My Mother's Thailand

Romanticized Realities : Discourse on the Diaspora

Year: Undetermined. This is most likely the year that I visited for my cousin's wedding.

I haven’t been “back” to Thailand in over a decade. I think I was eight years old the last time – small and round, with a melon shaped tummy and bangs that brimmed my eyelids – but no one quite remembers the last time.

My parents are convinced that I was younger, five or six years old, when I last visited. “You were so tiny!” They exclaim, “We went for Pe Oum and Pe Krit’s wedding, don’t you remember?” I reassure them that I do remember my older cousin’s wedding. I remember it quite well, actually.

I remember how beautifully sparkly I thought Pe Oum looked, in her perfect white dress, with her hair pulled tight and pink blush so gentle on her soft cheeks. I remember being propped up in a beige lounge chair before the ceremony, sitting shyly in my new, pink flower-girl dress that I had argued with my mom about earlier that week. I remember being coddled by my aunts, them squeezing me affectionately and uttering Thai words that oscillated with tones.

I remember thinking that the Thai language sounded harsh, mean sometimes. I remember Pe Oum giggling. I remember her eyes twinkling like those of a cartoon character, with her head tilted back as she cut the magnificent three-tiered cake with Pe Krit. I remember being informed, over and over again, that Pe Krit was charming and kind and a beloved and celebrated new addition to the family.

I also remember Thailand beyond the family-famous wedding. I remember my other older cousin, Pe Um, swinging me in the air like I was a free-floating monkey. I remember him boosting me onto his high shoulders and carrying me through a plant-covered gate into the family backyard. I remember thinking how he made me feel so adored, more than anyone had ever.

I remember my mother’s hometown, its narrow streets bustling with motorcycles and sandaled citizens. I remember the family house on the curb, its first-floor opened up by a metal garage door. I remember the tiled floor, scattered with swept-up piles of black hair; I remember grandpa’s barbershop business. I remember the blue-tiled bathroom upstairs, how the entire room became the shower, how I didn’t like that the floor flooded and how I cried when I saw centipedes.

I remember crowding the whole family into the living room upstairs, all of us piling into the expansive bed that my aunt BuBom used as a couch. I remember BuBom rolling onto her back and hoisting me into the air with the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet. I remember her making airplane noises and I remember wishing that my parents would play with me like she did.

My beloved aunt BuBom, cradling my grandmother, in the upstairs living room of the family home.

I remember savoring treats like mango and sticky rice on the roof of my mouth. I remember pulling away pieces of fluffy, salty snacks with my grubby hands; I do not remember the name of the snack. But I remember feeling guiltily spoiled every time I ate it, and every time BaBum poured me a glass of Orange Fanta. I remember riding on the back of motorcycles, smushed between cousins clutching me tight. I remember the neighborhood bridge in my mother’s hometown, one that sat over a creek with alligators. I remember thinking that my mom was the bravest woman alive.

My aunt Na Jat and cousin Pe Nut. Na Jat used to give me these intricate collectible car-models. I remember hauling those models all the way back to the US.

I remember climbing into the beds of pickup trucks, snuggled between barefoot family members who let their hands hang out the bed, who closed their eyes to the humid air hitting their faces. I remember when it was rainy season and the roads flooded and all the kids stripped down to their underwear and swam in the streets.

“Sierra, don’t you remember?” they all ask.

I remember more about Thailand than anyone expects me to.

I remember all of this vividly and I wonder if these memories are manufactured in my fantasizing. I wonder what is romanticized and what is real.

That’s what I risk in “coming back” to Thailand: I risk expecting these memories to reoccur, I risk discovering that my mother's Thailand is different now. We discussed this in my Intro to Asian American Studies class once: identity issues that come with diaspora. There are so many people who have once moved away from their “motherland” and feel inextricably connected to that place and those memories. However, often times these same people experience shock and bitterness when returning “home”. Sometimes it’s disappointment in realizing that their romanticized memories fall short in reality. Sometimes it’s sadness over change or loss or the discovery that home is no longer home.

This is all that risk as I am “back” in Thailand. As I experience, process, and reflect throughout this stay, I will do my best to allow my view of Thailand to evolve with me. Whether or not I eat mango sticky rice, ride in the beds of pickup trucks, or swim in the flooded streets of my mother’s hometown, this is still Thailand and can continue to be my mother's Thailand.