On a rainy night in the beginning of September, I was having dinner with Jacqueline and Stinj in a scenic little valley south of France as we discussed all prospects of my love life. Words cannot describe how much I adore these dinners – we would drink wine and eat sheep cheese, with Jaqueline’s gorgeous homemade sausages or something I whipped up and spend hours going into details of every little thing in my life. We delved passionately into the subject, but nothing was ever concluded, as in fact, I did not have any real prospects for marriage: the long-term ex-boyfriend was terrified of the idea so he folded, London boys adore the disposable nature of London dating scene, and surely my problem with being with someone who is not tall enough to shelter me from the rain or anyone who is not happy with my “last year from Bristol” response and insisting on knowing where I am “from from”.
Those dinners were my dreams growing up. My parents were in a miserable marriage, so I was their sole source of joy. We would sit in a funny arrangement at dinner – where nobody was facing anybody directly, and nobody really talked, except for me. I surely felt the pressure to carry the whole conversation, as I yapped mindlessly about school and friends. I also wasn’t allowed to watch TV during meals for digestion benefits, so background noise wasn’t an option. Even back then, at such a young age, I knew that my parents were trying their best to cope with sitting together as a family at dinner, so the best I could do was keep it light and be happy. We of course never had family vacations, at least not since I was old enough to remember. There was photographic evidence of a beach trip when I was 4, and somewhere really rocky when I was 2-3, but then it came to a stop completely in the 2000s.
That kind of childhood tends to leave people wounded, one way or another. I was obsessed with having my own family and never made any of my parents’ mistakes. With my first serious boyfriend, we were thinking of getting married at 21, then the next serious boyfriend, at 24, and I was absolutely certain that by the time I’m 27, there would be a ring on my finger. Little did I know, under the surface of the vanilla wife ideal, I am just a Simone Beauvoir wannabe – I crave freedom. I love coming home to someone, candle-lit dinners with flowers on the table, and endless conversations under the sheets, but anytime things got close to a real deal and a real offer was on the table, I bolted. Then I would convince myself that I was ready, that I really needed to do it this time – unless I want to die alone, then also, bolted. I fell in and out of love for the ideal of it and that sure made a good time, but back in August this year I did spend a whole month doubting my life choices and felt the need to honestly give up on this ordeal. I thought I was different and free from Viet societal norms, but much as I was convinced with my new identity, I realised I am still the product of my childhood, of my Vietnamese background, as someone said, you could take the girl out of Vietnam but can’t take Vietnam out of the girl.
This epiphany was indeed helpful, as living in alignment with your identity means living in peace, and our growth is proportional to the truth we accept about ourselves. Most of us are ordinary people, we seek intimacy and a sense of belonging, but also the freedom to grow in life, to be us, to seek a purpose and fulfil it. I thought it was starting a family for me, perhaps it isn’t, I am not quite sure, the world is grand. Currently buying myself flowers and holding fiery debates in my head before bed, I do wonder if I could really bring any real candidates to the committee in the farm next visit. Though there were still nights I prayed to my future self to do a little sneak-peak of who I was going to do life with, I now feel content with just doing life as it is – experiencing this prime of life, as they say.
*picture of me and Fuzzy - a particular source of joy lately
