Seriously Ill in Vietnam

About a month ago I got seriously ill. I was ill enough to go to the emergency room and stay a few days. It was a Sunday evening when I got off of work and went to get a meal at one of the western style restaurants close to the school. It had been a long week with screaming children and teens. I don’t often eat out, I usually cook at home. This particular night I didn’t want to cook and was craving pasta. I was extremely happy to have some cheesy shrimp pasta, but I should have known better.

The first time I had eaten at this particular restaurant there was no incident. I ate a large plate of pasta and enjoyed a nice beer. The second time I went there I woke up a few days later with a sore in the corner of my mouth. I had had these sores before but never knew what caused them. I hadn’t had one in more than a year. Actually writing this I looked it up…won’t go into it. It was my third visit to this restaurant and I typically learn my lesson in threes. Well, I ate my plate of pasta and drank a large beer. I sat with my kindle and enjoyed the food before I took a ride home in the rain to end the day.

I got comfortable at home and began to lesson plan for the next week. I was working on my lessons when I began to feel extremely hot and started sweating profusely. Waves of nausea began to hit me from the left and the right. I felt it in my toes. I eventually went to the bathroom and sat by my toilet spinning. One thing I hate about my bathroom is how hot it is. There was no cool floor to calm my body’s reactions. I continued to sweat and eventually heaved up my meal.

Ah, okay. Maybe my ice cream float with a touch of whiskey wasn’t the best dessert choice. I went back to the couch feeling some relief. It was hard to believe that a shot of whiskey and a beer would make me sick enough to puke. No sooner had the sweat dried on my body that it all began again. I really hate puking and I don’t know anyone who does, but I decided to campout in the bathroom for a bit, you know, get it all out of me so I could just go to bed and rest. It was only around 7pm at this time, but I was definitely done in. To shorten the story a bit, after laying by the toilet for a few hours I decided that I would be more comfortable heaving from the comfort of my bed into a trash can. The steamy bathroom was keeping me in a state. I dimmed the lights and turned over every 30 minutes or so to drop off whatever into the can.

I lay in agony for hours. It reminded me of two Christmases ago when I lived in Berkeley. That Christmas Eve was spent with some friends at Clooney’s Pub in San Francisco. I had a few pints and a shot of Fernet. I woke up the next morning vomiting uncontrollably. Sick the whole day, I finally decided in the early evening to go to the E.R. I took the last available taxi to the wrong hospital and some generous people, who had been visiting a friend, took me to the correct hospital for care. There I was diagnosed with a virus.

Well here, once I began vomiting green bile I knew it was time to get a GRAB car to the international hospital, which fortunately is very close to me. Within an hour I was admitted and diagnosed with gastritis. FUCK. I was in so much agony at this time. I began to long for the U.S. because I just didn’t believe they knew what to do with me. I thought I would have at least gotten stronger drugs for the abdominal cramping at this point.

Administration bothered me about insurance. I gave them my card but I had forgotten my passport that was conveniently laid out on my dresser for this occasion. It just never made it to my pocket. At first, I thought, how rude. I’m in all this pain and all you can do is bother me about decisions. I ended up choosing a room shared with four people, because I didn’t know what insurance would cover. I couldn’t believe I was being checked in. In the States I would have been hydrated and sent home with a few scripts. I must have got something serious going on. They pressed on my belly, did some ultra sound tests while I continued to puke and writhe in pain. FUCK.

I was eventually wheeled into a room and there was only one other patient. I made more noise than him puking into my bucket and moaning in pain. Each time a nurse asked me how I felt I wanted to lash out, “How do I fucking look?! I feel like shit!” I didn’t though.

They sent food to my bedside and I wanted to kick it over. It looked nice, but the smell sent me over the edge. My stomach would flop at the idea of putting something into it. There were times I would lay on my back looking at the ceiling reminiscing about my times as an electrician. I was fascinated how the curtain rods were fastened to the T-Bar itself and not extending to the ceiling beyond. We wouldn’t do that in the States, especially in California, due to earthquakes. It’s funny how things and structures are secured in this country.

I slept a bit but in fits and spurts. Nurses would come and go from the room. Every two hours or so vitals were checked and in my case that included blood sugar. The lights were bright and nausea kept me just on the edge of falling into a real sleep.

I started the second day feeing extremely poor. I forced myself to take a shower. It was the best thing I did for myself. I at least felt human again. I felt I had gained just the smallest amount of strength, but no appetite. I had to be careful drinking water. Drinking too much at once sent me retching minutes later. I weakly spoke to my doctor in the afternoon wondering when I might feel better. Here he explained to me that I was used to certain germs and contaminates in the U.S., but there was a lot in this country that my body couldn’t handle at this time. We just had to wait and see. Rationally, it made sense, but it didn’t help me feel better emotionally.

The room began to fill up with patients. There were about seven hours I had the whole room alone, as the other patient was discharged. Now, it was jammed packed with patients and visitors. They had no qualm opening my curtain to stare at me. They spoke loudly and used electronics as if they were in their own private homes. I really wished I had asked for a double or maybe even a single room. What made it worse is that because I had no idea I would be admitted I brought nothing with me to entertain myself. I had been alone with just my thoughts. I had no one to call to bring my passport or even a book.

