Staff Writer- William Tran
In Vietnam, in the land where people rise even before the sun, smiles are the first thing that brightens a new day. Among the mountains rolling like waves and the terraced fields stretching toward the sky, mornings in my hometown always begin with a chill sharp enough to make any newcomer pause. Fog blankets the valley, wooden roofs fade in and out behind a milky-white curtain, and roosters crow from afar as if awakening the entire forest. But beneath that thick veil of mist, beneath the dim haze of dawn, one thing always shines brighter than sunrise: “the smiles of the people who live here”.
In this land, hardship is something everyone learns before they even learn to speak. The father of a family often wakes at four in the morning, sometimes even earlier. He rises as quietly as possible so he won’t wake anyone, then steps outside when the earth is still swallowed in darkness. He walks through the fog, through the cold, through the unspoken worries he carries alone. Every day, his feet ache from climbing steep rocky paths; his back has bent after years of labor; his sunburned skin has long forgotten its original color.
Yet on that sweat-soaked face, there is always a gentle, steady smile. Not because he isn’t tired, but because, as a father, he chooses to sleep a little less so his family can sleep a little more. His greatest happiness is protecting the people he loves—as long as they rest well, laugh freely, his new day feels worthwhile. That smile is a small but unwavering flame, like the warm glow of a kerosene lamp on a foggy morning, accompanied by the quiet pride of someone who knows exactly what he is living for. In that smile lies the dignity of a working man and the deep love of someone willing to shoulder every burden so those behind him can walk a little lighter.
The mothers in my hometown are gentle yet extraordinary in their own way. On some days, they eat only a hurried handful of rice in the fields, then lie and say they are full just to give the warm bowl of white rice to their children. When the rain pours, their clothes become drenched and their hands numb from the cold, yet they keep pulling up weeds one by one to catch the season in time. They don’t ask for much—only to see their children grow a little taller, a little stronger, so their futures may stretch farther than the cracked dirt paths in front of the house.
Sometimes, under the flickering lamplight, a mother sits sewing a torn sleeve, her lips curled into a peaceful smile. Not because life is easy, but because she chooses to place others’ happiness before her own. Each time she sees her children eat well, sleep well, every sacrifice feels lighter. A mother’s smile is as soft as the wind, yet strong enough to warm even the coldest rainy days: as long as her children worry less and go hungry one time fewer, every hardship turns into joy.
The older siblings grow up with scarcity, yet their hearts overflow with love. They are familiar with corn-mixed meals, with eating one meal then skipping the next two, with the fact that the only time they taste meat is during the Lunar New Year. Instead of complaining or rebelling, they endure quietly so the younger ones can have one more bite, grow one more bit. Yet when given a bowl of hot rice porridge on the first days of spring, they smile as if the whole world had embraced them.
It’s not because the food tastes good, but because they feel loved and cared for. Their smile belongs to those who have lived too long in deprivation and thus understand deeply the value of every moment of fullness. It is how they remind themselves: life may not give them much, but as long as they gather, share, and stay close, they still have a reason to smile.
And finally, there are the children—green shoots pushing up through rock and soil. Every morning, they walk to school barefoot for nearly an hour along muddy mountain paths. Sometimes they slip, sometimes the mud clings heavily to their steps, yet they still run and sing because ahead lies the horizon of knowledge; the old but warm classroom; the future they long to reach.
Their smiles are the brightest sunlight in this land—strong enough to erase the scrapes on their knees and the cold seeping through their thin shirts. In those smiles is the innocence of childhood, but also a fierce faith that even hardship cannot take away. Their laughter is light as the first birdsong, signaling that this land still holds hope to grow. It is the smile that makes even onlookers smile back, for it reminds us that knowledge is the key that opens a new sky.
All of these things—the early mornings, the shared meals, the muddy feet, the sunburnt backs, and the smiles bright as dawn—are where I grew up. A land where adults hand their future to the children, where those who have a little more build schools, build classrooms, and build hope for those who have less. Here, smiles are not decorations for life, but the way people pass their love to one another.
Only after leaving did I understand that the smiles of my hometown are not meant to forget hardship, nor are they forced optimism. They are distilled from contentment, from recognizing that happiness lies in the smallest things. My people do not try to become truly rich; everyone tries to share their smile with those around them. They smile because they understand that happiness does not have to be grand—sometimes it is simply a full meal, a sunny day, or a child arriving at school safely.
Only when I grew older did I realize that this smile is the greatest gift my hometown gave me. It is like a quiet compass that keeps me from losing myself amid the chaos of foreign lands. Whenever I am tired, all I need is to remember the father’s smile in the early morning, the mother’s smile beside the fire, the siblings’ smile over a bowl of rice porridge, or the children’s laughter on the muddy road… and my heart feels lighter, warmer, and brave enough to move forward.
On my journey to a place half a world away, if I could bring only one thing from home, I would bring the smile—the light that has never once faded within me.