Prose by Việt Trọng Nguyễn

Edited by Mohammad “Moh” Samhouri & Ariana Vargas

A Banana for My Thoughts

Ever since my relationship with you ended, I no longer eat bananas. 

Don’t get me wrong. Bananas are good — great even. They come to save the day when you’re hungry but not quite hungry enough for a full meal. They can be eaten as a snack and are so versatile that you can even have them for dessert. They’re mushy, sweet-tasting, and reminiscent of monkeys. Some people prefer to eat grapes or strawberries, but I’d have to assert that bananas reign supreme when it comes to the household fruit. 

While bananas might be tantalizing, they’re actually quite deceitful. No banana is exempt from this trait: underneath its yellow exterior exists a strange anomaly at its very tip. I know you know what I’m talking about. It’s brown — maybe black — and resembles a strange creature that would originate from Ridley Scott’s Alien. Now, I enjoy bananas with all my heart — so much so that I could form a religious cult with the fruit as god and savior, but despite my own fond feelings for them, I will never be seen ingesting the brown end of a banana. 

What even is it really? Well, Urban Dictionary refers to it as the bananus – “The little brown part at the bottom of a banana that no one in their right mind eats. Only monkeys eat the bananus.” So if monkeys are the only ones capable of eating the brown end of a banana, then I must have been dating one for a while. 

See, whenever the house ran out of bananas, you would make it your mission to run to the nearest Albertsons and purchase the most vibrant bunch of bananas you could locate. The fruity goodness of bananas wasn’t just exclusive to me. You enjoyed them as much as I did, and over the course of our relationship, bananas came to represent the love we had for each other. Bringing each other a banana to snack on became synonymous with I love you. The only difference between us, however, was that you showed the banana unconditional love — brown end and everything. I was astonished the first time I saw you bite into the banana without first removing its obscenity. 

“Did you just… eat the shit part of the banana?” I looked at you, dumbfounded. 

“The shit part? What do you mean?” you replied nonchalantly. “It’s just a normal banana.” 

“Hang on.” At this point in the conversation, I couldn’t stop myself from laughing. You were looking at me like I was crazy. Everyone that I’ve known in my life — family, friends, and even the occasional stranger I’d see peeling a banana — they would all discard the brown end of the yellow fruit like they were eating a seafood boil and discarding the husks. “Are you saying you’ve been eating bananas like that your whole life?” I asked with sore abs and tears in my eyes. 

“Uhhh…yeah?” You were talking with bananas still in your mouth. “Doesn’t everybody?”

A Moment Unmarred

The worst part of going through a breakup isn’t deleting the photos y’all had together. It’s having to go through them individually — one by one — before you can press on the trash can icon. (Yes, you can select all. No, I didn’t do that.) 

Four thousand two hundred and forty-six. That is the number of photos and videos that I had with you on my phone. It’s a big number, and it’s one that certainly took its toll on my iPhone’s storage. Forgotten photos of lecture slides, poorly captured stills of food, and ugly bathroom selfies — all would be erased for the occasions in which you were the sole target of my iPhone’s camera. I had more photos of you than I did money in my bank account. 

Some photos were easier to delete than others, but the ones that hurt didn’t just hurt; the memories of us would reverberate through my body, placing me out of time, hesitant to press down on the trash can icon. 

I was down to about 2,000 photos when I came across a video of us dancing in our room. We were about a year younger, about 300 days before we had broken up. You were wearing a Vietnamese áo dài — one that was pink, light, and floral, a wonderful compliment to your smile, and accentuated your curves. It was your first áo dài, and we had worked hard all day shopping for it in preparation of the Vietnamese New Year. 

“How do I look? Am I pretty?” A spin followed by a curtsey.

“Pretty,” I responded enthusiastically. “Prettier than anything.” 

I grab the phone from beside me to put on a song, and the room’s stillness begins to gently vibrate with the opening chords of “Hạnh Phúc Cuối Cùng.”

“Come.” I extended my hand. “Hold onto me.” 

You step closer, the bottom of your áo dài softly swaying with each step. Your fingers entwine with mine, a delicate assurance as the lyrics tenderly unfold around us.

The day you came close to me very gently,

Hearing the melodious sound

Of laughter on your lips,

We begin to move, a slow, tender dance amidst the small islands of your world scattered across the floor: your makeup, your clothes, your school books — all things we took care to sidestep. 