The third morning, a miraculous thing happened. I woke up feeling soooo much better. I didn’t have a huge appetite, but thought that I could at least eat a banana. I craved a banana. I was thinking of the BRAT diet. For some reason there were none to give me. SADS. It was good to communicate to my doctor that I was feeling better and he said that if the good feelings continued through the night to tomorrow I could look to going home the next day at some point. I needed to make that happen. I also needed my passport for insurance purposes, as hospital admin were calling my bedside hounding me for it. I didn’t want to pay out of pocket to file forms with insurance later. Then, I decided I felt good enough to go A.W.O.L.

I needed a few things other than my passport. I hadn’t brought clothes to change into. I needed my scrub towel to have an even better shower later. My phone battery had lasted a long time, but it was about to die. I wanted my iPad. My body hurt from laying in bed the past few days and it would be good to sit up and read for a bit or watch some movies. I called a nurse to my bed and asked her about leaving. It was hard for many to understand that I DID NOT have someone to call and help me. She said she would go and ask someone if I could leave. Well, she took too long for me to wait anymore. I had it in my head to go already. As I got onto an elevator I made eye contact with one of the nurses on the floor and slipped into the lift.

I got a GRAB car to my apartment. Someone from the hospital called for me on my cell phone and I explained I would be back within half an hour. It was truly a fast trip. I got the same driver back to the hospital after grabbing some clothes, a charger, iPad and a book. I’m glad I made the trip. I was now able to drown out the voices of others. I longed to surround myself in English. I’m not worried about them speaking about me, it was just so loud, so yeah, I grabbed my headphones too.

I was quite insistent on leaving the next day. I even told the school I would make it back to teach my class in the evening. I passed the time watching music videos and started reading Casual Vacancy, by J.K.Rowling. The way the book introduces the characters I found myself a bit lost, but it solidifies soon enough for the reader to not be too impatient.

I took another shower in the morning, dressed and waited until noon for the okay. I received a few scripts to continue taking for the next few days. Insurance covered everything and I was refunded half of my deposit. So in short my co-pay for the E.R. was 1.5 million VND ($65 USD).

Satisfied by the level of care and attention, even the food I could eat, I went home to rest for my evening class. I hope I never get that sick again. I am confident in the level of care in that international hospital. I probably left even stronger after being inoculated with whatever Vietnamese bug I got.

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I’m Coming Out…

I have something to admit…

So lately, I have been feeling poorly and it’s been a few months now. It’s a combination of things that have been getting me down. After news of a few American celebrities taking their own lives, I was left to wonder how I even made it this far. I’m lonely here in Vietnam. I have spent time with coworkers, but I long for someone who already knows me, It’s difficult for me at this age to get to know new people. I’ve become pickier and now see that I need to be even more so with the people around me.

I do know some cool people, but the cool kids live in HCMC. We met at our CELTA course and they lead busy lives as I do, so we don’t get to see each other often enough. I long for intimacy. I long for a pet, but I’m not quite ready to make that commitment. I also find my poor feelings connected to teaching teens. I can honestly say I don’t like teaching the teens here, yet I persevere. Unfortunately, that doesn’t alleviate the exhaustion felt at the end of each of those classes. They don’t care to learn English, nor do they even want to be in a classroom. They lack curiosity and basically teens are assholes. Luckily, as of late I have been teaching more adult classes and I am grateful to be using familiar material, American English File. I am questioning my teaching options.

Besides that, I have an annoying and awkward situation with someone I work with. I do work with a Trump supporter, but this blog is not about him. It’s an obvious problem. But I have another coworker who happens to be transphobic. This experience with them has made me quite aware of the charmed life I have lead as a transgendered man. I haven’t felt loss. I’ve always had support. In a lot of my life I never had to come out. I never purposefully lead a stealth life. I was just being me, no explanations. I was married to a woman so the world saw me exactly as it should, a man. The only time I had to think about coming out was after my divorce. It was going to be a new and daunting thing.

Now I need to back pedal a bit…I had made some “friends” here in my current city. Two women. They live in my building. We work together. One is South African and the other is Australian. I thought a friendship could grow. I thought I had made a connection. The longer we were in this friendship the more I considered coming out to them. As I didn’t consider us that close I never felt compelled to really say anything about, but it was in the back of my mind. I’m not attracted to either of them so I didn’t think they needed more information.

Well, one night after the Tet holiday I had them over to share my Duty Free whisky purchase. We got a little messy with the drinks. It got messy enough for them to go home leaving me laying on the warm not comforting bathroom tiles. This wasn’t before the Aussie blurted out, “I’d fuck you.” Not knowing how to respond, I said nothing. I almost said, no you wouldn’t. It definitely got me to thinking that I needed to same something.

I never flirted with her. I never made sexual jokes or innuendo.  We’ve never even touched in a hug, high five or hand shake. The closest we’d been was when she drove me on her motorbike. Since she expressed attraction I thought I needed to say something, and we were “friends”, so. I invited her over once more to talk. A few days had passed and the longer it wasn’t being addressed the more I felt stress. Did I mention, I hadn’t come out to someone in over 14 years.

