My Birth According to My Mother

Artwork by Madeleine Vitanza, staff artist.

I was a breech baby; my mother said it had to mean something, had to count for something. Mouth full of hell, lungs ablaze, and feet first, I came out of her, so it had to be a sign. Like the universe was hysterically crying—no, I was hysterically crying, and I’d been beating skin and bones to the marrow—I’d hoped for an answer. I hoped I meant something, too. Born feet first. I came out unforgiving. My toes were purple. They looked like larvae, caterpillars, fat, squirming insects; the rotting toes, all plum to the root, the whole of them; I saw the pictures, I was so round, like an egg. My toes were round. Everyone’s toes are round, I guess, but mine were oddly round, like sour grapes. They looked like they’d pop any second now. A breech baby. I was meant for something. Something big. My mother told me that. She wouldn’t shut up about it, actually. She thought that whatever greater power up there in the sad, sad sky had answered her prayers. She prayed to no one, but she still got what she wanted. Funny how that is.

I think my mother wanted children—that’s what she wanted. She wanted a son; I was no son, but she figured a daughter could’ve been a good omen too. A good daughter is a mother. So after children, she wanted grandchildren. Millions of purple babies, covering masses of land, the crescent shape of Nam—like the story of Au Co; she wanted a hundred children, all birthed out of eggshells and egg whites. She wanted something big. Big like a breech baby. Big like Au Co. She told me the tale of Au Co, the Vietnamese creation myth, when I was four. I remembered nothing. Ma chose the worst time because kids’ memories start working when they’re five. All I know is the general gist of it is that this pretty lady and this strong man (they were royalty, and they were rich, so their futures were set for them) copulated, and then they gave birth to a bunch of eggs. Those children became the ancestors of the Vietnamese people.

But then somewhere along that story, the two lovebirds split up and separate their children, which I think is stupid. I think the whole breech baby omen, the whole make believe tale, everything about it—it all means nothing. When in reality, I was meant for nothing, the country’s gone to crap, and my ancestors didn’t come out of eggs, they came out of a woman’s womb. I came out of the womb. People don’t amount to anything even if you tell them they came from something big. People disappoint you. It’s no surprise.

My mother told me I’d be a force, I’d be a rock—but she also said I’d be mellow, I’d be a feather. Like my birth was a prophecy, a gift. In her mind, my birth was as important as Au Co’s—as if I was some core event in a bigger timeline. She never told me what she wanted from me. I never asked. Whenever she recounted my birth, it was always vague. She gave it to me like a prophet. I always thought she was just melodramatic.

I was born feet first. I remember nothing in my life. I’ve never even had children. My mother didn’t get the tiny grandbabies, the ones with the insect toes and purple limbs, like she wanted. I was never worth much.

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Artist Statement:

I wrote this piece after the Vietnamese legend of Lạc Long Quân and Au Cơ; in this folktale, the children of Lạc Long Quân and Au Cơ are believed to be the ancestors of the Vietnamese people. It is said that the children of Au Cơ were birthed from a sac filled with a hundred eggs. The tale is a symbol of cultural unity and strength, and the story holds a meaningful implication that matriarchal societies are equal to patriarchal ones. The interpretation of Au Cơ has a strong positive connotation; I think when people think of the story, it brings to mind warmth and community. That’s why I wanted to shift the perspective with this piece; the narrator’s a cynic, and while they’re told that their birth is important and all that by their mother, clearly they don’t believe in their predicted greatness. Instead of viewing the story of Au Cơ, which their mother has permanently tied to their birth, in a positive light, the speaker explains their birth in a rather pessimistic and indifferent attitude. Children, or people in general, can be quite stubborn and close-minded sometimes; they’ll look at a fantastical children’s tale with a stoic lens. What can be seen as magical to one person can also be considered flat and vapid to the other.

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Tien Hoang is a sixteen-year-old writer from Richmond, VA. They write way too much about relationships and cultural food, definitely not because they constantly crave smoothies and spring rolls. An Adroit Journal Mentorship alumna, Tien's work has been recognized by Ringling College, the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and occasionally, their relatives. Apart from writing, they enjoy streaming Spotify on the regular, going on unhealthy K-Drama binges, and watching really, really bad movies. They're also a part-time Costco fanatic.