On the last day of my recent trip to Vietnam, my aunt, who is a fabric shop owner of Kim Thu Vải, asked me if she could make me any more Vietnamese “pajamas” from her fabric shop. I asked if I could have a scarf instead. So she and I spent the next 30 minutes together after store closing to select a fabric I really liked -- silk, turquoise with hues of yellow, and patterns of lotus seeds sprouting (a common symbol in Vietnam). My aunt thought it was weird that I just wanted a scarf instead of the usual pajamas she’d make me, but I wanted something that I could carry with me more easily and wear for warmth, especially with the holiday season coming up.

I wanted to carry a small piece from her store that would remind me of the great women in my family. For nearly four generations, my great-grandmother, grandmother, mom, and aunt have kept Kim Thu Vải running, allowing my family to survive and thrive. Through the income from this very shop, my mom and her brothers were able to accumulate some gold and money to cross the ocean and ultimately make it to America.

As a young kid visiting Vietnam from the States, one of the first things that would happen is that my mom would carry me to her younger sister’s shop and leave me there for hours while she attended to other matters in Nha Be in District 7 of Saigon, such as managing the family's finances, visiting relatives, figuring out how to help other family friends, going to pagodas and graves, and making sure her nieces and nephews stay in school. Each time I visited my aunt’s fabric shop, I would slowly become her mascot and always randomly say to people with a terrible American accent, “Đi vào bên trong, mua vải!” (“Come inside, buy fabric!”). I always had fun saying that because my aunt would give me an allowance of the white rabbit candy and plum seed snacks, or she’d spoil me with some dessert, ice cream, and even more sips from her cup of cà phê sữa đá, which we weren’t allowed to have as young kids. Better yet, my aunt would constantly make me several Vietnamese pajamas directly from the fabric in her shop and it would become my awesome staple outfits throughout elementary and middle school in America (despite being made fun of constantly). 

As my aunt babysat me, I would watch her sell fabric to so many neighbors and people from other districts of Saigon. There was never a moment where there wasn’t someone by the shop, asking for my aunt. I would watch how she would entice customers with her knowledge of various types of cloths (ranging from silk, satin, linen, cotton, polyester, etc.), provide bolts of vibrant colors and patterns, and share information on specific tailors in the area, all personalized for each customer’s preference. She would know every single person’s name and even ask how their family is doing. I could tell everyone loved her and they would always tell me how lucky I am to have her as an aunt (I agree). 

Once fabric was sold, it was always so satisfying to watch my aunt grab scissors, cut a few inches deep into the piece, and with her own hands rip the fabric perfectly in half. The sound of fabric ripping was so gratifying somehow. It would happen so fast that if you weren’t paying attention, you’d think the fabric split in two on its own. I only now realize that this skill is acquired through years of experience and knowing how the fabric moves, and where and how to cut it. The ripping of fabric, folding it in seconds, and then placing it perfectly inside a bag to be taken home with the customer — for four generations now, these actions created a safety net for my family and ensured we would be able to have another meal.

Until recently, it never dawned on me how this particular business kept our family afloat during harsh times, especially during the war. During my nine day trip to Vietnam this year, I learned how this shop has been carried by  four women in my family. My great-grandmother started the business when she married in the 1920s. As a young mother, she did not want her children to be in the industry of raising and selling ducks, so she quickly tried to find new avenues of income and she thought perhaps selling fabric was the way to go. However, during her time, barely any income was made. My grandmother inherited the business afterwards, and one of the first things she did was establish a trusting relationship within the neighborhood and understanding people’s likes. It was also during this time that my grandmother created a small stall at the back end of the market to hang the fabrics, so that their business was a bit more visible. The stall itself also became a hideout, with a small room built underground, hidden underneath a small loose floorboard. Built as an emergency shelter, it was also where they would hide money during the day as well as my aunts and uncles when they were little, during the war (and it later became my playground while my aunt babysat me). During this time, the fabric shop became my family’s main source of income, allowing my grandmother to save up đồng to buy rice, soup, and sometimes eggs if they were lucky. Most of all, the money became instrumental in making sure her sons could escape war and get out of Vietnam. 

It was also hard to imagine that before my aunt became the shop’s owner, it was my mom who inherited it directly from their mother. Stories came to light about how my mom, who dropped out of high school as a young teenager, took over the family business, struggling to keep the shop safe. During the war and after, communist soldiers would raid District 7 and would purposely destroy vendors’ stalls, trashing everything in the store and tossing all the fabric onto the ground until my mom had no choice but to give the soldiers all the money they had. I even heard stories of how my mom and grandmother were thrown in jail for rebelling, speaking their minds, or selling at a price the local government disagreed with. Each time they raided the fabric shop, my mom and her siblings would have to start all over again, trying to salvage any fabric that was still good enough to sell. 

By the time my mom was 26, she could not handle the constant raids so she decided to make an escape in 1982. With all the gold my grandmother had and the money saved from the shop, my mom and her brothers eventually made it to America. She left the business behind for her younger sister to take care of, which my aunt still does to this day. Within the last 37 years, my aunt has expanded the family business, turning the original small cloth stall into an actual storefront right on the main street of Nha Be. From her teen days, trekking far on foot to find suppliers and networking with embroiderers and cloth makers, she managed to grow the shop, and curates a good portion of Nha Be’s fabric today. This past trip made me realize that for nearly 40 years, my aunt has never had a vacation. She spends more than 16 hours a day keeping the shop running and during her “weekends,” she spends time at suppliers’ warehouses, looking at new fabrics that her customers would like, and helping other people make clothes. With the money from the shop, she made sure there was food on the table for all the children in the family, helped them with school, and most importantly of all, was able to buy medicine for her parents, all while my mom and her other brothers were across the ocean, trying to survive in America. I cannot help but be in awe of her, as I know my spoiled self would not have been able to do all this. 

And so for the remainder of my last day in my aunt’s shop, all I wanted to do with her was to fold fabrics, clean up, and help get the shop ready for the next day. She kept asking if a small scarf was enough (and trying to spoil me with more love). I told her that this scarf will be everything to me and that I could not wait to wear it and be able to carry a symbol of my family’s resilience and perseverance wherever I go. She couldn’t stop laughing and making fun of me for being weird and sentimental, stating it must be an American thing. 

Anyway, I haven’t stopped wearing the scarf since.