Street vendor's cry

In the early 1990s, my parents moved from the Southwest to the Southeast of Vietnam in search of a way out of poverty. In this new land, the landscape was wild and sparsely populated, so my parents built a thatched-roof, mud-walled house on a small plot of land borrowed from a distant relative.

Throughout the year, my father worked as a laborer, cutting trees for firewood and making charcoal, while my mother stayed home to look after me and grow crops. Our family life would have continued peacefully like that if my mother hadn't suddenly passed away after a stroke. I was only five years old at the time. The cheerful, generous man that my father once was gradually lost his smile. He grieved for his kind wife whose life was cut short, and even more so for his young child who had lost her mother so early.

My father became emaciated in a short time. He was consumed by his own grief. But then he had to face reality, with his young child needing care and the support of the villagers, and he gradually regained his spirits. He started looking for another job, because he couldn't take me into the forest with him anymore. Back then, materials were scarce, so the demand for recycling was very high. My father researched the work and started buying and selling scrap metal. He tied a small chair to the front frame of his bicycle for me to sit on, and behind him, he strapped two large logs together to make a makeshift cart to carry the scrap metal he bought. The cry, "Anyone selling scrap metal, broken aluminum, plastic, or nylon?..." has been with me ever since.

The people in the area felt sorry for my father and me, struggling to make ends meet, so they would gather up any broken or discarded items for my father to buy. Occasionally, the aunts and uncles would give me a few candies, sometimes even a dozen chicken eggs… My father and I will never forget those acts of kindness. After a day of wandering around, my father would bathe, cook me a meal, and then sort the pile of recyclable materials so he could take them to the recycling center early the next morning.

I grew up and went to school, no longer riding around with my father on his old bicycle every day. But every evening, I still helped him sort recyclable materials, and the sounds of our conversations and laughter made the house less lonely.

When I was in high school, my father told me to focus on my studies and he would take care of the scrap metal business. Perhaps he was afraid I would be ashamed of his profession in front of my friends.

One day, on my way home from school, I saw my father speeding past on his cart of scrap metal, as if afraid my friends would recognize him. His weary figure tugged at my heartstrings. I quickly ran after him, calling out for him to stop, then introduced him to my friends, saying that if we had any scrap metal, we should call him to come and buy it. After the initial awkwardness, my father smiled brightly in response to my friends' greetings. His smile, his radiant eyes, and the beads of sweat running down his face are images I will cherish forever.

During my four years of university, my father brought his old bicycle down to Saigon and rented a small room for the two of us to live in. He familiarized himself with the streets and made connections, continuing with his familiar street vendor's call; there wasn't a corner of Saigon that hadn't been visited by his footsteps.

After graduating, my father and I returned to our hometown to live. Having a stable job and income, I advised my father to stay home and not struggle anymore. So he put his bicycle away in a corner, like a memento of the past. He said he was too restless and bored, so I saved up and borrowed more money to open a small convenience store for him, selling candy and snacks to the children in the village. Since then, busy with his customers, my father seems younger and more cheerful.

Over the past decade or so, as my father and I adapted to our new lives and jobs, the familiar street vendor's cries, once dormant, have been reawakened. Perhaps, my father's calls are a part of our memories that, no matter how much time passes, cannot erase.

I grew up and became a teacher from my father's old bicycle loaded with scrap metal. I was never ashamed of my father's work; on the contrary, I was proud that he always loved me and did everything for me. My father taught me that every profession is valuable because it brings good things to life through one's dedication and effort.

Hello, dear viewers! Season 4, themed "Father," officially launches on December 27, 2024, across four media platforms and digital infrastructures of Binh Phuoc Radio and Television and Newspaper (BPTV), promising to bring to the public the wonderful values of sacred and beautiful fatherly love.
Please send your touching stories about fathers to BPTV by writing articles, personal reflections, poems, essays, video clips, songs (with audio recordings), etc., via email to chaonheyeuthuongbptv@gmail.com, Editorial Secretariat, Binh Phuoc Radio and Television and Newspaper Station, 228 Tran Hung Dao Street, Tan Phu Ward, Dong Xoai City, Binh Phuoc Province, phone number: 0271.3870403. The deadline for submissions is August 30, 2025.
High-quality articles will be published and shared widely, with payment for their contributions, and prizes will be awarded upon completion of the project, including one grand prize and ten outstanding prizes.
Let's continue writing the story of fathers with "Hello, My Love" Season 4, so that stories about fathers can spread and touch everyone's hearts!

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