Anatomy of a Marriage

Dissecting a relationship and identifying its cause of death.

Preface

I don’t remember exactly when my mom moved her entire life into my room, but I do remember not being surprised to come home and see all her belongings squeezed in among mine. For years, my parents resided under the same roof without uttering a single word to one another. Between the ages of 10 and 14, I fell asleep next to my mother and her white noise machine every night, save for the occasional sleepover at a friend’s. 

My father often blames my mom for the fact that I don’t speak to him much, believing that my disdain for him is rooted in his ex-wife’s resentment. I laugh at how little my father knows about his partner of decades, but also I weep for my mother, a woman whose kindness has been taken for granted for so long.

My Mother

Phú Yên, Vietnam (1976)

She’s climbing the mango tree in her family’s backyard, eyes locked on the ripest one of the bunch. Her mouth waters as she imagines the rich, juicy treasure buried beneath the bright yellow skin. Her arms are sore–feeling like she’s been climbing forever, but no closer to the ripened mango now than when she was on the ground. Tired and tempted by the lushness of the grass below, she lets go and falls into its green embrace. 

The sound of fractured wood pulls her out of her dream with a jolt. The walls are shaking in rhythm to the approaching stomps of footsteps. Her mother is already sitting up, frantically untying the mosquito net around our bed before clambering out. Before she and her mom can reach the door, it swings open with a force their house has never seen before. 

Men clad in green storm in and herd the entire family into the living room, where they watch as soldiers tear their home apart. The Northern-uniformed men do everything with force despite no one resisting. Everything shiny is thrown into canvas bags.

She had always loved that people could tell that her family was related to one another, basking in how often they were told that they look just like their parents. Right now, she curses her family for it.

Their housekeeper, her second mother, is yanked into the next room along with their other caretaker. Her eyes are stinging. The soldiers don’t question them for long before confirming they’re non-relatives of the family, whisking them away. Tears are dripping onto her bare feet. She knows she’s lost a part of her family forever. 

⥭

It’s when my mother speaks of these memories after the Vietnam War that I’m reminded that she was little once. Her words are fueled by fury I didn’t know she was capable of.

As a respected lawyer in a major city and a loving single mother, she is the spitting image of strength and independence. Her character has critically shaped my development, crucial to my beliefs and practices today. My perception of reality was somewhat shattered when I saw her unwavering collected demeanour be dismantled by a distant memory.

I remember the forthright fearful expression on her face the first time she told me of this moment–reflecting the unhealed hurt of a memory so clearly remembered that it might have happened yesterday.

For as long as I could remember, my mom only ever recounted life stories to me in order to pass on the lessons she’s derived from them–hoping I don’t make the mistakes she has. This particular memory, however, is never followed by a teaching. It only ever ends with a reminder of how I should count myself lucky to be a resident of the United States.

Conversations from the Car

For those living a first-world lifestyle, feigning ignorance to political differences for the sake of personal relationships is an art. You must master knowing when to stop talking or which topics to avoid completely–stay cautious against potential disagreements. For my parents, it was a two decade long performance of treading on eggshells. 

During family outings in the back of the car, my brother and I would listen to our parents’ legal talk instead of the radio–back when they did acknowledge each other outside of the office. However, both of them would stare steadily ahead–non-reactive to each other’s presence as if both were in long-distance phone calls with other people. If there was no work to discuss, our family listened to the Hotel California or Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word (the only 2 CDs we kept in the car) on repeat. 

In the intimacy of our own home, my parents called each other by their first names–only when necessary and always void of tenderness. Looking back on my memories of them, they were business partners above all–just coworkers who happened to be spouses. My parent’s law firm was established the year I was born. Their company is like a third child–like the twin sister I often wish I had growing up. 

I find myself wondering what my parents talked about before they considered having their first child. What did my father say that made my mom fall in love? I wonder how she felt when my father told her he was going to have a seat in the Vietnamese Communist Party.

The one thing my parents did not discuss prior to tying the knot, unfortunately, was their moralities. When my father was forced to choose between power and his marriage, there was no discussion with my mother. With our culture heavily stigmatizing divorce, my mother was forced to watch my father join the system that marred her. The further he ascended the ranks in our government, the more quiet our home became. 

Each year, I see my father at least once. For each occasion, my mom never fails to buy him a present, ensuring my father receives the love he’s failed to earn. She thrusts the item into my grudging hands, instructing me to tell my father it was me who bought it. Cologne, dress shirts, shoes–these gifts are remnants of feelings and a past I will never hear of. 

