A Tribute

By the time I met my Ba Ngoai, she had already overcome so many trials and tribulations. She’d survived a war and immigrated to Canada. She’d had and raised a dozen children, and had many other grandchildren and counting. And she had so much to teach us about what she had learned over the course of her life. 

At first, the lessons were easy. She and Ong Ngoai taught me all the Vietnamese I know. Simple things, like requesting food, asking for the tv show I wanted, saying I love you and good bye.

When I was really young, I used to swing in a green hammock they had and watch Barney the dinosaur on TV. No doubt living the kind of life they came to Canada for me to have. One time, when I was just graduating from drinking out of sippy cups, I asked Ba Ngoai for some juice and she brought it for me in a cup. She told me to sit up so I wouldn’t spill it, but I was comfortable how I was and didn’t want to move. She said, “suit yourself” and handed me the juice, and of course when I tried to drink lying down, I spilled all over my own face and immediately sat upright, gasping and sputtering. She chided me gently and cleaned me up with a little “I told you so”, but she didn’t get angry at me. She never got angry at me. And that was my lesson on patience…and gravity.

Around twelve years old, I was grocery shopping with her, my mom, and a couple of aunts. My mom and aunts chatted and lagged behind while Ba Ngoai, focused and efficient, stayed a few steps ahead. At one point, my mom told me I should go hold Ba Ngoai’s basket for her and hold her arm to help her walk. It was the first time I looked at Ba Ngoai and saw her advancing age and small stature. I went to her, and tried to take her basket for her and help her walk. She would have none of it. She yanked her basket out of my hands and waved off the arm I offered for her to hold, then turned and told off her daughters. “I don’t need help! Leave the girl alone!” Ba Ngoai was not weak. She was not frail. She could do it herself, so she did. I learned to value independence and capability that day.

It is impossible to talk about my Ba Ngoai without mentioning Ong Ngoai. They were together constantly, and their love was just as constant. The worst arguments I can think of them having would be over something like microwave settings. Ong Ngoai would call from the kitchen something like, “How long should I put the rice in for?” 

And Ba Ngoai would answer from the couch where she sat knitting, “Do thirty seconds!” 

And Ong Ngoai would say, “That won’t be hot enough. It needs a minute!” 

Ba Ngoai would go, “You need to do thirty seconds, then stir, then another thirty seconds!” 

“It’s too late, I already started it!” 

“You’ll burn her mouth!”

“I’ll blow on it for her!”

“Why’d you even bother asking me then?”

And then one of them, usually Ong Ngoai, would start laughing, and then Ba Ngoai would join, and that would be the end of it. Even when they didn’t laugh in the end, their arguments wouldn’t last more than a minute, and after a bit of silence, one would comment on the weather or the other would offer some food, and everything would be back to normal. I remember being a kid watching them fight one time, and thinking, they’re yelling, but they aren’t really angry. And a few seconds later, they stopped arguing and started giggling. They taught me never to let anger outweigh love. 

A cousin told me a story about them once. Ong Ngoai and Ba Ngoai had been walking down the stairs together, and my cousin had been following behind them when Ong Ngoai reached over and cheekily grabbed Ba Ngoai’s bottom. Ba Ngoai swatted his hand away and they both laughed like sneaky teenagers. It may make some of you blush, but I love this story. By this time they were both in their late eighties. They weren’t just companions. They enjoyed each other. They loved, and they were in love. They were the example of what a relationship with a life partner should look like.

I said earlier that Ba Ngoai had overcome many trials by the time I came along, but there was one that she hadn’t. In 2016, Ong Ngoai passed away. I think it took at least a year for me to be able to visit Ba Ngoai at her house without expecting to see Ong Ngoai there with her. There was a canyon where there had once been a mountain. I can only imagine what Ba Ngoai felt at the loss of her husband after spending every day of the last sixty-six years with him. When it happened, she became depressed for a while and barely ate, and someone whispered to me that couples who are together for that long often die close together. Ong Ngoai was the life of the party, and Ba Ngoai was the heart of it. It felt natural that they wouldn’t allow themselves to be apart for long. But Ba Ngoai had one more lesson for us. Faced with unfathomable grief, she showed her strength and independence, and she kept going. She kept loving him and she kept living. The last time I saw her was on her 97th birthday, two Saturdays ago. She asked me questions about my dog. We, along with my aunt, talked about how Ba Ngoai taught me Vietnamese, and Ong Ngoai taught me to drink coffee. She wasn’t scared or in pain. She was in good spirits. For the last seven years without Ong Ngoai, she savoured every second she had left.

Now, Ba Ngoai may have moved on, but she has not left us directionless or unprepared for life without her. By living according to what she taught us, we continue her legacy. Savour every bit of life, truly enjoy your loved ones, and love them fully, even when you’re angry with them. Value your independence while you have it, stay patient, and don’t fight gravity. Simplest of all, tell your loved ones that you love them. 

I love you, Ba Ngoai. Goodbye.