She sat away from me and I began to explain: “I’ve never had to do this before. It can sound a bit shocking. I feel very nervous, but I’m just going to say it…If we were ever to be intimate you would need to know something about me. I’m transgendered. Of course, she was shocked. There was disbelief. The conversation didn’t last much longer. She expressed that there was still an attraction and then rambled a bit about being with women before, just not an American. I don’t think she understood that I wasn’t expressing a desire to sleep with her. I never had a desire to be involved with her in that way. The air became more and more awkward by the minute. I asked her if she wanted to talk anymore about it. She didn’t and she left.

Then there was the silence. Okay, she needed to digest the information. I get it. There were about four days we didn’t speak after speaking everyday if not seeing each other going to a café or something. It was a deep silence. Not only did I not see her in the building, I didn’t see her at work. I told her on Monday and by Friday I felt I needed to check in. There wasn’t even a message of asking how anyone was so I knew this wasn’t good.

Friday, we met up in a café were would regularly go and meet. It serves so so western food, but nothing to really talk about. I thought that if things weren’t cool it would at least be respectful to tell me where she was at with it all. I shouldn’t be chasing her to find out. She left my apartment saying things were cool and her actions said something else. We ate and I had to ask her to catch me up with her thoughts. I think it would be better to be friends. Things can get complicated. I never wanted to be more than friends in the first place, but I did tell her something I had felt was quite intimate about me. She goes on to say, It’s a trust thing for me. I don’t know if what you have been telling is the truth. I mean I get why you didn’t say anything, but I don’t know what to believe. Match drops to bridge and immediate combustion happens. In other words she called me a liar.

Now, if I had pursued her, flirted, insinuated I was attracted to her, I could understand. I didn’t do any of that. In no way did I betray trust. What transphobic people don’t understand is that we were lying before. Being transgendered is the most honest life to live. Identifying leaves only truth for us. I am a man. This is my truth. I don’t have to lie or manipulate people to be in my life and I for sure didn’t do that with her. She basically called me a liar and that’s where and when isolation, depression, and rage crept into my life.

Well, shit. I live in the same building and could run into her at any time in the parking area or elevator. We work at the same school. Slowly, and noticeably she stopped making eye contact with me. Her being cordial ended when she asked to use my extra helmet, that I had given away to a buddy as a souvenir, and I told her I didn’t have it any longer. Probably what happened is that she didn’t believe me, for the liar she thinks I am. She then stopped talking to me all together. I went back to that garden café on my own to spend an afternoon. The owner asked me where I had been. I said around. Then she told me about a small gathering that my “friends” called me about. I should have come. It was nice. Oh, I get it now, because that phone call or message never came.

I no longer try to speak to her or make eye contact. At first it was strange. I had become a bit angry, but I’m not going to go out of my way to make her feel comfortable. I am angry at being called a liar. People are going to believe whatever they want to believe. I’m not here to educate them. I don’t have to have patience for them to get it. I just don’t need shitty people in my life.

It took me a minute to snap out of it. This summer would have been my 20th San Francisco Pride weekend if I was still living there. In the past I would make brunch and watch the parade on television, then go to the festival in the afternoon. In light of American politics today and my current feelings, this year’s event is very important for me. Fuck man, even my soccer club are LGBT supporters, because they fucking get it. I miss having people around me that get it. It can be a lonely struggle.

I maintain my identity. Whatever you see, the vibes you get is exactly what you should. It’s all me and nothing else is needed to be projected. There is nothing fake about me. Not one transperson is trying to fool you. Your trust issues are with yourself not me. I don’t feel compelled or have a need to convince you of my existence. Hence, I won’t go out of my way to make anyone feel comfortable about their own bullshit.

I have quite a few people to credit for my strength. Ortgans, years ’93 – ’96. My years at UCSB were more formative than my high school and teen years. I need to give a huge hug to my family who I do tend to hold at arms-length, they continue to grasp for me. I have an old school friend who would carry me to conservative evangelical christian events in her LUV. We came out the other side much better than before. My current friends, who haven’t blinked an eye as I tell this story, I wish there were more of you in the world.

Happy Pride Month. I know some warriors out there. Thank you for your perseverance and reminders of love. Your work is not lost, nor has it gone unnoticed.

I ate all the breakfasts and relished American English

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Order anything at the Cove on Castro that has Lorenzo in the name…

 

One of the first questions a person asks me about living in another country is, What do you miss the most about the United States? I miss American breakfast. And just recently I recognize how I miss American English.

Missing food from you country is kind of a given when you live in a faraway place. It’s not like I don’t like Vietnamese food. I love it. I tend to be adventurous about it, but breakfast has always been my favorite meal, so when you go to a country that doesn’t actually have breakfast foods then you miss what you are familiar with.

I live in a country where there is no particular distinguishing between meals. They eat food for breakfast and there isn’t a structure as to what is consumed at any given meal.  Donner Kebab? Breakfast, lunch and dinner… phở? Breakfast, lunch and dinner…bánh mì? Breakfast, lunch and dinner…fried chicken with fried rice? Lunch or dinner. I can say that you will not find fried chicken for breakfast, except maybe at Family Mart, which is like a corner/ convenience store.