Warm like the sun,

Melting away all the ice,

Your eyes seem to disperse the night,

My fingers glide along the soft fabric of your ao dai. With a soft twirl, you nestle into my chest, your eyes a soft haven as they meet mine. 

Take me through so much pain,

Hold my hand, walk with me,

Pledge a lifetime of loving you.

Our bodies conversed in a tender dialogue, every step a gentle verse, every touch a soft chorus, as the melody only served to bring us closer in each other’s embrace. 

The video cuts not too long after when another song comes on — upbeat this time — and our romantic serenade abruptly transitions into a chaotic dance-off. I watch the entire video through, multiple times in fact, and I can’t stop smiling. I don’t delete the video. I skip over it and put it off for later. 

The Text I’m Never Sending

Sometimes I think we parted way too cordially. Maybe I wanted plates to be smashed and voices to be raised. Maybe I wanted tears to escape my eyes and for you to see your reflection in them. I’ll always regret making it seem as if I was happy we were going off on our own. I didn’t mean to make it seem that way. It would have been fine to show a little grief after all the time we spent together. But I was just so obsessed with convincing myself that I was fine. But time has chipped away at the dams surrounding my heart and I’m now left with a flood of emotions I should have bared to you when I had the chance. 

In my dreams we’re still together. And we’re happy.  But it’s been too long, and I hope you’re doing well. I hope you’re eating your meals and keeping up with schoolwork. I hope you’re making lots of memories with your friends, and I hope you’re calling your parents. I hope you’re making progress to where you want to be in life. I do have some questions though. What manga and webtoons have you binged recently? Do you still eat out often at BCD? Have you been able to make new friends? How was the winter quarter for you? Spring? Fall? Have you picked up any new hobbies? Watched any new shows? How many concerts have you been to in the past year? Were you able to make lots of new memories? Have you been dancing? I don’t follow you on social media (I actually blocked you, but I’m sure you already knew that), but I wonder if you’ve been posting any dance covers. I know you probably learned the choreography to songs by NewJeans. I would have loved to see you dance to them. I’m sure you did it well. How’s your family doing? I hope you’ve been going back home to visit them. Have you been seeing anyone else? If so, I hope they’ve been good to you. If it’s just casual then I hope you’re having fun. Have you been keeping up with your journal? I’m curious to see what themes you’ve chosen for the year. I wonder how much money you’ve spent in the last month. What new deserts have you tasted? What new clothes have you tried on? Where have you gone? How have you been? How have you really been? 

I find myself thinking about you a lot these days. And I have a lot of regrets. I regret not making you feel loved in the way that you most appreciated. Words of affirmation — your love language. I should have told you how much you meant to me and how much I loved you with all my heart. I should have combed your hair behind your ear, making way for the flower I picked just for you. I should have taken more pictures — the four thousand two hundred forty-six in my album weren’t enough. I didn’t send you enough good morning texts. I didn’t check in throughout the day as much as I should have. The words I miss you should have been said more often. I took for granted your presence in my life. I should have driven over more often. I once traveled over a thousand miles for you. But when the distance between us closed, I wonder when the twenty-something minutes between us became so insurmountable. I should have been more excited with you, more silly, more romantic, more present. I should have facetimed you more often. I should have made it known that I was thinking of you even when I wasn’t with you. I should have worn that hoodie more often — the one that you went through all the trouble of stitching our initials onto. I should have hung up every drawing you made for me. Instead, I stashed them away with promises that I would eventually put it up. And I should have been more vulnerable. I should have given you a piece of myself. How frustrating it must have been to give away all of yourself with nothing in return. I should have shown you everything that I was, and I should have confided in you. I should’ve trusted you enough to truly be myself. 

And now we’re getting older and I’m learning to live so that I don’t start off every thought with phrases of regret. We may never see each other again, at least with the selves that we were with each other. But I’ll take solace in knowing that you’re probably still eating the brown end of the banana.

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Artist Statement: Hurt, for some people, takes it time to thaw. Along the way, it may find itself manifesting through means of varying emotions.

The beginning section of my piece takes on a humorous tone, as the succeeding sections are meant to be more reflective and earnest. I write based on my own experiences of heartbreak, but I weave into the account specific alterations to make it more palatable (at least in the way I intend it to be).

We like to put up walls to protect ourselves, not knowing that we’re in our own way of being happy. Counter-productive, really. But love and pain — they’re not mutually exclusive. If we want to give ourselves a chance at being happy, we have to take on the risk of being hurt.