War and Boobies

One early Saturday evening I was dancing on stage when a little bald man came up to tip me. A few other men joined us on the opposite end of the stage and I took turns paying each of them attention. I tried talking to the little bald man, but he didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure if he was only casually interested in watching me dance, or if he wasn’t a big talker; however he was tipping me consistently and seemed engaged with my routine. I decided to approach him afterwards, since he had tipped me the most of the men enjoying my set.

Me: Hi!

He waved his hand to stop me and pointed to a napkin he had in hand, and passed me a pen. He pointed to himself and made an X with his hands over his mouth and shook his head, to reiterate the point. He couldn’t speak. I didn’t know if he could hear. I didn’t ask. I took the pen and began our conversation on a napkin with the club logo in the center.

Me: I should know ASL, but I’m sorry I don’t. My name is Selena. What’s yours?

He peered down at my writing and looked a little confused. I didn’t know if I was writing obtusely. I should know ASL because my step-sister is deaf, and for a time I’d put some effort into learning basic things like the alphabet and how to order bacon and eggs. He took the pen and responded.

Him: My name is Nguyen. Am Vietnamese.

Me: That’s so cool. I was in Vietnam in February. I saw Ho Chi Minh’s memorial.

Him: I don’t think your face for Mexican, but you Vietnamese.

Me: I’m Black and Puerto Rican.

It made more sense that he wouldn’t understand what I meant when I wrote “ASL,” for American Sign Language. I realized English wasn’t his first language. I wondered if he’d always been unable to speak, or if it had happened when he was an adult. Maybe he knew Vietnamese Sign? I didn’t pry. He looked pleasantly surprised when I mentioned Ho Chi Minh. I suppose it’s not common for people my age to think much about the Vietnam War, or to know the names of specific generals. He gestured stroking an imaginary long beard. He pointed to the name and then wrote:

Him: He mean.

Me: War is mean. I saw his body.

He crossed his arms over his chest like a body in a coffin and shut his eyes.

Him: France i.e. Europe refuse sign from him, but he should sign, Ho Minh.

France and Europe had pressured Ho Chi Minh to surrender, but he refused, and rightly so.

Me: The French should have left peacefully. It is a sad war. I’m sorry the USA did bad things.

Him: Ho Minh want to war USA.

Ho Chi Minh had wanted true independence after being subjugated by the French for so many years. The French detained and tortured many Vietnamese revolutionaries. Minh knew the only way to truly be free was through force.

Me: Did you fight?

He nodded his head vigorously in confirmation.

Him: I (did). My family innocent.

Me: Were you Viet Minh?

He nodded again. I guessed because he didn’t like Ho Chi Minh, and had managed to migrate to the United States. The gravity of it hit me. For me, the Vietnam War was history, a Ken Burns documentary series I could casually watch before bed. I saw the remnants of the past manifest in veterans struggling with PTSD and homelessness, and the expansive population of Vietnamese migrants in Oklahoma City. For Nguyen it was a war that separated him from his family and homeland. He’d taken the side of the colonizers, it seemed primarily due to circumstance.

Him: I was born in Cam Ranh Bay, Vietnam. The South. Saigon, South. Hanoi, North.

To live in South Vietnam meant inevitably becoming Vietminh or facing the terrifying trek up north to join the communist revolutionaries. If all of your connections are in the south, that move would be insurmountable.

Me: Were you scared when USA left?

Him: Yes. Viet Cong took my family’s money.

Again he pointed to Ho Chi Minh’s name.

Him: He very smart.

Me: Ho Chi Minh was very smart. He made war strategies.

Him: Jungle trails.

Me: Camouflage.

Him: My family left Vietnam on boat to Philippines.

Me: Do you live here now?

Him: I have a US citizen. I lived in Texas. That was in 1982. I live in Las Vegas and LA with my family.

Me: I was in the North.

Him: You touch down in Hanoi?

Me: Yes.

Him: Your family visit with you in Vietnam?

Me: Only me. I like to travel.

I was with my partner, but I don’t mention this to clients.

Him: I’m long time no see in Vietnam.

I felt like such a privileged American, talking about my vacation to his homeland which we had ravaged with war and the numerous atrocities we still hesitate to acknowledge-- a place I could easily visit yet he could not, and had not since he and his family had fled the devastation. It wasn’t something I could articulate on the tiny strip club napkin, especially given the language and cultural differences. I could have apologized all night, but what’s the use of apologies?

Me: One Day! It is very beautiful.

Him: I will visit to Vietnam anytime. But I see.

Nguyen seemed happy, perhaps in spite of everything, maybe because of it. He was proud to be American, and happy living here and in Vegas. He had come to the strip club as a patron. My job was to provide a service he could patronize.

Me: Sorry, may I ask you for a dance?

Him: Yes. I pay $51 ok? Only $51 ok?

I hate doing singles, let alone singles without a tip, but for Nguyen, I agreed. I led him over to the dance booth. He pointed down to his crotch and held his hands eight inches apart like he was measuring, then shook his head vigorously and held his arms up in an X. He held his hands apart four inches the second time, and nodded vigorously. He did these gestures a few times. He wanted me to know for sure that his penis was only four inches, and not at all eight inches. It was a silly gag, like watching one of those old timey comedians of the Groucho era gesticulate wildly for a punchline.

During the dance, he was respectful and kept his hands at his side. Sitting in his lap, I realized he was my size, maybe smaller. Something about his size got to me. I felt protective over him, and sad in a way I couldn’t afford to wallow in. I hugged him at the end, more for me than for him. It was a selfish desire for absolution.

Me: Can I keep our napkins? I want to write a story about you.

He nodded to say “yes”.

Me: Thank you.