Ocean Vuong’s On Earth we’re Briefly Gorgeous examines the power of language and storytelling. Vuong’s protagonist, Little Dog, is Vietnamese American, and English is his second language. Language is also central to Little Dog’s identity as a writer, and the novel, which constitutes a letter to Little Dog’s illiterate mother, Rose, further draws attention to words and language. Storytelling, too, is foundational in Little Dog’s life, and the stories his mother and grandmother, Lan, tell of Vietnam connect Little Dog to his history and heritage. Little Dog frequently refers to the works of Roland Barthes, a 20th-century French literary critic and theorist. Barthes is best known for his contribution to structuralism, an area of study that assumes human culture can only be understood by its relationship to a broader social structure, such as language. In Little Dog’s letter to his mother, he adopts Barthes’s view of structuralism and explores language in both writing and storytelling. He considers individual words and the structure of sentences, as well as the power of personal narratives. Just as Barthes argues culture can only be understood by its broader social structures, Vuong argues that to truly understand another, one must also understand the stories that give structure to life.
Little Dog examines both English and Vietnamese, and like Barthes, he concludes that language is steeped in the culture that creates it. Language can’t be understood without a grasp of the broader social structure. When Little Dog is a kid, a hummingbird hovers over a nearby flower, and Rose points to it excitedly. “Ðẹp quá!” she says, “It’s beautiful!” Little Bird says in English, “the only language [he has] for it.” They smile blankly at each other, neither one understanding the other. Rose grew up in Vietnam, but most of Little Dog’s life is spent in the United States, and their cultural differences are reflected in their language. According to Little Dog, the Vietnamese rarely say “I love you,” and when they do, they say it in English. “Care and love,” Little Dog explains, “are pronounced clearest through service” for the Vietnamese, and to express that emotion in words, they must go to an entirely different language. In Hartford, Connecticut, where Little Dog grows up, locals greet each other with “What’s good?” not “Hello” or “How are you?” Life is often difficult for Hartford’s working class population, and the point of the greeting, Little Dog says, is “to move, right away, to joy” and push “aside what was inevitable to reach the exceptional.” This completely unique greeting can only be understood within the cultural context of Harford.
Just as Little Dog explores language in On Earth we’re Briefly Gorgeous, he also explores storytelling, which, like language, reflects the unique culture and structure of Little Dog’s life. Little Dog’s love for stories is born with Mrs. Callahan, his English language teacher, who, with her stories, pulls Little Dog “deeper into the current of language.” Little Dog learns English through stories, and the importance of stories continues throughout his life. When Little Dog is a boy, he plucks the grey hairs from his grandmother’s head, as she tells him stories of their life back in Vietnam. As Little Dog plucks Lan’s hair, the room is filled with her stories, and the floor whitens “as the past unfolds around [them].” Little Dog learns about his Vietnamese identity through Lan’s stories, which further reflects the importance of storytelling. Little Dog runs away from home when he is just a boy, taking with him only “a bag of Cheerios taken out of the box, a pair of socks, and two Goosebumps paperbacks.” Little Dog doesn’t know where he is headed, but with the books, Little Dog knows there are “at least two more world” he can “eventually step into.” Stories are necessary for Little Dog’s life, second only to food and possibly warmth.
In On Earth we’re Briefly Gorgeous, Little Dog tries to explain to his mother through stories what life is like as a writer. “You asked me what it’s like to be a writer and I’m giving you a mess, I know,” Little Dog says to Rose. “But it’s a mess, Ma—I’m not making this up. I made it down.” Little Dog’s letter often reads as random stories and memories, which often seem unconnected and insignificant. “I’m not telling you a story so much as a shipwreck,” Little Dog says, “the pieces floating, finally legible.” Little Dog’s stories, as well as the language he uses to tell them, are a direct reflection of his life and identity, which one must understand to truly know Little Dog.
Language and Storytelling ThemeTracker
Language and Storytelling Quotes in On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
If we are lucky, the end of the sentence is where we might begin. If we are lucky, something is passed on, another alphabet written in the blood, sinew, and neuron; ancestors charging their kin with the silent propulsion to fly south, to turn toward the place in the narrative no one was meant to outlast.
“You have to be a real boy and be strong. You have to step up or they’ll keep going You have a bellyful of English. […] You have to use it, okay?”
As a girl, you watched, from a banana grove, your schoolhouse collapse after an American napalm raid. At five, you never stepped into a classroom again. Our mother tongue, then, is no mother at all—but an orphan. Our Vietnamese a time capsule, a mark of where your education ended, ashed. Ma, to speak in our mother tongue it to speak only partially in Vietnamese, but entirely in war.
In the nail salon, sorry is a tool one uses to pander until the word itself becomes currency. It no longer merely apologizes, bur insists, reminds: I'm here, right here, beneath you. It is the lowering of oneself so that the client feels right, superior, and charitable. In the nail salon, one’s definition of sorry is deranged into a new word entirely, one that’s charged and reused as both power and defacement at once. Being sorry pals, being sorry even, or especially, when one has no fault, is worth every self-deprecating syllable the mouth allows. Because the mouth must eat.
“I don’t like girls.”
I didn’t want to use the Vietnamese word for it—pê-đê—from the French pédé, short for pédéraste. Before the French occupation, our Vietnamese did not have name for queer bodies—because they were seen, like all bodies, fleshed and of one source—and I didn’t want to introduce this part of me using the epithet for criminals.
I’m not telling you a story so much as a shipwreck—the pieces floating, finally legible.