Every time I cook ramen, my mind wanders back to a bittersweet childhood memory of "Mì Gõ", which is a Vietnamese term for "knocking noodles." The name is descriptive of the "knocking" sound that these street vendors make with two pieces of woods, to signal their existence to potential customers.

Everyday, as my cousin and I were reading our comic books under the comfort of our rusty tin roof, her rhythmic "knocking" would pass by in the evening, letting us know she was near. The vendor was only about 1-2 years older than we were, so she was around 8-9 years old. Her "mì gõ" sound was a piercing reminder that while our rusty tin roof was far from wealthy, we were still quite privileged compared to most of the population our age.

And despite her age, our young vendor had already established a melodic complexity in the rhythm of her percussion that was UNIQUE to her own style. If she didn't have to sell noodles on the street at the age of 9, I suspect she could have become a world-famous musician. Destiny is cruel and incomprehensible.

One day, my cousin and I had a “bright” idea, or at least what our 7-year-old brains thought was bright. We wanted to help the girl but we had no allowance money. So we planned to call her over and instead of purchasing "mì gõ" from her, we would give her a bag of rice, because who WOULDN'T want rice, right?

Unbeknownst to our innocent obliviousness at the time, most of these minor street vendors either had an alcoholic parent of at home, or they were forced to be part of an organized crime ring. And in both cases, their guardians do not want the children to bring back anything except money, and would often punish them if they missed their quotas.

Our plan went about as well as you think it did. She took one BEWILDERED look at us like we were idiots for wasting her time, and rightfully so, and silently walked away, her rhythmic knocking continued without missing a beat in the distance, melancholically harmonizing with the the splish-splash-sploosh of her rain soaked, worn-out rubber sandals.

In the darkness, the hazy summer rain thinly veiled two worlds: one of two young children who were too innocent to know any better, and one of the child who knew too much because she had no choice.

I think of her often, and wonder whatever became of the "mì gõ" girl. But like the drifting Water Hyacinths and the forsaken "broken rice lady by the Đồng Nai River," if I cannot change their fates, then perhaps it is my task to tell the world their stories.