A Filthy Boy & A Bowl of Soup

Somehow that morning was the morning that set the course of my life.

A painfully ordinary morning.

I was probably in second or third grade because in 4th grade, I’d changed school and stopped taking the same route.

I sat on the back of my mom’s red motorcycle. We were headed to the usual noodle shop before she dropped me off.

We only ever cycle through 2–3 shops on that route to school every morning.

I call it shop because I can’t find a better word for it in English. But it’s really a dinky set-up before a house at a small intersection too far from the main street to be named. 

Sitting right at the front of the house is one giant pot of broth, containers of noodles, meat and veggies. Bà 5 (people had so many kids they were called by birth order, using names only in school) sits next to the steaming pot and assembles bowls of Mi Quang for her hungry neighbors as they yelled their orders.

I sat down, stared at the bowl of food I hardly wanted to eat and pouted. I was a picky eater and I was anorexic.

I hated eating. 

Mom picked up the noodles, blew on them and began directing the spoon towards me.

“Eat up or you will be late for school.”

As I sat chewing my food mindlessly, I saw a boy approaching out the corner of my eye.

He was about my age. He wore a white school uniform shirt but it said 5th grade so must have been a hand-me-down. 

It was clear he didn’t wear that shirt for school, though. Because it was dirty and brown from I don’t know how many layers of dirt. 

School teachers wouldn’t allow you to wear a dirty shirt like that.

His face and finger nails were dirtier than his shirt but his eyes were bright. 

I caught them quickly darting towards the steaming bowl of soup in front of me. I watched his neck move up and down as he gulped away the yearning for a taste. 

He caught my eyes and we both looked away. Tormented by equal shame as if we’ve done something despicable.

He redirected his focus on my mom. He pulled out a stick of gum from his box and pushed it towards her. 

“Can you please help me and purchase a stick of gum kind lady?”

She said no.

This was the kind of answer he was used to. But it added a heavy sulk to his shoulders regardless. He walked away.

I had to stop looking.

I was too afraid to find his eyes gazing at my bowl of soup one last time.

I don’t know why this image has imprinted itself in my psyche.

I don’t know why at 30 years old, my eyes still dampen every time I reminisce about those bright eyes.

I once asked my mom if she remembered it. She laughed and told me I was silly.

Yet I’ve carried this silly memory with me for 20 years.

It’s so strange how the most random things in life could have a peculiar effect on only you

It amazes me the things we selectively pick up. The way we let it toil with our inner worlds.

How we make sense of it that’s completely meaningless to everyone else.

Kind of like a ray of sunshine hitting on a piece of glass.

The same ray reflects myriads of light in different colors, shapes and wavelengths depending on the type of glass it hits.

Humans are like that.

Each one of us is but a weird piece of glass.

We reflect back to the world the ray of reality that’s true to us. No one else.

As for me, this particular ray of reality has left something inside me that I can’t remove.

It’s a part of who I am. It’s become the reason behind a lot of the things that I do.

Maybe I am idealistic. Maybe I am naive. 

Maybe filthy kids roaming the streets of third world countries is a trade off for the life I so lavishly enjoy.

Or maybe that’s a lot of bullshit

It’s bullshit that just because one person can’t do it all nobody is willing to give it a try

It’s bullshit that just because a problem can’t be fully eradicated that everyone gets a pass for not trying

I don’t think that’s what life’s about

In fact, I think it has nothing to do with picking a battle you can overcome.

It has nothing to do with choosing problems that you’re capable of solving.

It’s about following that voice inside you blindly knowing it makes no sense to anyone but you.

It’s about allowing yourself to embark on a journey so grand you will never finish, but someone else might continue.

That’s what gives you hope.

That’s what makes your life worth living.

It’s what makes my life worth living.

And maybe one day, I will no longer shamefully look away when faced with the same pair of eyes.

Maybe one day, I can offer those eyes a lot more than a stick of gum.

What is a piece of memory you’ve held on that makes no sense to anyone else but you?