Most restauarants that do serve western style food, well, let’s just say that the American style breakfast isn’t one of the styles easily found or delicious. There are some things you have to let go of…I live in a foreign country and my food is going to taste foreign. So be it. Vietnamese food is great though. Korean food is good, because it’s made by Koreans. There are a lot of Koreans in Vietnam. They basically have their own district in HCMC. So, yeah, breakfast. It happens to be my favorite meal style. I once had a fantasy of owning a restaurant that only served breakfast food. I would have called it Breakfast, Brunch and Brinner. I could reveal other ideas inside of that concept, BUT since I’m still considering it, I shouldn’t reveal too much.

If you are ever in these following towns during breakfast service you should try a meal there. Look further than what I ordered, the menus can be big like the servings. But always delicious.

Esaus, located in Carpenteria, California is a definite stop I make every time I am visiting. It has a classic diner set up. It’s full of booths and counter seating. The servings are very large and so are the flavors.

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IHOP. The International House of Pancakes is found in most U.S. cities. If you’ve never been to a IHOP, I recommend that you do. As a child I remember the commercials for their Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity. I always wanted to try this pancake order. To be honest I just like them regular and unadorned except for butter and syrup. There are choices of syrup flavors. I think that is just as good as the other additions you can make to your order.

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Another great spot for pancakes is Eddie’s Cafe. It’s located in an area called Western Addition in San Francisco. It reflects what made San Francisco. There are stickers all over the place, along with SF Giants baseball paraphernalia and a collection of coffee and tea mugs chosen especially for you. I recommend the three pancake combo that comes with eggs and another meat like bacon or sausage. Their menu includes hot links, pork chops and grits. They always have some old school jams playing in the background like, Prince, Donna Summer or Tina Turner.

The Grind offers breakfast, lunch and dinner, but I mainly go in for the french toast. It’s located in the Lower Haight area of San Francisco. It was so close to my home that a free morning meant taking my iPad to watch Korean dramas and slowly consuming my delicious egg dipped Texas toast. This restaurant will keep it’s window open on a nice day. You can watch the world wonder by. The menu takes the American palate to a new level with familiar ingredients that you can pronounce.

Cafe International is not really a place to get food in my opinion. I like this cafe, because the owner and her daughter have been familiar faces from the time I arrived in the city. I like overhearing her conversations with different people in the neighborhood. She’s sassy and opinionated. I appreciate the liveliness. I used to give English lessons in this cafe. What I do like on the menu is the iced coffee. She totally gets it with adding coffee ice cubes to the drink. There is no watering down of the drink. It does make it seem like the drink is never ending. It is a powerful drink. Take a chance to sit on the patio and enjoy the mural and wall plants on the back patio.

The Cove on Castro is basically my second home. I’ve eaten there from the beginning of my days in the City. There was also a short time I was employed as a cashier. I have watched it grow and change. It’s been owned by the same family since the early seventies. It offers up the best comfort food in town. The roast beef plate with mashed potatoes was the most awesome welcoming when I first arrived back.

As far as language goes, in Asia, most schools are using books that teach British English. I have picked up some sayings in British English, but I miss the familiar accent, pronunciation and particular American sayings, even how we might talk about language. I just miss my language. In that I miss my co-workers. I worked with some nice, smart, English geeky, quirky and wise people.

There isn’t too much conversation about language in particular. Maybe differences in English from different English speaking countries comes up, but as I will explain more on my teaching blog, we don’t teach grammar. We try to get them to communicate and practice their oral fluency more. They look for more activities than lessons. So I miss talking about the use of language, especially with another American. It’s interesting enough because there are so many places to be from in the United States that American English is even more varied with arguments of standard. RANTS! The teacher’s room was a great place for not just as a language resource, but things that are relevant to me culturally.

This was to be my last visit for a good long time. Knowing that I wanted to listen to every conversation. I wanted to collect and compare idioms. I kept my ears open and thankfully the conversations I heard weren’t ridiculous and as mundane as before I left. I listened with different ears. Ears that relished and hungered for the familiar sounds as much as I hungered for familiar tastes.

Bravery, Loneliness, Suicide

After speaking to a few people, I wanted to write about bravery. First, I wanted to understand what that means for people. The meaning seems to be universal from all perspecitves: The ability to face fears, feel discomfort and the willingness to learn lessons that lead to growth.

There have been a few times in my life that I have been given this moniker. I’ve shrugged it off due to the lack of evidence from my soul. What does bravey feel like? After long thinking and reflection, I came up with this: It’s the acceptance of the palapatating heart during adversity. It’s the flexibility around change. It feels like your heart is being chewed while still in your chest cavity. It also encompasses exhileration of accomplishment at the end of the struggle, but that is only the relief at the end. I would liken the feeling of bravery to pain. Humanity does it’s best to avoid this, and I am of course excluding those careers that forces one into danger on a daily basis, there you are not allowed to question the self.

As of late it has come to mind that I don’t want to be brave. I hate the idea of just living my life equalling bravery, but at some facets that is exactly what it is. To travel and seek safety in a culture where I no longer have to face authoritarian agression, especially from perceived authority, like the every day citizen. You have to admit that certain elements in American society are now so brazen and violent. To be alone, with little understanding of language and people is brave. I’ve made a point in the past to inform my students traveling to a confusing place like the U.S. that they themselves are brave. In time these kinds of things will change the longer I am away.

