My mother and uncle had me cornered, each grabbing my arm. He started pouring sunflower oil over my hand. Mum hovered to my right clutching a green jade bangle, ready to push it onto my wrist once it was slippery enough.
She had been surprised when I first expressed interest in wearing one. “You know they’re for old ladies, right?” But I was more surprised when she pulled one out from a dusty jewellery box. “I bought it six months after you were born. Haven’t worn it yet,” she’d said as she placed it in my hands. It had lain dormant, wrapped in velvet and secrecy for 29 years, until she’d offered it to me.
Honestly, I didn’t know why I wanted to wear one, either. The “old lady” thing was true. Traditionally, older Chinese and Vietnamese women wear jade around their wrists to protect and heal the body, and to ward off bad spirits. I wasn’t sure why I wanted something that was so obviously Asian jammed onto myself, when I’d spent a lifetime avoiding anything that shouted ‘Vietnamese!’ too loudly.
My parents had migrated after the Vietnam War and had me, a child who grew up on a diet of Happy Meals and Disney. I thrived on groaning at their otherness. The way they ate spaghetti with chopsticks. Belted out tragic Viet songs at karaoke. Slathered their cheeseburgers with sriracha sauce. These cultural faux pas felt like a suffocating grit I couldn’t wash off, no matter how much I tried to bathe myself in conformity.
Traditionally, older Chinese and Vietnamese women wear jade around their wrists to protect and heal the body
As a kid, I’d watch the women in my family with anthropological remove, fascinated and mortified in equal measure. A gaggle of clucking aunties, grandmothers and cousins, I’d cringe as they loudly spat Vietnamese animatedly at one another, on the bus or at the mall. Their jade bangles would slip around next to their garish pearly pink nails as they chatted, gesturing wildly. I could feel people looking at them, my skin prickling with embarrassment.
The action in my childhood kitchen didn’t happen at the breakfast bar, like they did on cereal ads and sitcoms, but on the linoleum floor. It was where fish were cleaved and cabbages shredded. On particular Saturday afternoons, the women of the house would gather in the kitchen while beers cooled in the fridge, and get to work on the evening’s feast. They would perch on stout plastic stools, their green bangles tinkling against gold bracelets as they chopped lemongrass, washed fresh herbs and mixed nước mắm pha.
Historically, jade bangles indicated social status. But the only status I saw in them was ‘outsider’. Growing up, I did my best to not disturb the air around me, and instead tried to disappear into the day-glow colours of the books, magazines and music videos I voraciously consumed. I begged Mum for Air Jordans (she got me imitations) and adorned my hair in cheap, shimmery hair barrettes I’d seen the girls on TV wear.
When I was 10, I announced to one of my friends in the schoolyard that I was going to change my name to Stacey. I was sick of teachers and kids not being able to wrap their tongues around ‘Tuong Vi’. ‘Stacey’ had the right amount of cheerleader to it.
Fitting in necessarily means shedding parts of yourself that don’t fit into the mould. You squeeze yourself in, and stay as still as possible, hoping that no one will notice you. As I crept into adulthood, I barely took a breath.
They say that jade is alive, and will absorb whatever energy you emanate. The colour will change over time. If you are happy and healthy, it will improve in clarity and become more beautiful the longer you wear it. Its healing qualities help you release negative thoughts, remove toxins and will bring perfect harmony to your life.
Vivian Huynh and her traditional jewellery. Source: Supplied
After a time, I stopped trying to fit in. People would see what they wanted to see when they looked at me. Maybe they’d see an immigrant or ‘Miss Saigon’, or maybe they’d just see a person. No amount of ‘Staceys’ and plastic barrettes was going to change that.
So I let myself expand fully and spill out into my otherness. I spoke loudly on the phone in my mother tongue. I sang karaoke with lust. I squirted sriracha sauce wherever I wanted to, thank you very much. I let my hands get sticky with durian. And I started to breathe again.
A jade bangle needs to be worn tight on the arm, to minimise wear and tear and to stimulate acupuncture points, as it rattles against your wrist bones day-to-day. The jade becomes energised by the daily contact with your body. It becomes a part of you.
With a last push and a grunt, the bangle was on my wrist
My uncle struggled with the bracelet, carefully pushing the hard stone over my hand whilst trying not to hurt me. Mum took over, exasperated. With a last push and a grunt, the bangle was on my wrist. Bruises were already forming on the sides of my hand, but the pain was over. The three of us stared at it in silence. “Well, that’s not coming off. You’re stuck with it now,” Mum said wryly.
Later, my aunties gathered around my hand, cooing over the green stone.
“It’s got a beautiful shine. The colour will deepen well,” murmured one.
Another sighed. “I wore one for a while, but it became dull and milky. I had to have it broken off with a hammer. Imagine!”
Mum stood to the side, eyes shining. “It’s nice that she’s wearing one, isn’t it?” she smiled, glancing at me. “The young ones don’t tend to be interested in having one these days.”
A few years later, it still sits on my wrist. It’s hard, but delicate. The gentle emerald green has grown into something shinier, with more character. There are light tendrils of white that run through it. Sometimes I’ll twist the bangle absentmindedly, drawing comfort from the solid crystal. Maybe it’s doing its job and absorbing all the nervous energy. Healing me.
I catch people looking at it sometimes. Sometimes they ask whether it makes me uncomfortable, knowing I can’t just take it off whenever I want to.
But it’s not uncomfortable at all. Not really. You just wear it. And watch the colour deepen.