Aquaphor

“Your father is an… awkward man,” my mom says, “he doesn’t know how to talk to you kids.”

She’s careful not to reveal her feelings as she chooses her words. My mom was the first person I thought of when my father announced his and his wife’s newborn son. He had informed me via Facebook Messenger. 

Just 18 hours prior, I was having dinner with him and my brother in Manhattan–when I had no clue his new family was expecting a child. I had just arrived home from LAX, exhausted after spending the last hour wandering the Economy Parking Lot in search of our car. 

It was the first time my partner of many years would meet my father. For as long as they’ve known me, my father was a faceless figure–only mentioned as the butt of a joke or in a  throwaway, snarky comment–presented with the dimensionality of a Disney villain.

Although my father remained in Vietnam when we moved away, his image is never far from me. My father’s image is carried on by me–during times where my rage is so consuming that I’m unable to form the right words. In the moments where I withdraw, retracting into a shell of silence with the likeness and courage of a turtle. 

Sat on the questionably stained couch of my partner’s even more questionably built Tripalink apartment, I study the close-up video of this mushy infant. My body fails to conjure any affection for this brother whose existence I didn’t know of until minutes ago. 

Instead, I think of how I bought my father a gift for the first time last week. It was the first thing I’ve given him in which I bought on my own volition–a tube of Aquaphor. The skin on his hand was cracked and bloody, dry from the drastic climate difference between Saigon and Manhattan. Without his asking, I had sought out the ointment–surprised by my own outlandish behaviour. 

For the first time since my infancy, I experienced a twang of affection for my father. The week had changed my perception of my father, with our conversations over dinner and visits to museums cooling my hatred for him into a lukewarm indifference. He was finally asking me about bits of my life, beginning to shoulder at least a bit of the conversation. I truly believed that his new family had changed him.

After handing my father the sealed product, I watched as he gripped the plastic–prying it open with brazen force and snapping its lid off soundlessly. He was quick to laugh, putting the cap back on without a second thought. At that moment, I had shrugged it off after an initial shock. Only now, I remain stuck on the image of the severed bottle, seeing the pieces of what was once whole in my father’s hands.

I think of my half-brother’s future in Vietnam, safe from the influences of his father’s last family. I will not be able to save him from his fate that remains in the palm of my static father. 

Post-mortem

I had picked up Normal People for its romance and pretty cover, only ever reading it in the confines of the dining hall during my meals in Freshman year. It was always experienced with flavours of underwhelming food and muffled sounds of student chatter, which perhaps has played a role in my thoughts on it today. 

Despite the overwhelming love the literary community has shown to this contemporary coming-of-age novel, Normal People pissed me off. Exploring influences of social class, identity, and mental health in relationships, the story follows a pair of Irish teenagers growing up alongside one another. Rooney writes to demonstrate the importance of interpersonal experiences and the role they play in our development. 

A notable component of the book is its dialogue style, written in a manner that blurs the line between speech and introspection. It plays an integral role in the characters’ conflicts and experiences, illustrating themes of miscommunication–more specifically, lack of communication. Spoiler warning–the book is bittersweet. 

The author puts Marianne through hell for the sake of her message, subjecting the protagonist to physical and verbal abuse at the hands of several people who are close to her. Given the unforgivingness of Marianne’s upbringing, it’s difficult to not frame her counterpart Connell as a good influence in her life. Only he wasn’t. She had enriched his life much more than he did hers.

The book is forgiving of silence. Connell's development occurs at the cost of Marianne’s wellbeing, subjecting her to humiliation. His lack of communication and unwillingness to open up to Marianne frequently hurts her, yet her kindness never wavers. She is the stoic woman who undertakes the brunt of her partner’s growth, withstanding the pain of his trial and error as he learns to use his words. Unfortunately, this is frequently how the heterosexual world works.

Perhaps this book had pissed me off because I saw my mother in Marianne. I’m a child of an uncommunicative man who watched my mother suffer time and time again under my father’s conflict avoidance. Although it’s difficult for me to sympathize with the mistakes made during Connell’s growth, I’m happy it occurs. The novel is idealized and romanticized, however. Such character growth is often rare in the world.

My consolation for the book is that Marianne is young and has a whole life after her story to make up for her lost youth, something I can’t say about my mother. I’m happy she’s content now, far from the scene of her terrible memories, but I grieve for the years she spent lost in my father’s silence. 

An overlooked weapon, silence is poisonous. Its effects are long-lasting, seeping into generations if not treated.