The sense of bravery is slow to wear away. To acclimate the mind, body, and soul is a process that is never fast. It’s amazing to see how everything is placed. Once the dominoes are stacked in line then you have to move carefully in order to miss the chaos of their tumbling, because as humans we do not choose the design for them to collapse. It never becomes a colorful spiral or even another mosaic matching what the soul truly wants to project. Now, my heart is in the last bites and mastication. It’s ready to be swallowed. I’m ready to be swallowed, but fear the other side. Now, there have been things I have dove into not knowing the outcome, better yet, not imagining what outcomes were even possible. Yet, I made those decisions. Sometimes those decisions haunt me to this day, because the future can play cruel tricks. Create a turn where there once wasn’t. A cliff can appear and you have to decide to fall/jump off or climb slowly down. And which of those decisions is brave.

Recently, a few people have decided to jump off. Into the unknown abyss. As most were celebrities we let into our lives on a semi regular basis we are shocked and saddened. These people made us laugh, cry, question and consume. There was something about them that made us hold them close to us. No doubt there are holes in our hearts but for many others who were actually close and knew them there are caverns. I never had a Jack Spade bag, but knew of Kate Spade from the beginning. We can agree that she was extremely young to die. I enjoyed more than few of Anthony Bourdain shows, mostly before CNN picked them up. Having come to Vietnam before his first show about the country, I just loved how he was able to spin his words to match my feelings about this country, their people and of course their food.

It was a shock and I was angered by AB’s death. It happened to come at a time where I was struggling with my own loneliness and discomfort in being of this world. I’ve come to recognize that I’ve always maintained a discomfort of being in this shell of a body. The discomfort can be so encompassing that lying motionless in a hammock swinging in the breeze of an electric fan in my own apartment living my own life, relief can appear to be far from reach. I think my anger came from being left here. How could he leave when I struggle in a sense to stay? I used to think suicide was a weak action. A cop out. How dare you fucking escape?

The more I live the more I struggle to not be judgemental. It’s more my goal to come to compassion and understanding of things outside of me, especially when what is inside me is so confusing at times. I try to key in to the type of filter I am seeing the world and temper it. I try to hold the judgement down, because what the fuck do I know?

AB lived a full life. I think he just couldn’t do anymore. He literally couldn’t fit it all in. Why should I expect him to do more than him. In certain ways he had so much beauty in his life, but at the price of previous ugly. There is always a balance. He knew about escape as he had a past with heavy drug abuse. He knew about life because we watched him travel, eat, speak and expand right before our eyes. 61 is a young age. I have no idea what the next 20 years of my life could even look like and I try not to. I want to be present. We have to admit that we saw AB present. All I can do is salute him.

To those left behind, someone who knows someone who committed suicide, I know they will find it difficult to believe that suicide could be beautiful. To choose when you’ve had enough. With AB and knowing what I know of his life I find it beautiful in a sense. To have had three or four lifetimes in one. I respect when someone might think they’ve had enough. He didn’t leave without regret. His regret is felt for those he left behind. I hope they can still honor him and the struggles he did survive. He took many steps in life we all would consider to be brave. There isn’t a thing he didn’t try. I can recognize how strong he was to live as long as he did. I recognize how brave it is to grow in the spotlight, but feel the darkness inside.

 

 

 

Driving a motorbike in Vietnam…

As a friend described it. It’s like playing Mario Kart but you only have one life.

No!!! Stop! Are you going left or right?! Where TF did you come from? Dammit!!! Go, go, goooooo. Fucking go! STOP! Oh gawd, I almost died, again. Good grief! What the fuck man!!! Why?! Are you serious?! Fucking hang up the call! You drive like that with your kid with you?! Yo, I was next in line. 

They come at you from every angle. They drive against the flow of traffic. They make a left turns in front of your right and vice versa. They make turns from the opposite lane. They park in the turn lane. They drive for a long while at a slow speed with a blinker on, you follow not knowing when the damn turn is going to happen. They stop in the middle of turns for no apparent reason. At night they will drive without their lights.

 

It’s the price you have to pay for independence. I don’t know how my life would get to this point without having a motorbike. Now that I have driven, I could do it in HCMC, but I’d rather not really.. As I gain better control, I consider which bike I will actually buy. It’s a toss up between three, but really two. I rent from a guy in HCMC. I currently drive a Yamaha Nouvo. I am considering NVX of the same brand. Maybe a Honda Airblade. Price and size are the deciding issues.

Driving in Vietnam can be invigorating and freeing. I can just go when I want to go. Uber no longer exists in the country. They have a ride company called Grab or you can take a taxi. Eventually it all adds up. I’m not willing to spend my paycheck to not be able to explore and move around on my own. My next goal is to get a Vietnamese license because if you get in an accident without it, no insurance will cover you. It doesn’t matter  if you have an international license.

I like riding a bike. I don’t even mind riding in the rain except when I have dress shoes on. When it begins to rain everyone on a bike pulls to the side of the road and take out their ponchos to keep on moving down the road. It’s best to have ice running through your vein because even the children are chill on the back or front of bikes. It’s their everyday. They know no different.

 

 

Mike from Alabama

I was sitting at Highland Café close to the VUS Dong Nia campus. I’ve been substituting there for a while now. It can be nice to move from campus to campus, but I personally prefer to stay close to home. I do what I have to do to get my full-time hours. I’m reimbursed for travel, but the commute takes time. I often go to the café to do small wind up with a cappuccino and a cookie before class.

