My First New Year's Resolution to Fail OR It's Never Too Late

            At the first writers group of the year, the facilitator gave us the warm-up prompt, “My first New Year’s resolution to fail.” Normally, I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. They are a waste of time for me. However, this year, against my will I made two New Year’s resolutions. Therefore, my first New Year’s resolution to fail is the resolution NOT to make any resolutions. And, to add insult to injury, I am still actively engaged in both resolutions that I made after resolving not to make any.

            It all started on December 31 at yoga practice. The leader gave each participant a composition book and ink pen. Between yoga poses, she gave us short writing prompts, one of which was to make some New Year’s resolutions. I was disgruntled. I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, but here I was relaxed and meditating, and before I knew it, not one but two resolutions flowed from my heart to my brain to the synapses that make my fingers write and onto the page through the ink pen! So now I am stuck, happily following two resolutions because I failed to keep the resolution that I usually make.

            The first resolution I made was to have more fun in 2020. Twenty nineteen was hectic and stressful and I lost sight of how to remain gruntled under pressure. One way I have become re-gruntled is through writing.

            My second resolution was to re-learn to play the violin. When I was in sixth grade—roughly fifty years ago—the school district started a program in which a traveling music teacher taught strings in the elementary schools. Soon, I was identified as a talented violinist. My parents bought me a violin. I joined a city-wide orchestra. My two siblings tolerated me being shuttled to violin-related activities.

            My violin career came to a somewhat screeching halt when I moved on to seventh grade. Since the string program was only taught in elementary school, my parents and the junior high school administration rearranged my schedule so I could take violin lessons with the band teacher. The band teacher made me feel very uneasy, so I started breaking my violin strings and finding ways not to go to my lessons with him. The adults queried me as to my somewhat sudden lack of interest in playing the violin. Sadly, I did not have the words to tell them that the band teacher was a creep.

            Over the decades, I have wondered what might have happened had I continued in my violin lessons. Would I have become first violinist for the New York Philharmonic Orchestra? Or maybe Charlie Daniels or Natalie MacMaster would be touring with me. Occasionally when I hear violin music, I wish I had been able to move forward as a budding violinist.

            About a year and a half ago, I took up the ukulele. It’s a far cry from the violin, but it is a stringed instrument. I mentioned to a musician friend my aborted career as a violinist. She encouraged me to pick up the violin again. It sounded like a good idea, but I did not have a violin or know a teacher. The logistics were more daunting than I cared to deal with. I had a ready-made excuse. Until . . .

            . . . my brother-in-law, who has a collection of stringed instruments, gave me one of his spare violins. Now, I only had half an excuse. (I still needed a teacher.) So I made the New Year’s resolution to re-learn the violin. My musician friend referred me to her violin teacher, so I no longer had any excuse at all not to take up the violin again.

            I had my second violin lesson yesterday, January 20, 2020. The second lesson went well enough that I bought a new bow, which I needed. (Violin bows are not cheap.) I am practicing my way from scales to real songs. Soon, I hope to be good enough so that my husband does not yell, “Shut the door!” when I practice. (In all fairness, he has been very supportive of my endeavor.)

            All of this goes to show that it is NEVER TOO LATE! As an added bonus, the prospect of playing the violin again gruntles me, fulfilling the other of my New Year’s resolutions.

NOTE: When I started “Be-Lied” in 2014, I hoped that readers would add their own stories to my stories on the blog. Over the years, no one has added any stories. I would love to hear some “It’s never too late” stories from you.

The Language of Respect

            In another lifetime, I taught medieval English at the college level. One of my favorite courses to teach was History of the English Language, affectionately known as the “hell” course. We began the course by defining language. That definition continued to evolve over the course of the semester. Language is not simply a means of communication but is also an important component of personal and national identity.

Whenever I travel abroad, I try to learn some basic phrases of the country I am visiting in order to better communicate with the native speakers and show them respect. Some such useful phrases include “Where is the bathroom” or “I would like a glass of white wine.”  Of course, “please,” “thank you,” and “hello” are also good phrases to have in one’s vocabulary. In March, 2019, my husband and I spent two weeks on a trip, Journey through Vietnam, sponsored by his college alumni organization.

