A few years ago, I was
a summer nanny to a talented Vietnamese-American girl. When I say talented, I
don’t mean that I just adored her. No. She
was talent. Her name was Monica. She spoke Vietnamese and English fluently, and she was taking French in a club. She achieved a red belt in karate, snatched the main role in her dance school’s ballet production, and sat first-chair violinist in her school orchestra. All while earning A’s in school. She was ten.
“She has study two
hours in day.” Monica’s mother explained to me, gathering up
her purse and car keys. She closed the door hard behind her.
“Where does your
mother work?” I asked Monica.
“At a hotel.” She replied,
distractedly, flying through division problems. “I’m Monica.”
When I watched Monica pouring over a summer 6th
and 7th grade math book to prepare for her next two years of math
classes in school, I was amazed by her intelligence.
We got along well from the very start. Monica was
quiet and studious, and she liked me. She also taught me how to play my first
X-Box games, cook Vietnamese food, and draw manga-style. To be honest, she
killed me in Black Ops one afternoon as my Vietnamese dumplings over-boiled to
an undesirable toughness and my stick-figure drawing littered the floor. I was
not talent, but I could recognize it in Monica. I loved being with someone who
loved me, taught me patiently, and laughed with me, not at me.
Her name wasn't really
Monica, but a couple weeks passed before I discovered her real name. It was an
accident.
One day, when I walked in the door, I heard;
“N’goc! You get ‘B’ on
this computer test! What you do?” And then a long string of Vietnamese that I
didn't understand.
N’goc didn't say
anything.
To me, the name
sounded like Njing-up … with a pause and a “ nj” sound that I couldn't quite
articulate.
N’goc didn't talk to
me that day. She just practiced her dancing and violin. She had a barre in her room. She put everything on
her bed or under her bed, including her music stand and violin, so she could
spin around on the hard wood floor.
Little Monica had many great ambitions … unnaturally
great ambitions for someone who was ten. I asked her one day what she wanted to
become, expecting a musician, a teacher or a dance instructor based on the
things that she so obviously loved.
Monica put down her
sandwich, and said clearly;
“I want to study
medicine and be a heart surgeon.”
I could barely keep
from choking on my pickle. “Uh, wwwhy?”
She shrugged. “It pays
good. I mean, well. It pays well.”
I started to wonder how many people liked to make money off of
the heart problems of others.
One day, Monica announced
to me that she was taking piano lessons. I guess she was pleased because she
spent the whole afternoon listening to classical piano CDs.
Only a week later, a
piano arrived at the house.
“You dad work hard to
buy this.” N’goc’s mother warned.
N’goc just nodded.
The car keys banged
each other and the door slammed.
“N’goc, what a
gorgeous piano!” I exclaimed.
“Please don’t call me
that.”
“Ooo…kay.”
But the piano wasn't
such a positive addition to our summer.
A stormy Monday made
me rush out of my house earlier than normal. I always walked to Monica’s home,
so this morning, I was forced to watch for a break in the rain and run.
When I slogged in the
door and wrung my hair out on the hard wood floor, N’goc’s mother was yelling
at her daughter in Vietnamese. N’goc was attempting to play a song I didn't
know … I heard skin on skin – a slap.
Ignoring my dripping
face, I charged into the living room. I saw N’goc’s mother pull her hand back
from N’goc’s face and snatch her purse. She left, slamming the door behind her.
“Are you…”
“I’m fine.” N’goc
never let me finish.
“But the piano…”
N’goc sucked in a
breath. “I’m just stupid. That’s all.” She said. “I need to practice more.” She
launched into a clumsy series of scales.
I went into the hallway,
dropped my purse, and kicked the door. The child had been playing piano for two
weeks!
As the summer passed,
I tried to think of more fun things that N’goc and I could do together. I
realized that she didn’t go outside often. In a rush of inspiration, I bought
us day passes to the zoo which was just down the street.
“We’re going to go to
the zoo today.” I announced to N’goc’s mother.
She frowned. “She
behind on homework.”
Behind on advanced
extra-curricular homework. In the summer.
“Well, I already
bought day passes. I worked hard to buy them.” I explained.
N’goc’s mother kept
frowning and left. The closed door shook the house.
Monica started jumping up and down.
I laughed.
At the zoo, we dashed
around, taking pictures and using binoculars to see the animals up close. Monica
insisted on reading all the animal descriptions and commenting on them. I
couldn't remember being that eager to read about the life span and environment
of a hippopotamus when I’d visited the zoo as a child … but then, I hadn't grasped
the full concepts of reading until I was almost nine so my tenth year didn't
see me thrilled to pick up biology books. I was a stupid child…
Later, I bought her a
hot dog slathered with chili and a cup of iced lemonade. We sat in the shade
and ate and talked.
Suddenly, Monica stood
up and jammed the rest of her hot dog in her mouth. She picked up a stone and
threw it. Hard.
“Monica, what…?” I
began. My eyes, following the rock, saw it strike a peacock in his indigo
breast. “Monica! Don’t do that!”
The peacock wobbled a
little and minced a few steps away, looking about quickly with his bright eyes.
To my horror, Monica
launched back and flung a second stone. This time, I grabbed her arm;
“Monica, stop, okay?”
Monica pulled away
from me. “Come on, who comes to the zoo without a picture of the peacock’s
feathers? It needs to be a perfect day.” She aimed another stone. I grabbed for
her arm again, but she was too quick. The stone hit its mark and the peacock
fluttered, running.
“Monica, if you do that
again, we’re going to leave!” I said. The situation was escaping my control.
“But he needs to show
me his feathers!” Monica insisted. Her fingers scrabbled for another stone. “He
runs a little, but all he does is drag his gorgeous tail in the dirt.
I want to see it!”
I inhaled sharply and took
N’goc’s hand gently, uncurling her tight fingers. She fought against me. I took
the rock out of her palm. I looked her in the eye, and I said;
“N’goc, we never throw
stones to get what we want.”
N’goc’s eyes narrowed angrily. “It’s not fair!
Everyone else has pictures of peacock’s feathers!” She crossed her arms and pulled
her knees into her chest. One tear ran down her face.
I reached out to wipe
it away. N’goc turned and shrugged her body away from me. The tear fell, beyond
my reach.