One afternoon I sat outside with my notebook and met a Mike from Alabama. He offered to buy one of my cigarettes for 200K VND. Having lived in San Francisco for a while, I know this is a way for people to engage in your business and usually ask for something else. He looked tired. Maybe, it was the humidity, as it tends to be so much more than Binh Duong, or he was weary from spinning his wheels.

I was making the attempt to put some words to paper when he sat in the seat across from the table. I was a little annoyed as I got up and picked up my coffee from the counter. But, I kept my pen on the table and we chatted a little. He told a little about his origins and some of his struggles. 47 years old. Had at one time owned his own businesses. He had taught English in different schools. He wore his emotions on his face and I understood it all. I understood mostly his frustration, the frustration of feeling stuck. It resonated with me.

I had just recently shared with some people what had brought me to Vietnam. Right now, I consider my life as a small testimony of taking command of one’s self. I’ve learned that I have to live with my decisions, mistakes and lessons. As we talked, Mike told me how he preferred Cambodia than Vietnam. I told him to go. I asked him why he was here. Money was an issue. I don’t know too much of the English market in Cambodia, but it’s not as built up as it is in Vietnam. I imagine there is more money to be made here than there.

Humans have a high tolerance for emotional pain and frustration. It creates an inability to move. We’re more likely to create some kind of emotional destruction before we make a move. It’s not that he didn’t have some good ideas. He also had his own bike. Fucking pack it up and go! I just didn’t see the drive. It seemed like he was waiting for some type of switch to turn on. Really, he needed to flip the switch.

We spoke a little about my blog. How often to you write? Do you promote it? What’s it about? I don’t promote the blog and I should. As of now I just add tags so people looking for specific things might find it. He asked me what if someone didn’t like it or was offended. I told him hopefully they will just stop reading it. I’m writing it for me. My words may not be important to other people, but that isn’t the reason I write. My truth is important to me. I came from a marriage where my words had no relevance and I’ve learned that I should continue to put my words out there regardless. I shouldn’t allow others to police those words. I shouldn’t police my own words. A self-built prison is the worst kind.

I could see Mike’s pain. I understood his uncertainty. I related to wanting to have the perfectly laid out plan. I don’t truly know where Mike is in his life, but his blindness to his own white privilege, not just in America but the whole fucking world, I did want to slap him. Why was I fucking career coaching this guy? At the same time, I saw how beat up he felt, out of control. There is something deeper he has to climb out of. With a bit of creativity, he can do anything.

I wasn’t meant to put pen to paper that afternoon. I was drawn to this character for some reason… Brother, you are already here. Keep on keeping on. Change is painful, but we grow. You must truly evaluate and determine for yourself what it is in this life you want. Don’t let it go when things don’t go your way or go smoothly.

Our comfort is also up to us. It doesn’t come from anywhere but us. I used to believe that I didn’t have that kind of power, but I do. You do. Mike does. I hope he finds his strength. I hope he loads up his bike and goes to Cambodia. I want him to get there and see that there are important things there for him. Once you’re doing it the thinking stops. When the time comes, reflect. Reflect on how easy and hard it was to do.

I want to give a shout out to all the people who are doing it. Making things happen. Maybe there are late nights. Maybe a GoFundMe account was created or you just worked 20 extra hours that week to help you get it done. The film makers, writers, actors, musicians, educators and activists, you are the best examples I have of living. I have you as inspirations and thank you. You’re doing it. I’m doing it. That’s living.

I quit smoking by the way…

Coming into 2018 like a champ.

I’ve written a lot since my last post, but typing thing is so annoying. I’m old school and prefer putting pen to paper. Typing isn’t challenging, just tedious. I just can’t focus when working on the laptop either. I go into editing mode  or Facebook mode, automatically. I remember a Stephen King novel I read as a youth where the writer in the story had his particular pencils he would use and a certain brand of loose leaf lined paper. I also have the same quirk, at least with writing implements. I’m also very picky about seating and table positioning for this task. I don’t have a proper table at my house and most cafes in Vietnam have low tables. My ass has had to settle quite a bit in this country. The main objective really these days is to just find a chair with a cushion. If the seating isn’t plastic then it is wood. My fat ass is simply not accustomed to the rigid surface. I have a slight hip impingement in my right hip so sitting for long periods of time on a hard surface makes my body ache. After sitting, I walk around like the old man I am.

All the words recently written are still very fresh, but they need to be cut down, made digestible. One of my new year’s goals is to make little capsules of my blog posts, and post them a bit more regularly. But life…it happens and sometimes living gets in the way. As we have moved into 2018 I will attempt to live true to my goals and give you what I’ve got and more. I am looking forward to getting my fiction writing together.

A little update…

In November, I had to extend my visa in order to get my TRC (temporary residence card). Then I had to extend it again as the police were not cooperative and gave my landlord some hassle. Other people I talked to didn’t have the same problem and I think the landlord should have kept the 500,000 vnd I left tucked away in the passport to help grease the wheels. Nevertheless, the little blue book is being processed along with my residency letter from the police and my TRC application. As of this posting, all is good with the documents. Legit until November 2019.

