Imagine this: It’s 1943 and World War II has been going on for close to five years. You’re a young, enthusiastic, beautiful American female coming of age in a turbulent time period. You feel restless and want to help, knowing that so many young men (most likely someone in your own family) have joined the war, and you want to do something to scratch that itch. Maybe you don’t know what you want to do with your life. Maybe you’ve just graduated from college and you’re looking for a new experience. Maybe community service has always been in your blood. Maybe you were inspired (or coerced) by your best friend or neighbor—another female—to do something about this seemingly endless war. But you don’t know what exactly. You go about your days, stewing, thinking about how to make the most of your time on earth.
Then you get your chance. The American Red Cross is recruiting volunteers for their “Clubmobile,” which are these large trucks or vans that drive around U.S. military bases in Great Britain, where venues called Service Clubs have been set up for these men. Part entertainment, part socialization, the venue is where you might be able to meet a cute guy in uniform. (Come on, let’s not kid ourselves here—you are young, after all, and you want to find your true love.) The purpose of these vans? To hand out donuts and coffee for these soldiers when they’re not fighting on the front lines, that is.
You sign up without thinking much about it, and off you go—Liverpool, London, pretty much all over the UK. Along with a small group of girls close to your age, you drive around army bases, talking with the men, keeping them company, listening to their woes, all the while smiling and being perfect (you must wear makeup and be well dressed, nothing should be out of place). Basically, you get to charm these men with food and conversation. And they love it. It’s an adventure for both parties.
I first learned of this story last week, when I indulged in many episodes of the Great British Baking Show: The Beginnings on Netflix. The story about these women—called Donut Dollies—popped up randomly (like a side note) during episode seven of the season. Between cakes, pies, desserts and biscuits, I learned about a particular subset of women whose stories are virtually unknown, for I’ve never heard of these “volunteers” serving up food and company during any war before.
What makes it really interesting is that there were standards these women had to follow. Many of them were college graduates. Many were beautiful and of course, all young. In addition to making the coffee and the donuts and serving it to military men, they had to be poised and ready to smile and serve and engage in conversation. It makes me think: there are so many ways to serve during a war, not just on the front lines. These women are incredible, and their story deserves to be known. And yet we don’t know about them. Or at least I didn’t prior to watching Great British Baking Show.
It reminds me of a story that my mother told me recently when I had a conversation with her about my father and their younger days. It was a long and interesting conversation and afterwards, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I couldn’t sleep that night, thinking about how my mom, like these Donut Dollies, was introduced to the labor force via unconventional ways.
In late 1968, shortly after my brother Long was born, my mom was unexpectedly thrust into single parenthood. My father was taken away for about six years (that’s a story for another day) and during this time, my mom had to figure out a way to survive without her husband’s help. So she lived with her in-laws (my dad’s parents) while she raised her infant son. She began working for the Americans, she said, a term called xo mỹ which roughly translates into ‘American.’ That’s it.
When I tried to Google this particular role, or whatever it was, I couldn’t find a thing. Like the Donut Dollies, her job went hidden and unnoticed, and it wasn’t until recently when we talked that the particular period of her life resurfaced. She didn’t or couldn’t explain exactly what she did. As a young woman with an elementary school education, I can imagine that the majority of what she did was manual labor—cleaning, organizing, laundry, etc. It served a purpose—it allowed her to go to work outside the home and make some money. As a result, she gave most of the money to my grandparents (because my brother stayed with them while she worked) and saved a bit on the side, enough so that by the time my dad came home in 1974, they were able to build a house.
It was a modest sized house, a house that represented the fruits of my mother’s labor. Made out of cement from top to bottom, it was located up the street from the village church, tucked away next to other similar homes, close to my grandparents’ house. In 1975, right before the Vietnam War ended, it was raided, presumably by the north Vietnamese soldiers. Many homes in their village were destroyed during that loot, but luckily my parents’ home had a solid foundation and were able to sustain the trauma. When the war officially ended and the raid was over, they went back to the house and rebuilt it, and it became the house I grew up in.
So much of my parents’ younger days were spent there, from growing yams to farming to births and deaths and weddings and fights. There is a guava tree in the backyard that produced a lot of fruit. A lot. My brother Tony loved to climb that guava tree, much to my father’s chagrin. We also had a well that my brother Long used to climb on top of, and almost fell into once. In the front yard, there are cactus and banana trees and other plants I can’t remember right now but there is one in particular, I stood in front of with my mother when I was eight years old. We were both skinny, me in a yellow and white top, gray pants and white sandals while my mom is in a loose fitting maroon blouse and pants—the style that many Vietnamese women wore back then. I vaguely remember posing for this photo. It was the year that my aunt Kim and her family visited us.
Aunt Kim had immigrated to America in the late 80s, one of the lucky few who got sponsored by her husband’s side of the family. She raised her sons in America and the four of them settled into a typical middle class family life in Boston. At least, that’s where they lived when my own family came to America in 1995. Shortly thereafter, they moved to Oregon to be closer to us.
Anyway, during this visit in the early 90s, I remember thinking that my aunt was the coolest person on earth. Before that, I was simply a village girl who had never been exposed to any “Viet Kieu” (what Vietnamese people call their own people who immigrated to America) or Americans at all! I had no idea that people existed far beyond my own world. Unlike my mom, I did not come of age during a time when other people who didn’t look like me were around me. Thus, I was enamored. It was the first time in my life when I realized that the world was so much bigger than I could’ve imagined.
I can imagine that some of the Donut Dollies felt the same way. Being away from home, working for free while trying to live your life amidst a war was probably difficult, but I can imagine that it was also eye opening for them. After all, it was a chance to get out and see the world, to make new friends, even if it was during a war. New experiences, no matter which direction they swing, is going to change you no matter what.
Years later, after the war ended and my mom stopped working for the Americans, she continued to work, for she loved the independence that work afforded her. Today, I feel the same way. Because my mother worked, I saw the possibility of being both a mom and a professional. It’s not easy to balance both sides, but it’s possible. Anything is possible when you’re willing to step outside of your comfort zone.