As we anticipated our visit, I bought a Vietnamese phrasebook but quickly realized I would master almost none of the language. It is quite different from American English. It comes from a different language family. It is monosyllabic. It is tonal. The tonal aspect was the most daunting for me, in that if I voiced the tones wrong, I might ask to be slapped with a wet fish instead of asking for directions, and there are plenty of wet fish in Vietnam. The one phrase that I was able to internalize was “cam un,” “thank you.”

Our trip truly was a Journey Through Vietnam. It began in Hanoi and ended in Saigon. One morning at the breakfast buffet in Hanoi, a young Vietnamese man served me an omelet. As I took the plate, I said “cam un.” He looked back at me and with difficulty said, “Thank you for trying to speak my language.” I was mortified because I did not know how to say “You’re welcome” in Vietnamese. I stood there frozen and nodded at him.

I made a point after breakfast of trying to learn to say “You’re welcome” in Vietnamese. I can’t remember how to say it now, but this interaction underscored for me how important language can be in showing respect.

Over the course of our trip, I experienced many moving sights. In Hanoi, we visited Ho Chi Minh’s tomb, a somber event. Later, we toured the Hanoi Hilton, one of the most moving encounters of my life. Among our group, we raised the unanswerable question:  why do people treat other people that way? Before we departed Hanoi, our guide, a Vietnamese man who was born in 1975 to a Communist father, a journalist who covered the war, took us to see the wreckage of the B-52 in a pond in the middle of Hanoi, perhaps a subtle jab at America.

After Hanoi, we took a river cruise on Ha Long Bay, where we viewed some awesome geography. Then, we flew to Da Nang. From there we took a walking tour of the Ancient Town of Hoi An, where the street vendors swarmed like gnats, in competition to sell their trinkets, usually for one American dollar. We saw the Water Markets in Da Nang and got a good lesson in how fishing communities work. Fishermen work at night, raising and lowering their nets. 

Ha Long Bay

             After Da Nang, we stopped in Hue, capital of Vietnam from 1802 to 1945 and seat of the Nguyen (wen) Dynasty. We toured the Dai Noi Citadel, surrounded by a moat and stone walls. Our guide pointed out that repairs to damage from the Vietnam War were still in progress. When asked why the repairs weren’t made sooner, our guide gave three reasons. First, after the war, Vietnam was not a tourist destination, so why invest money on a cultural site? Second, Vietnam is a communist country, so where would the money come from? Third, much of the money spent on repairs of cultural sites comes from outside of Vietnam from organizations such as UNESCO.

Dai Noi Citadel

War damage under repair

Following our visit to the Citadel, we took a cyclo tour—a three-wheeled bicycle with a seat in front pedaled from behind by someone else--through the markets, which would never pass American food sanitation standards—raw meat, a-buzz with flies, laid out on tables, unrefrigerated. We were amazed that the Vietnamese cooked and ate these meats without getting sick. Our guide did assure us that the vendors were restricted in how long they could have their meat out before having to get rid of it. 

Cyclotour

After Hue, we visited the Can Tho river port in the Mekong Delta, where we took a boat cruise to the Cai Rang Floating Market. It is amazing to see how merchants live and raise families on their boats.

Cai Rang Floating Market

After we left the Mekong Delta, we headed to Saigon. There, we toured the Cu Chi Tunnels—an exercise in dedication to a cause. Digging the tunnels, which consist of several levels, was a monumental feat of persistence. If the enemy flooded the tunnels, the water just flowed out through the tunnels to the Saigon River. If the enemy gassed the tunnels, the Viet Cong closed trap doors and went to lower levels. The booby traps associated with the Cu Chi tunnels were another exercise in how ingeniously cruel some people can be.

In many of the cities, our guide pointed out the skinny houses. They had a very narrow frontage, which minimized costs, but they were quite deep. Family markets were on the first floor. Families lived on the upper floors. These people seemed quite content living under such spare circumstances. We were voyeurs, taking in their daily lives and then returning to our five-star hotels.

Another remarkable sight was the people riding mopeds. The tax on cars is 100 percent, so very few people can afford a car, even a basic car. During rush hour, it was fascinating to see seas of mopeds coursing through the city. Also, Vietnamese women are very protective of their skin. White skin is very important, so even on the hottest of days, women wore long sleeved jackets with hand flaps. Either they wore long pants or had a blanket to cover their legs.

The trip was quite cathartic. But of everything we saw, from the horrors of war to the determination of the Vietnamese people to move forward, one moment sticks foremost in my mind: the young man at the breakfast buffet early in our trip thanking me for trying to speak his language.