Settling in has become a bit easier day by day. I’ve been in Binh Duong Province, Thu Dau Mot to be exact, for three months now. It took me two and half months to leave the apartment IMG_2062 during the day because of the heat. It would be totally different if I had a motorbike. No one walks around here. One thing that helped was a drop in the temperature. A few weeks back the temperature dropped to 21 degrees Celsius which is about 70 degrees Fahrenheit to you Americans. It felt so fucking cold. I’m glad I had the foresight to bring my Clooney’s Pub hoodie. IMG_2265 It was especially cold on the back of a motorbike.

The cooler weather made it much easier to leave the apartment and actually walked around to see my neighborhood and surrounding area. I also forced myself to walk to work a few times, it’s an hour-long stroll. Any other time it is WAY too hot to just stroll in the middle of the day. Walking at night is a bit boring, as there isn’t much going on around my area and a lot of things are closed. I did find a few bia hois close by, but I have yet to go. I still have to get used to my work schedule. It happens during prime social time, 5pm to 9pm. I prefer my previous job’s schedule for sure, 8am to 12pm. It left a lot of time during the day to fuck around and meet people for lunch or happy hour.

One thing that has been helpful to feel connected to this place is finding a market, directly next to my gym. The gym that overlooks my market is quite posh and I am glad that trying to eat well physically puts me close the gym in the process. I go almost on a daily basis. There I buy meat from a butcher and vegetables and fruit from a few other vendors. My goal is to become a regular face and eventually have conversation with them. Now things are hand signals and calculator translation. I’m good with my numbers in Vietnamese in general, but then there is market language. I don’t have an ear for than yet. For meat, I point to the cut and signal what size with my forefinger and thumb. I grab my vegetables and feel grateful when they throw in a few extra chilis and herbs. The fruit selection is amazing. I have to be very careful in this area because my eyes grow and I want more than can fit into my refrigerator. I use the fruit mostly for my morning pre-workout shakes. Since, the first draft I picked up some Tupperware and now prep the fruit and place it in the freezer.

But there is an amazing thing that happens walking through a market. My cooking mind and my belly conspire. Most things are recognizable. Some things are very curious looking and I wonder what to do with it all. It is much cheaper to eat out, but these days my body cannot process all of the rice products. I am adopting a more of a ketogenic diet, cutting carbohydrates except from fruits and certain vegetables.

A colleague introduced me to a nice garden café with comfortable chairs a few tall tables that have chairs with a pillow.

As I type this blog they have been playing the jams from the 70s. It’s quite hard to focus and not bust out singing. Another settling thing is finding that the colleague that introduced me to the café is also a writer herself. She has been a motivation I didn’t know I would have access to.

After, or rather during my divorce, I needed to find what was the most important to me. There are few things in the world that I truly want. I have always wanted to be a writer. I wrote a short novel when I was in junior high that I never showed anyone. In 2009, I wrote a mystery novel that somehow disappeared from my jump drive. It was actually before my divorce that I began to observe the people around me and notice how people were hustling for their dreams, not settling for the old standard and allowing their passions to remain hobbies. I know film makers, musicians and artists who push themselves to be true to themselves and their passions. I have utmost respect for these individuals and told myself I needed to begin thinking about my true passions.

And I began to think about where I wanted my story to end? How do I see the end of my life? What do I want to accomplish? What is the end game look like? Is it too ridiculous to work for these things instead of the everyday subsistence? For a lot of people, especially in the San Francisco Bay Area, that’s what living has become. Just getting by. Fuck that. I need to focus and keep my eye on the prize. I’ve found that there has been a lot of clarity since deciding the most important things I want. I want to publish, teach and be healthy. So, this year it’s about the triple ‘W’. Work, write and working out. Being in Vietnam helps me to afford this type of focus.

The holidays were a bit tough this year. Not as traumatic as last year, but hard all the same. I was able to spend it with other people. I had a subpar (subpar, because, well, I grew up with the best cook in the world.) turkey dinner at Thanksgiving, but I had turkey and I was with people I like.

I was able to keep that tradition. It was interesting to see ‘Black Friday’ sales posted, but it lacked everything I know of that day. Christmas decorations went up directly after Halloween, but it felt extremely hollow. Maybe it was a weather thing. I can’t truly say they don’t celebrate Christmas, but it felt so very different. There was Christmas music to a certain extent, but it just wasn’t the same.

I typically work on Mondays. Christmas fell on a Monday this year and with the ending of one of my courses, I found I had the day off. If I had thought about it I might’ve made grand plans for that day. IMG_2290 The holiday got even better for some as I was having Christmas brunch with my colleague, nursing a slight hangover from Christmas eve dinner, we received an email announcing school was closed due to an upcoming typhoon, so I had company to up keep another tradition my family had when I was young. My family would go to the movies and then Red Lobster for a seafood meal. So, I watched Jumanji and had some seafood fried rice and squid. The familiarity was comforting in a sense.

It was after the movie that I became melancholy as memories of previous holidays came flooding through my mind. Last Christmas was spent in the hospital sick with a virus. The year before that was the telling of the end of my marriage. The year before was the mourning of my innocence as the veil of disillusionment about my country and its attitude about black and brown skin finally lifted from my eyes. The reality of America even under Obama’s watch was fucking heart breaking. Other’s disbelief and society’s gas lighting brought me to a new, sharp edge. A few years before that was the death of my ex’s step-father on Christmas day.

