Texas heat vs. Vietnam heat. Either way, I’m on Team Cold.
The U.S. heat wave stirs memories of arriving in ice-making, air-conditioning America.
Oanh Ngo Usadi is author of the memoir “Of Monkey Bridges and Banh Mi Sandwiches: From Sai Gon to Texas.”
This summer’s heat waves have brought dangerous temperatures across much of the United States and beyond. Another one arrived this week. I know the consequences can be serious for many, and my own discomfort is insignificant, but even on my morning walks at 7, I feel steamy.
“But you grew up in Vietnam …” friends say when I complain, as if I should be indifferent to the heat, or even enjoy it. By that logic, I’d feel the same about mosquito bites.
I think most people are naturally either Team Hot or Team Cold. Not that anyone enjoys head-roasting heat or bone-chilling cold. But, mostly, we each have one kind of misery we tolerate better than the other.
When I was a child, my family left Vietnam and arrived in Texas in the springtime. Having known only two kinds of weather — heat with rain or heat without rain — I fell in love with the crisp, cool air outdoors. Then, almost overnight, as it does in Texas, summer arrived, with the relentless, intense heat I thought I had left behind.
In our new home, the answer to heat seemed to be to create cold: cold drinks and cold treats — things I loved but had rarely known.
In Vietnam, ice came in enormous blocks, much like it did in America a century ago, before refrigerators became common. If you found someone selling ice, you bought a chunk, carried it home, and cracked it into smaller pieces to savor. Ice was a luxury. More commonly, we sipped tea piping hot from tiny cups. It was supposed to cool the body, but my thirst often couldn’t wait. I remember gulping it down, burning my tongue and somehow making myself even hotter.
In Texas, to my astonishment, tea came in tall glasses filled to the brim with ice. And there was always more ice waiting in the freezer. Even better was ice cream, available year-round in so many flavors. It was an affordable treat we could enjoy in a new country, even if money was always tight.
The kind of cold I adored most was air conditioning. Outside might be blazing hot, but behind closed doors — at school, the library, the grocery store — AC awaited. But not at home. The air conditioner sat unused. Instead, we kept fans running and windows open, just as we had in Vietnam, chasing every breeze. But American homes seemed to be built differently, designed to keep the weather out rather than invite it in.
After a few years, we could finally afford to run the air conditioner, but only at night. It was one of my happiest memories growing up on the Gulf Coast.
In America, heat and sun were not always treated as the same thing. Some people seemed to dislike the former but embrace the latter. They sunbathed, tanned and revealed more skin when the weather turned hot. In Vietnam, I never saw anyone willingly expose their skin to sunlight. The stronger the sun, the more people covered up: long sleeves, long pants, face masks beneath broad-brimmed conical hats, with only their eyes peeking out.
Eventually, most residents of hot climates across the globe arrive at the same conclusion: You don’t beat the heat outside, you accept it and, if possible, organize your life around it. Wake before sunrise. Do your outdoor chores. Once the sun takes over, retreat indoors until late afternoon.
By the time I had children, I was well versed in Texas summers. What I never learned was to like them. Wrangling three children anywhere meant strollers, car seats, booster seats, sweat dripping into my eyes, someone crying, someone refusing to buckle. Then, inevitably, a cheerful neighbor would slow her car to wave and chat, catching me at my least chatty.
I lived for jacket-and-sweater days from December to February, even if my friends said they didn’t count as real winter. That sounded even better. When my husband’s work moved us to New Jersey, I told everyone I was ready for a real winter.
“But you grew up in Vietnam ...” they said.
The first snowstorm in the Northeast buried our front steps. Walking through snow, oddly, reminded me of trudging through muddy rice fields in Vietnam, each step sinking deeper than expected. I just had to trust that there would eventually be solid ground underneath.
“Bone-chilling” turned out to be surprisingly accurate, but layered clothing really worked. When in doubt, add another sweater or scarf. I discovered something wonderful about cold: With the right clothing, being outside becomes tolerable, even cozy, especially if you keep moving. After one winter in New Jersey, I was firmly Team Cold.
My husband’s work eventually brought us back to Texas. On morning walks, I noticed squirrels racing up and down trees. Once, on a broiling day, I saw a squirrel sprawled flat on a branch, looking exhausted, its hind legs stretched far behind it. Team Cold turned out to have more members than I realized. We know the ultimate secret: When it comes to heat, acceptance is the first step. Eventually, the only option is surrender.
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