At 4’11,” my grandma casts a formidable shadow. I call her Ba Ngoai, the Vietnamese name for “Grandma.” It feels weird to call her that, actually, since I’ve known her by only two names my whole life—the aforementioned, and “Cookie”—an Americanized version of her Vietnamese name.
Cuc Ngo is one of the, if not the, strongest woman I have ever known. Her story started in 1943, in the poor village of Trà Vinh. Her father was abusive to her mother, and my great-grandmother just decided to up and leave, taking my grandma with her. Since my great-grandmother couldn’t afford to work and take care of my grandma at the same time, she sent her to a Buddhist monastery, where my grandma lived for the first ten years of her life. My grandma and great-grandma clawed themselves out of deep poverty, and my grandma married my grandpa shortly before the Vietnam War began.
With only the clothes on their back and their three young children, they attempted three times to escape. The first time they were caught, they spent some time in prison, while my grandpa was sent off to a concentration camp. What happened there scarred him forever—we still have no idea what happened. All we know is that his lungs took a beating, and to this day, he still refuses to talk about it.
There was another attempt—again, unsuccessful. I think my grandpa and grandma ran through Saigon—I specifically remember that my grandma said that there were bodies all over the ground. I don’t remember the rest. However, their third attempt was a successful one.
My grandpa posed as a rice peddler on a rice boat for a week—to make sure the VietCong got used to seeing him and didn’t consider him a threat. Then, every night, he tossed a bag of rice overboard and replaced it with one of his children. Three nights later, all of my family and a couple of their relatives were on the rice boat—bodies in the place of rice.
Then, they left—somehow. I haven’t had enough time to get the details, and aspects of the story seem to change every time, but apparently they spent three days at sea—hungry, overcrowded, emaciated, etc. They were found just in time by a German boat, and they were redirected to the Philippines. If they were never discovered, it’s likely they would have died at sea.
I don’t know how my grandparents did it. They never gave up trying to leave Vietnam, took all of their children, went through unspeakable horrors, and yet kept a brave face all the same. God, they’re so strong.
They finally came to America around the 1980s, where my grandparents worked multiple jobs and my mom and uncles took care of themselves for the most part. My grandma never had much, but ever since I was born, I’ve heard nothing but of how she gives and gives and gives. As my parents were really busy as I was growing up—my dad working all the way in Foster City and my mom an experienced gastroenterologist—my grandma raised my brother and I for years. For approximately eight years, my Ba Ngoai worked through her seventies—picking us up, making us food, spoiling us, and always making sure we felt loved.
I cannot be crying about my dang grandma in bed at 11:27 p.m., but I am so lucky to have a grandma like her. She may not know it, but she is my idol, my role model: my Barbie, if you will. Ever since she moved to America, “Cuc Ngo” was hard for Americans to pronounce, so she decided to go by something a little more palatable for the American tongue—Cookie.
I used to make the joke that everyone called my Ba Ngoai “Cookie” because she’s so sweet. Then she’d laugh and tell me to go inside and do your homework, cong. To the rest of the world, she’s a sweet old lady that has been through unimaginable ordeals and stayed strong through it all. To me, she’s who I want to grow up to embody when I grow up. To me? I call her Ba Ngoai. To them? They call her Cookie.