Pool

Last night I went with some students to check out the local bars. Since we're conveniently located right in the center of downtown Saigon, in what used to be the guest house for the American embassy before 1975, there are a tremendous number of Western-style bars and establishments in the area. They decided on going to the more popular bars that foreigners are known to frequent, the Underground, Apocalypse Now, and Volcano. I missed out on Apocalypse and Volcano, but got to hang out at the Underground instead.

Truthfully, it's not my scene, and perhaps I'm too heavy hearted to enjoy the atmosphere the way a true Westerner does. Maybe it's because I'm not old, white, and surrounded by 18-year-old prostitutes. It was hard to enjoy my drink when I was too busy feeling disgusted by the fetishes of elderly men feeding the human trafficking and sex industry. Through the eyes of a Viet kieu, they're nothing more than rapists with money, disgusting human beings with no regards to social responsibility. I didn't feel like walking over and explaining that these young women didn't join the trade by choice as much as by coercion and kidnapping. I've never been so ashamed to call myself an American.

Then one of the group members decided to go hit on the beautiful women before him, only to come back and have me translate. Not realizing his moment of cultural insensitivity, I decided not to start the program off with half-drunken diatribes about sex trafficking and be patient with him. It was time to leave.

Later that evening we took a cab to another bar we heard of, more of a hangout for Europeans and Viet Kieu, instead of a brothel for dirty old GIs spending their retirement reliving their glory days. I forgot the name of the place, but it's down Duong Pham Ngu Lao. There was a small child dancing in between the tables with a packet of gum in his hand. He would approach table and dance for the guests of the bar, looking you dead in the eyes the way only a three-year-old could. Eventually he was dancing up on the pool table; I didn't know what to think anymore, because I wasn't amused. It was 11pm and there was a young child dancing on a pool table in the middle of a bar for money.

Off to the side, his mother was watching him cautiously. I've never sensed such desperation from any person in my entire life, but then I realized - this is why I came to Sai Gon. I don't care about living richly and being on vacation, I'm not here to do that, I came to understand the street culture and the lifestyles of people here.

I ended up back in that area again tonight, after a friend noted that she was looking for a good bar to hang out at. Since Pham Ngu Lao is full of bars and very friendly to Westerners, I figured I'd give it another gamble. We were sitting on the neon-lit patio of the Go Go2, when I noticed a small child working his way between the tables. It was him again, and he approached us.

Da khong, em. (No thank you, child) I said, and he went dancing away back in the bar, weaving between the tables. His mother was standing directly in front of me.

[Translated]
How old is he?
Just three-years-old, but he's smart, so very smart.
I can see that, he knows how to make money...

I began talking with the mother because I was curious who she was and how this situation arose. They do this every night, frequenting the bars where Westerners go until nearly midnight. Her son, at three years old, can speak a few American phrases and often understands what the tourists are saying, a skill that she does not have. They take two taxi rides during that time, which cost them dearly (my guess would be probably close to 30,000 dong - about US $2). She has him in bed by midnight every night and they're saving up so that in two years, when he is five, he can go to school.

He came over and looked up at me, speaking in broken English, "my name?!"

Em ten la gi?
Quy.
Anh ten la Loc.
Va day? [points at my tall American friend]
Anh nay ten la ---.

I spoke to her for a few more moments and she asked me if I was Vietnamese or American. I said yes, I'm a Vietnamese-American, and it seems like everyone here can tell. She said yes, they can, but there are many Vietnamese here from many different countries. She suggested I visit Hanoi or study in the north once my program is finished, noting that the South is like the end of the trail, where all the different dialects meet, whereas in the north, I will have a better grasp on the origins of the language.

Then the restaurant manager came out, yelling at the woman and her friend standing nearby, baby in one hand, packets of gum in the other. I noticed a police officer coming closer, so I bailed out back into the bar. I felt sorry for her because in Sai Gon, everyone is trying to get by, and she like everyone else is doing it the only way she knows how.

While many will question her ability to serve as a mother, no one can question how much she loves her son. She looks upon him with pride and hope, a glimmer of happiness in a difficult and harsh world of poverty and corruption. In truth, she may even be protecting him, as I get approached by scores of young boys every night, selling flowers and walking the streets barefoot. Young Quy has shoes and clothes. He doesn't look hungry. Though the lifestyle isn't something I can agree with, I'm beginning to realize that these atrocities are born out of necessity.

"She's probably just lying to you for money," a friend said.
"I don't care," I replied, "It may seem naive, but through this all we learn some shred of truth in understanding her situation."

It doesn't matter who tells the truth here because it's nothing personal - everyone is trying to get by however they can. It's just another night in Sai Gon.