Giving, or Refugee Love Language Lilly U. Nguyen (bio) “In other words, silence is not opposed to language, but as a choice not to verbalize, a will not to say, a necessary interval in an interaction—in brief, as a means of communication of its own . . . In silences, I returned home.” —Trinh Minh-Ha, Elsewhere, Within Here “Con gái biết nhờ.” —Vietnamese saying I am a first-born daughter. Of their daughters, Vietnamese people have an aphorism. In English, it goes something like this. Girls know how to be dependable. Or even, you can trust daughters to love you. But to really give you a sense of the full nuance of the phrase, it is most accurate to say, daughters know how to give with full thanks. I was conceived on top of a shipping container at the moment of first quiet after a long journey. I cannot say how I have come to know this because I belong to the first generation to not know. When I was four years old, I slept in a bed with my mother and comforted myself to sleep by running my hand along the stubble on her head. Whether she enjoyed this I never knew, but she neither pushed my [End Page 35] hand away nor turned her head to avoid my touch. Where her black hair had fallen out, one million shorn remainders prickled the pads of my fingertips. I played them like a tiny keyboard, fast and slow. I drew circles with a full palm and heard ocean waves. This made me laugh out loud. When my hand became tired, I fell asleep with my fingers grazing the top of her head. Her right breast had disappeared and was replaced by a line of staples and dried blood. The metal appeared too sharp against her muted skin. I traced my pointer finger along the raised edges. Each staple anchored itself to her chest with two punctures into her flesh. They formed a rhythm of dots and lines like a glyph, and I followed the message they made towards her heart. But these were metal teeth that did not speak. There was something in there, formless and moving. I wanted to reach inside and grasp at the things that made her hum. I wanted to crawl in and draw the covers of her skin over me, as close as a child could ever be to a mother. I wanted to close my eyes and sleep inside that narrow space and wake when the staples had been replaced by a song. My mother and I shared a large bed. Daisies decorated the sheets in shades of flamboyant neon. On especially cold nights, we burrowed ourselves under a sleeping bag she hand-stuffed and patched over with squares of red gingham and yellow thread. Under such a heavy cover, warmth felt like a punishment. One day, my father clapped his hand against her face. She left him in the car and together we walked home to nap. Inside our bedroom, she stripped the mattress and tidied up the sum of that afternoon into a pile of laundry. My mother lay down and the cool pillow next to her cheek relieved the heat of my father’s rage. I watched the tears slip down her face and disappear into the folds of our bed. I gathered my knees into my chest and nestled into my mother’s heaving frame. My mother never sang Vietnamese lullabies because they were not worth remembering. Instead, she whispered stories in the dark. She did not tell them straight. They trailed in a thick of half-finished sentences and forked at the junctures of chronology. She spoke at the joints of memory and mood, scattering fragments of herself in the dark. She spoke to shed the skin of a world left behind. I listened like dog paddling after her and heard a life across two languages and two continents. A world between prison islands and cul-de-sacs, wet markets and strip malls, desert casinos, [End Page 36] and alleyways filled with the sound of noodle pushcarts and clacking wood blocks. Boat journeys transformed into bus rides to...