Available:*
Library | Call Number | Status |
|---|---|---|
Searching... R.H. Stafford Library (Woodbury) | 921 HAYSLIP | Searching... Unknown |
Bound With These Titles
On Order
Summary
Summary
Le Ly recounts her childhood in Ky La and her return to Vietnam in 1986 to search for the family she had left behind.
Copyright © Libri GmbH. All rights reserved.Reviews (3)
Kirkus Review
A wrenching account of human resilience and of the devastation that the Vietnam War inflicted on that country's people, land, and culture. Reared in a small peasant village in central Vietnam, Hayslip was taught to tend the land, revere her ancestors, and be a dutiful daughter. But by war's end, her beloved father, two brothers, and many other extended family members had perished. Early in the conflict, Viet Cong rebels had taken over her village, their cadres living in tunnels beneath it; though barely in her teens, Hayslip served as a sentry for them. Later, she was sentenced to death, but her executioners raped her at graveside and let her go. After fleeing to Saigon, Hayslip was impregnated by the adored master of the wealthy household where she and her mother had become servants. To support her son and mother, she became a black-marketeer and later lived with a succession of American men, marrying the last: an older, kindly civilian contractor and father of her second son. Interwoven with this saga is the story of Hayslip's 1986 visit to Vietnam; by then she was a twice-widowed, wealthy California restaurateur. She had a reunion with her first love and her former master and with her mother, two sisters, and still-living brothers. She also visited various former haunts and was so moved by the destitution of her native land that she formed the East Meets West Foundation, an organization that enlists volunteers to help Vietnam war victims. A compelling, excruciatingly painful memoir that reveals the soul and suffering of a people torn by a civil war that escalated into near-Armageddon. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Booklist Review
The haunting memoir of a young Vietnamese girl who survived the brutal Vietnam War and learned to forgive.
Library Journal Review
Hayslip was born a Vietnamese peasant in 1949; little more than 20 years later she left for the United States with an American husband. Her early years were spent as a Viet Cong courier and lookout; a black marketeer; an unwed mother; a bar girl; a hospital aide; and (once) a prostitute. She was tortured by the South Vietnamese army, raped by Viet Cong, and harassed by Americans. This story is juxtaposed with the tale of her difficult return to Vietnam in 1986. Her account is a part of the Vietnamese conflict that we seldom hear, of the survivors in the middle; it concludes with a plea for both sides to put the war behind them. Frankly written, moving, and meaningful, this is highly recommended for adult and academic collections.-- Kenneth W. Berger, Duke Univ. Lib., Durham, N.C. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Twenty-five years ago, the book you hold in your hands, When Heaven and Earth Changed Places , was joined by two sister narratives. One was named Child of War, Woman of Peace , my account of my early years as a refugee in America and my first attempts to help survivors in my still-troubled homeland. The other was called Heaven & Earth , a glamorous Hollywood relative, that retold both stories to movie audiences around the world. Their strange and wonderful journeys continue to this day. Here in the West, we celebrate a quarter century as a "silver" anniversary. For me and my print and film daughters, it is a very suitable color. As you've seen in these pages, I grew up near a beach lined with silver sand while silver clouds swirled overhead: sometimes bright with sunshine, sometimes dark with smoke and summer monsoons. When I came to America in 1970, the terrors that clouded my life found silver linings in three growing sons and a chance to help the Vietnamese half a world away who had not shared my good fortune. As my story reached millions more on the printed page and silver screen, I began to see old truths with new eyes: through the lens of wisdom that only comes with age. In 2006, as my mother's old gray head lay on a shabby pillow at Danang General Hospital, my three elder sisters, my brother, and I surrounded her bed in a vigil as old as time: waiting stoically for the moment our loved one moves on, whether back to the world of the living or onward to the realm of her ancestors. Mama Du was 102, thin as a reed, and almost drained of the sap of life: a stalk of rice with no more grains to give. As I watched her life begin to ebb, I saw another circle being closed. Her sickbed was in a hospital built two years before by the humanitarian organization I founded in 1988 but is now entrusted to other hands. Like every Vietnamese hospital, its rooms and corridors are filled with patients' families. Some help the nurses with the sick, but most just tend their loved ones, bringing food from home with smiles and tears. Independent to the last, Mama whispers that she wants to leave this life on her own terms: at home in her bed, surrounded by friends and family. With my sisters and brother, I look for someone to discharge her, but it is Reunification Day, a public holiday in Vietnam, so there are no nurses or orderlies to help. We finally find an army stretcher and, taking care to keep her oxygen tube and IV in place, bring her home ourselves in an old hired Dodge van, another relic of the war. Neighbors and distant relations--even the village herbalist, the monks, and the wizards who mediate between the living and the dead--catch sight of our van and gather at our door to meet us. Before we let them in, my sisters and I bathe and shampoo Mama and dress her in finery that befits the grand journey she is about to take. She is now beyond speech, but her smile shows that she hears us singing as we work, recounting family lore about the old days in Ky La: how Mama and Papa met and married, and how, together, they survived the long fall through two wars and the loss of family and a way of life. As Mama's spirit prepares to leave, guests and mourners glide past her bed, saying good-bye and giving us, her children (including our brother Bon, now bent and gray like the other village elders), advice for the coming funeral. They want the ceremonies to go just-so , with no confusion about the rituals or interference from troublesome ghosts. When they've had their say and resume their vigil outside, my sisters and I sort through the small aluminum box where Mama has kept her prize possessions: her few nice clothes, her favorite comb, fingernail clippers, and a pair of dangly earrings made by a grandchild. Among these treasures are two long-sleeved white shirts, now discolored and stiff with age. I remember Mama wearing them on special occasions, recalling only now that they were made from a GI pillowcase at the start of the American War. I swallow a sob and marvel at how much history fits into one box. "We should bury this box outside the casket under Mama's feet," I suggest. "Oh no!" Hai looks horrified. "After we go, people will only dig it up! We might as well bury gold." Disbelief shows on my face but quickly fades as I watch the villagers mill around. Wars may end, wounds can heal, but scars on the soul often persist until the bearer is reborn. Fortunately, if the universe promises one thing, it's that we all get another chance. Excerpted from When Heaven and Earth Changed Places: A Vietnamese Woman's Journey from War to Peace by Le Ly Hayslip, Jay Wurts All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
