ExclusiveThe Conical Hat: A Gentle Mark of Vietnamese Women | Vietnam Within Us

Welcome to Vietnam Within Us. I don't know when the conical hat first appeared. I only know that for a very, very long time, from one generation to the next, it has been there, quietly passing through the lives of Vietnamese women. It follows my mother to work, the neighbors to the fields, the grandmothers to market, and the price on their wedding day. Sometimes, it follows someone far away. To a place many rose from home. You know, as a child, I never thought the hat was anything special. In my village, people wore hats so often that it seemed a natural part of life. In the sun, you wore a hat. Going to work, a hat. Going to the market, a hat too. I saw hat rims flickering along village roads, out in the fields, and in front of houses. But I never stop to think about them, perhaps when something is too familiar. We don't know that it is already living in our memory. You know, for me, the conical hat begins with my mother. I remember mom coming home from work, the hat still on her head some afternoons as she stepped into the yard. I saw the familiar brim before I could even make out her face. The hat went with her all day, was set down somewhere in the house, and the next day was put on again to follow her once more. Back then, I thought nothing of it. I never knew that such an ordinary sight would one day become something I remember. You know, maybe that is what childhood is. We live among familiar things without knowing we are storing them away. A mother coming home one Good afternoon. A figure crossing the yard, a hat resting by the door, is all slipped by quietly until years later, grown and far from home, and we suddenly remember and find those days were never lost. I remember the neighbors heading out to the field each day. The women of my village had little to shield them from the hard sun in the fields, so the hat was almost always on their heads. The brim tilt over their faces, blocking part of the sun, while their hands and bodies stay quick at work. The country roads back then were nothing special either. We passed along them every day, grown-ups off to work, children running and playing, everyone going wherever they were going. But in my memory now, those roads often have had rims on them too. Sometimes I think I miss home not because of anything grand, home in my memory, maybe just a figure of her head, a brim tilt in the sun, voices calling from the land, or my mom working back after a day's work. I wore that hat too, more times than I can count. As a child, I wore it because the sun was out. I didn't think more than that. The hat covered a small patch above my head, and I just walked on. But now remembering, I don't only remember the sun of those days. I remember the particular feeling of the brim tipping down before my face and the wind slipping through it, the road underfoot and the people beside me. Those feelings are hard to name. I only know when I think of them. that I was one there, lived through those days, and wore a very ordinary hat without knowing I would one day miss it. There's another image from my village that comes back each time I think of the conical hat. It is the bridges on the day they went to their husband's home. Sometime a new conical hat was chosen for the girl. The hat was still white, still fresh and pearl. And it went with her as she left the roof she had known since childhood. I saw this and thought simply, today the bride has a new hat. But the older I grew, the more I felt something hard to put into words in that image. The hat was something people wore every day. My mother wore it to work, the village women wore it to the fields, and grandmothers wore it to market. And yet one day, it went with a young woman as she left her mother's house for another family. Nothing elaborate, just a new hat on a young woman's head. But perhaps the big changes in life sometimes begin with simple images just like this one. Then I remember the old woman selling vegetables at the market, Their hats worn all by the years. Still sat on their heads, keeping off the sun and simply part of life by now. When the heat built up, they would lift the brim, fan themselves a few beats, then put it back on. As a child, I saw the motion many times without a thought. Remembering now, I feel a very gentle tenderness. Those women lived through so many sunny seasons, so many market days, so many mornings and evenings, and the hats on their heads grew all along with them. Some women give their whole life to a very ordinary work. They go to work, go to market, raise children and look after the family. They never think they are making a beautiful picture. They are simply living their lives. Maybe that is exactly why the image stays so long. I have seen girls in Ao Dai and Koniko hat. It is a lovely sight. But what's staying with me is not quite the beauty of the tonic or the hat. I like the sense of familiarity it brings. A young woman, a hat in her hand, a brim tipped gently, and somewhere in it, I still see the shadow of the women of my village, and then as I travel farther from home, I began to see that hat with different eyes. I have come across people living far from home who carry a conical hat with them in a place so different from where they grew up. That hat suddenly makes me think of home. I don't know why each of them carried it. Maybe it is just a familiar object. Maybe to youth, to decorate, or simply because they like it. You know, but I still think there are things people carry for more than just being an object. After all, when we leave home, we cannot take everything. We can't just take a whole village road. We can't take the feel that held our childhood days. We can't take mom's call from inside the house, a familiar market day. Or the silhouette of women in hats walking down the road. But sometimes a hat can come along, just one hat. Yet, it can make a person remember a faraway countryside. I think about this and remember my mother again. Back then, mom wore the hat to work, and I was a child who only knew how to watch her come home. I never imagined a day when I could leave the familiar roads, stand somewhere else, and think of a hat rim. The older I get, the more I see that some things from childhood don't need to be beautiful or special to be remembered. Sometimes the most ordinary things stay longest because they were present for so many of our days. Michael hat is probably one of those things for me. It belongs to more than a pretty photograph, an ao dai, or the stories people usually tell about Vietnamese culture. To me, it was the hat on my mother's head, the woman walking out to the field, the old woman beside basket of greens at the market, the new hat of a bride on her wedding day, and the hat I wore countless times back home. These images link together so naturally. Like fragments of memory that seemed unrelated until one day, we realized they live in the same land of remembering. Some afternoons, as she stepped into the yard, I saw that familiar brim before I could even make out her face. Even now, I remember, and perhaps that is how a conical hat stays in a person's life. It needs no name, no guarding as something sacred. It simply rests in a corner of memory until one day, far from home, we catch sight of a brim tilt in the sun and suddenly remember mom, home, and the roads we once walked.