As I have aged the holidays have gradually become a time of sadness and sometimes overwhelming stress. The tipping of the kettle of rotten holidays is when one of my favorite performers passed away…George Michael. This year, alone in my apartment I spend 2 hours playing George Michael videos singing along at the top of my lungs. His death is what I associate with Christmas now. Fucked up.

 

 

I believe the upcoming year shall bring a bit more stability in my life. I’m not sure how long it takes to get used to being in a foreign country. I mean, there are a lot of things that will take lots of time for me to get used to. There are some things I may never get used to. There may be some things I should never get used to. I do feel that gradually my day to day is normal. They days do tend to run into the next with no difference. There are a few things I still need to incorporate into the mix, like reading, moving around the town and serious work on my stack of writing ideas beyond the blogging.

With the focus on my own comfort and happiness there comes an awkward feeling because I can’t remember a time I focused on myself. It’s hard work and at the same time, I can do what I want, how I want to do it without justification or explanation. When the question of why comes up, I struggle with saying, “Because I want to.”

I hope everyone reading this and previous blogs had a great holiday season. If not, it’s over and time to keep it moving. We’ve entered the new year with whatever we have or need. I hope you have things to help you propel forward in life and not hinder you. Let’s always remember that the speed of happening isn’t always in our control. It will happen when it’s best to happen.

Here are some words I am ready to swallow. It took a very long time for the it to resonate with me. I’m grateful to be able to let go. I’m also grateful for allowing myself to clutch and not just toss my feelings away.

Stop breaking your own heart by trying to make a relationship work that clearly isn’t meant to work. You can’t force someone to care about you. You can’t force someone to be the person you need them to be. Sometimes the person you want most is the person you’re best without. You’ve got to understand some things are meant to happen, but just not meant to be. Some things are meant to come into your life, just not meant to stay. Don’t lose yourself by trying to fix what’s meant to stay broken. You can’t get the relationship you need from someone who’s not ready to give it you. And you might not understand WHY NOW, but I promise you your future will always bring understanding of why things didn’t work out. Don’t put your happiness on hold for someone who isn’t holding on to you. Some chapters just have to close without closure. Karen Suksabai

Healing, Letting Go, Moving On Pt.1: Words

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Looking back on my marriage, as I do often these days, I knew I had the words for it back then. I knew exactly how I felt. I had no problem expressing them. I was kind in the beginning, but toward the end…I couldn’t tolerate the total disregard any longer. To no avail…all the therapy, books, patience, and eventually isolation, did it solve how the dynamic, or rather cycle played itself out. It was the last time I was reminded of these words that the devastation rolled through anew. How could I forget. I played into it again. ‘Cause really, I just want to be a good person.

Within a month of the marriage something was seriously wrong. We went into couples counseling. I took away from it that we had different communication styles. I wanted to be a different type of guy and be able to be patient, be available, use my words, adjust my tone. She always reminded me of my tone especially when we were in public. It didn’t matter what we talked about tone was very important for her. I continued to do some work on myself. Sure, I need to soften some edges. About nine months into the marriage I picked up this book, The Gaslight Effect. I read it completely and saw my relationship with my mother play out on most of the pages. It was too familiar. A lot of the feelings I was having with my now ex-wife were playing out on the pages. I wasn’t sure if I was perpetrating it, but knowing how alike I am to my mother I became hyper aware of my actions from that point on.

I was five years into transition, intending to be a different kind of man. Have feelings, express them, be more patient than others, anticipate needs…I defaulted to her decisions. Well, I finished the book and then promptly gave it a friend in hopes it would help them.. We had stopped going to therapy because of the cost. And we would go through cycles. I would hold out longer and longer tolerating the emotional stuffing down and rebuffing when expressing the emotions. After reading the book I tried my hardest to not to create that dynamic over my ex. Why didn’t I recognize it was actually over me? Was it because I gave away the words?

As I walked out the door it was clear what was happening. I was appalled at my life at that moment. Weeks later I fell into old programming. I had to be careful. I was defending her. I lied to my parents about her claiming their gift to me. The process of divorce and the struggle withing that process is just so…I’m going to quote a friend’s message to me…

There is a splitting apart of the self when two people part ways because so much of yourself is wrapped around the other person – memories, experiences. It’s like trying to half a piece of caramel. You pull and all these stringy messy bits get all over the place. It’s a hot mess. But in the end, you’re holding piece of caramel in your hand and if you can get past the discomfort of it being messy, you realize the caramel is still delicious and you savor the taste of it even more.

In the end I just couldn’t do it her way, I had been doing it her way from the beginning. She couldn’t bear to compromise. The words came ringing back like a huge temple bell. Third time is a charm for me. I became more active…I found more words…Narcissistic Abuse.

On April 18, 2008, my ex-wife and I got our marriage license at city hall way too easily. We just showed our I.D. and signed a paper. I also celebrated my 35th birthday. On April 18, 2017, I signed a marriage settlement agreement and finalized my divorce in my head and my heart. I also celebrated my 44th birthday. It was an extraordinary gift to myself.

YOLO…’Treat yo ‘self’ 

 

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