course many Vietnamese have moved on. Ironically, the free market now reigns supreme, a large, dynamic youth culture has emerged, and every part of society has seen massive, rapid transformations. As consumers of many products made in Vietnam, Americans still play a huge, if unwitting, role there. With New Voices from Viet Nam, we seek to show Americans what these changes mean to regular Vietnamese people living regular lives; what it means, for example, to work in a factory making sports clothing for export to the West. The NEA fellowship has helped us feel like we're not the only ones who think this is important work; that, in fact, many Americans recognize this need.

from "Sage on the Mountain" by Đỗ Bích Thúy

My parents had two children, me and my younger brother Dzan. My father sacrificed himself for the country when I was just ten years old, and Ma stayed in my grandmother's house to help take care of her and her flock of little ones. Then seemingly all at once, Grandma died, Pa's younger brothers and sisters all got married, I went away, and Dzan also got married and moved out of the house. It was like Ma was all by herself again. Fortunately, Dzan married a girl from our village, and since Sinh's birth she's at least had some comfort.

Ma went ahead, her hand in Sinh's as they slowly climbed the slope. I couldn't believe it -- could my mother really be so stooped already? It was a mark of time, starkly changing my mother's body without deliberation, without warning. Her legs also seemed out of her control, and the path seemed longer, steeper, more uneven. In the old days, on this very same path, I sat Dzan on a palm leaf and hurtled down, screaming and dragging him behind. Once, we both fell down it, tumbling again and again, our faces digging into the sandy soil, trying not to cry out. Grandma knew, but she didn't let Ma punish us.

...

At the house, my sister-in-law was just coming home from our terraced paddy. Dropping her bundles of harvested sticky rice plants at the bottom of the stairs, she exclaimed: "Dzin, you're back home! Oh, I almost didn't recognize you. Each time you're even more beautiful -- oh how you'll make our village boys suffer!" She smiled, her dimples delving deep into her cheeks. My sister-in-law was four years younger than me. The day she married my brother, the boys of our village got so drunk many of them could not go back to their houses. People in Ta Choong said that because Dzan could read and write he was better than the other suitors, and her father agreed to give her hand for just thirty, even though a beautiful girl like my sister-in-law could easily fetch a hundred. One hundred silver coins, one hundred kilos of chicken, one hundred kilos of pigs, one hundred liters of corn whiskey; if not from a wealthy family, a boy might work until his death without fully repaying the bridal debt. My first day of having a sister-in-law put me in high spirits; I could finally have some peace of mind when I was away from home. And it was as if she had been born to be an in-law in my family. She even ate just like my mother. Having her, Ma had another daughter -- the one she actually wanted, not the one I was. I could never hear what my mother needed. I rebelled. I went away. There were so many times I felt exhausted from living and working in a foreign land and I wished I could bury my face in my mother's bosom and cry. But still I stayed far away from my mother, far away and for a long time.

The whole load of rice plants was about four big bundles, but my sister-in-law just swung it on to her shoulder and trotted up the stairs, leaving behind nine wet footprints, firm and steady. Taking one of the bundles of rice plants, she deftly flipped it back and open, spreading it out like a flower on the drying floor at the gabled end of the house. Several dozens of bundles had already been laid out. I said, "Looks like you've harvested a lot of sticky rice this year."

"Yes, a lot, a bumper crop. Plenty," she said slyly, "to cook for your wedding party. But will you ever come home to get married, sister Dzin?"

"These days no one wants to marry a twenty-six-year-old, you dear girl. I'm an old maid already."

She smiled sweetly and said, "A tall tree is for strong climbers, sister Dzin."

About Đỗ Bích Thúy

Đỗ Bích Thúy was born in 1974 in the mountainous Ha Giang province along Vietnam's northern border. Like many Vietnamese from rural provinces, she came to Hanoi for her education and stayed there to make her living. Her prize-winning story, "Sage on the Mountain," explores the difficulties of the kinds of physical, cultural, and identity migrations that many of the country's ethnic minorities face. Already a prolific writer, (she has published five collections of short stories, a poetry collection, and a collection of essays), Đỗ Bích Thúy is a wonderful example of Vietnam's new voices.

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