Maribeth Theisen lived in Saigon, Vietnam in the late 1960s when her father was the manager of Air America, including during the 1968 Tet Offensive.
“I have vivid memories of that period of time,” she wrote. “The aftermath changed the trajectory of my life.”
This essay addresses something more congenial: her introduction to the Vietnamese celebration of the Mid-Autumn, or Moon, Festival.
This year, the festival, like the full moon, falls on September 29.
“Tet Trung Thu today,” Chi Nam announced, emphatically, as I entered the kitchen from the courtyard. I could tell it was a big deal, because her eyebrows arched, and her hand was raised as if she were a policeman stopping traffic.
I noticed some round doughy things on the counter that looked like dumplings but were shaped like hamburger patties. They were white with a caramel-colored flower-shaped design on the top and Chinese characters in the middle.
Next to them, was a vase of flowers, a lit candle, and some burning incense. I guessed this was a holiday. “Tet Trung Thu?” I asked.
“Today big day. Farmers happy. Food come.” I realized that even though it was another warm day in Saigon, it was autumn in the mountains where the farms were. It must be harvest time.
“Food finish this year?” I asked.
“Yes! Moon bi-i-ig.”
She made a large circle shape with both her hands, then pointed to the food on the tray.
“Moon cake. Pretty lady marry god. He give her drink so she live long-time like him. Bad man kill god. Pretty lady live on moon.”
I started to understand that the moon cakes somehow celebrated a woman who now lives forever on the moon.
“Moon cake?” I asked.
The word cake—to me—meant something sweet and rich. “I taste?”
Bat took one of them from the tray and cut into it. It looked like dough with orange slices and beans inside it—not much of a cake, really. As I took a bite, I noticed it had a hint of sweetness to it, but it didn’t really have much of a taste. I tried to act like I liked it because I could see it was really important to them.
The first time I had the opportunity to learn about the Buddhist religion, I heard a repetitive sing-song in the servants’ quarters. They were located at the far edge of the courtyard, past the kitchen, and I went to investigate the source of this intriguing sound.
Through the window, I watched Chi Nam and Bat, who were on their knees, bowing down with their arms forward saying a sort of chant. I was fascinated. I knew it was some kind of prayer. I didn’t want to interrupt them, but they caught me sneaking a peek through their screen and invited me into their room.
The space had one double-sized iron frame for a bed, with mats on it. There was a small wooden table and a rod with clothing. Colorful posters with beautiful young Asian women covered the walls. In the next room, a typical bathroom, which included a sink, a shower hose coming from the wall, and a hole in the ground for a toilet. I never could figure out how they took a shower without getting everything all wet. And the ‘toilet’ made my stomach turn. I was so glad that we had shower stalls and flushing commodes in the house.
It didn’t seem like a very comfortable place, but they were always cheerful. Mom said they were lucky to have an income and jobs, with the war and all. This night, they smiled and waved me into their room.
“Nam Mo. Nam Mo,” repeated Chi Nam, insistently.
“Nam Mo?” I asked.
She pointed to a small statue of the Buddha.
“Oh, Buddha,” I interpreted.
“Yes,” they both grinned and bobbed their heads quickly.
“You pray Buddha?” I asked, and they responded with nods again.
“You show me?” Their smiles grew bigger.
“Nam Mo A Di Da Phat,” they chanted, bending forward from a kneeling position.
I knelt on the floor next to them and repeated the phrase, bowing just like they did. They laughed—not the kind where you are making fun of someone, but like when you are really excited.
“Nam Mo Bon Su Thich Ca Mau Ni Phat,” they chanted as they repeated the movement.
“What is Phat?” I asked, recognizing the same word at the end of both phrases. Their pronunciation sounded very much like the “F” word in English.
“Buddha,” was the reply.
Chi Nam was bursting. The three of us were very excited—them to be teaching me, and me to be learning about their beliefs. I learned the three chants, with the exact tone in my voice, and the very same movements they made. And so began periodic impromptu lessons in Vietnamese spiritual traditions.
As I returned my awareness to the moon cakes in the kitchen, Chi Nam’s eyes widened and she gestured toward the door.
“Come see!” I noticed it had gotten really dark outside, as she pulled me out onto the courtyard.
“Moon b-i-ig,” she repeated, pointing up. It really was. It was almost yellow and took up almost half the sky.
“You see lady under tree?”
I was used to looking for the man on the moon, but I stared up at the dark spots until I saw them rearrange themselves. It helped if I imagined a beautiful woman wearing jewels and a flowing gown, holding a fan, and standing under a big oak tree. I later found out it was actually a banyan tree, and that there were many different stories about how this woman found herself up in the sky.
Chi Nam ushered me down the driveway. As we neared its end, I could hear children singing. As the big gate swung open, I perceived children walking, carrying poles, each with a brightly-colored transparent shape, like a kite, only hanging down. Some were bunnies, some fish, some birds, and there were even butterflies, stars, and airplanes. Most were bright red.
They looked like they were made out of cellophane because the colored material was so thin and clear. Inside each, a candle burned, casting a beautiful soft, colored glow. The kids weren’t wearing costumes, but it reminded me of Halloween because the avenue was full of youngsters in bright colors. It was unusual, like a dream, hearing the soft voices, witnessing the lighted animal forms, in streets that usually buzzed with noisy traffic.
I pointed to the children.
“Why?” I asked.
Chi Nam answered, “Children with light show god way to visit lady.”
I later learned to call this holiday the Lantern Festival or the Moon Festival.
I loved the legend of the god and the beautiful lady, and their sad love tale, ending with her forever trapped under a tree on the moon. Indeed, it seemed a lot more romantic than the Christian stories I grew up with.
Thanks to Maribeth for sharing her experiences here. If you enjoyed this post, please leave a comment, letting her know.
Stories of Vietnam is a reader-supported effort that is highlighting the many stories of Vietnam that exist in the American milieu—from stories about the country, to the American War there, to tales of travelers, and Kat Fitzpatrick’s own family saga.
Reply to this email for more information or check out Kat-Fitzpatrick.com.