Hey guys,
Does anyone want to read my discursive and provide areas of weakness to improve on? I also feel like this could be a bit too creative but I hope the universal themes pull through.
Coffee
A grainy, shaking video appears on our TV. Dad stands up from the couch, excessively gesturing at the screen. It’s a video of eight-year-old me leaping in fear as one of the stray neighbourhood dogs barks as we walk past. Dad roars with laughter, mocking me by frolicking backwards onto the couch two or so times. He plays the next video. Me again, but now I’m pinching my nose as the odour of dried squid permeates the streets of Mỹ Tho, my dad’s hometown on the outskirts of Saigon. He howls even louder, teasingly comparing the ‘stench’ of my room to the toxic motorbike diesel fumes he grew up with as a child. The next video comes along.
No reaction. Dad flumps on the couch, leaning forward as he rubs his thumb across his lips. I stiffly lay beside him, furrowing my eyebrows as I watched along.
Dad looks across,
“Con nhớ this or no?” he asks in Vietglish.
‘Con nhớ’ means ‘You miss’ right? Or was it ‘You remember’?
I nod hesitantly in both cases.
The video pans across a worn-down cafe; its chipped blue paint and eroded concrete steps leading inside.
***
It was nearing the new monsoon season as crackles of thunder echoed within the obscured thick clouds. The flashes of light shivered the rusted corrugated iron verandah as it cried with every strike. Stood at the base of a three-storey tube home, the harsh beatings from each slap of a raindrop hurt cafe’s soul; its silent demeanour in the centre of town forced further into solitude.
Dad stood unfazed. Despite the fall of each drop blurring his camera lens, he remained on the open gravel sidewalk (which vehicles often mounted to avoid traffic as they rushed home to survive the storm’s onslaught), capturing the dilapidated quiet gem with a gradually widing smile.
Did it mean something to him?
Like couples between train carriages, I tuggled at his hand, searching for something from the burly man beside me. Nothing. Beside the nutty aroma of roasted aroma and fetid exhaust vapourising from motorbikes, nothing. There was nothing about this place I could understand besides the similar smells and sounds back in Sydney.
Dad dragged us inside, indifferent of my desperate attempts to understand anything from his obscure actions. The lingering smell of petrichor was soon overwhelmed by whiffs of coffee beans. Robusta, arabica, peaberry – their scents clashed with each other to create a bitter fume permeating from the blenders. The sole worker, aged with salt and pepper hair, appeared insouciant to the incessant honking of Honda motorcycles and swearing outside as she approached the wooden counter.
“Did you want a cà phê sữa đá?” Dad spurred.
A what?
He matched my furrowed eyebrows and put down his middle finger, only leaving his index hanging to the manager.
Dad pulled at my limpy arm like a weight dragging a pulley, beckoning me to sit on a plastic red stool no taller than 30cm off the ground. His gaze peered past my cloudy eyes, asking me to forget about Sydney and appreciate this new world I was forced into.
How could I?
The rhythmic chatter between my Dad and the elderly men beside us formed an incomprehensible melody as they shared childhood stories through their baby-like gestures. Their combination of words and phrases with such poise and vigour was captivating yet I could only realise their meaning through their vibrant recreations.
Like a game of charades, they reenacted how they would steal a loaf of bread now and then to feed their families or share their delight in finding chocolate from leftover U.S. rations.
I could only half laugh along.
***
The camera lens remains stained from the rain. Its blur cloaks the screen with a sense of detachment as Dad meanders towards the kitchen, playing the video in the background on repeat.
I feel his eyes wandering about the back of my head, catching a look that searches for understanding and connection.
“Make me one too,” I spur as the sweet aroma of Victorian blend coffee wafts throughout the hallway.
Does anyone want to read my discursive and provide areas of weakness to improve on? I also feel like this could be a bit too creative but I hope the universal themes pull through.
Coffee
A grainy, shaking video appears on our TV. Dad stands up from the couch, excessively gesturing at the screen. It’s a video of eight-year-old me leaping in fear as one of the stray neighbourhood dogs barks as we walk past. Dad roars with laughter, mocking me by frolicking backwards onto the couch two or so times. He plays the next video. Me again, but now I’m pinching my nose as the odour of dried squid permeates the streets of Mỹ Tho, my dad’s hometown on the outskirts of Saigon. He howls even louder, teasingly comparing the ‘stench’ of my room to the toxic motorbike diesel fumes he grew up with as a child. The next video comes along.
No reaction. Dad flumps on the couch, leaning forward as he rubs his thumb across his lips. I stiffly lay beside him, furrowing my eyebrows as I watched along.
Dad looks across,
“Con nhớ this or no?” he asks in Vietglish.
‘Con nhớ’ means ‘You miss’ right? Or was it ‘You remember’?
I nod hesitantly in both cases.
The video pans across a worn-down cafe; its chipped blue paint and eroded concrete steps leading inside.
***
It was nearing the new monsoon season as crackles of thunder echoed within the obscured thick clouds. The flashes of light shivered the rusted corrugated iron verandah as it cried with every strike. Stood at the base of a three-storey tube home, the harsh beatings from each slap of a raindrop hurt cafe’s soul; its silent demeanour in the centre of town forced further into solitude.
Dad stood unfazed. Despite the fall of each drop blurring his camera lens, he remained on the open gravel sidewalk (which vehicles often mounted to avoid traffic as they rushed home to survive the storm’s onslaught), capturing the dilapidated quiet gem with a gradually widing smile.
Did it mean something to him?
Like couples between train carriages, I tuggled at his hand, searching for something from the burly man beside me. Nothing. Beside the nutty aroma of roasted aroma and fetid exhaust vapourising from motorbikes, nothing. There was nothing about this place I could understand besides the similar smells and sounds back in Sydney.
Dad dragged us inside, indifferent of my desperate attempts to understand anything from his obscure actions. The lingering smell of petrichor was soon overwhelmed by whiffs of coffee beans. Robusta, arabica, peaberry – their scents clashed with each other to create a bitter fume permeating from the blenders. The sole worker, aged with salt and pepper hair, appeared insouciant to the incessant honking of Honda motorcycles and swearing outside as she approached the wooden counter.
“Did you want a cà phê sữa đá?” Dad spurred.
A what?
He matched my furrowed eyebrows and put down his middle finger, only leaving his index hanging to the manager.
Dad pulled at my limpy arm like a weight dragging a pulley, beckoning me to sit on a plastic red stool no taller than 30cm off the ground. His gaze peered past my cloudy eyes, asking me to forget about Sydney and appreciate this new world I was forced into.
How could I?
The rhythmic chatter between my Dad and the elderly men beside us formed an incomprehensible melody as they shared childhood stories through their baby-like gestures. Their combination of words and phrases with such poise and vigour was captivating yet I could only realise their meaning through their vibrant recreations.
Like a game of charades, they reenacted how they would steal a loaf of bread now and then to feed their families or share their delight in finding chocolate from leftover U.S. rations.
I could only half laugh along.
***
The camera lens remains stained from the rain. Its blur cloaks the screen with a sense of detachment as Dad meanders towards the kitchen, playing the video in the background on repeat.
I feel his eyes wandering about the back of my head, catching a look that searches for understanding and connection.
“Make me one too,” I spur as the sweet aroma of Victorian blend coffee wafts throughout the hallway.
