The Swimming Pool: An Edmonton arrival story, by Thuc Cong

The swimming pool was nice and clean. The ropes divided the width into 4 lanes. It reminded me of the swimming pools back home in Saigon. I spent my entire youth swimming. I knew all the pools in the city really well. At the high school where I attended there was a nice pool that I used every morning. It was the only high school with a swimming pool in the heart of Saigon. Back in those days, there was no lifeguard. Students swam at their own risk. The most important policy had nothing to do with the safety of the swimmer or the use of the pool: “no bikinis in the pool.” All swimmers had to wear one-piece bathing suits and after the swim we had to change quickly even though the school was an all girl school.


As it got late, nobody was in the water. I dragged the hose, cleaned the deck and went back to the changing room where I had to clean the washrooms, check the lockers, and get ready for tomorrow’s use.


It was my first night on this job. I was nervous. The job paid just four dollars an hour but I needed it. If I did not do my job properly, I would lose my job. My first challenge was the roll of toilet paper that ran out. I examined the case but had no clue how to open it. I looked around for help but I was on my own. The co-worker briefly showed me what to do and left right after her shift. A few late swimmers were showering. Looking at them, I was shocked: they were all naked. Some were shampooing, some were applying the body wash while singing. In a corner, some were styling their hair. It was a pleasant scene but I was not used to that. A naked woman in public, even of the same gender, was still shocking to me. Coming from a country where women had to be covered most of the time, I found this situation a little awkward. I remembered when I was in high school, the teacher, the principal, or vice principal, always made sure their students had a camisole over their bras. Any student who showed her bra straps would be called into the principal’s office or sent home. My mother was even stricter. All the girls in the home were taught that showing the panty line was not acceptable and wearing white trousers were “sexually appealing” to the opposite gender. When we had our periods, we had to wear black trousers and the top had to cover our butts. Nothing could show! In a way, women were forced to be invisible. In my grandma’s generation, girls did not go to school. Her parents feared that if she were literate, she would read and write love letters. And there was no point for girls to go to school because they had to follow their mother’s path: get married and start a family. Many girls got married as early as thirteen years of age and became the slave of their husband as well as their in-laws. Now the naked women in front of me gave me an quick impression that women in a western country were open minded. They had nothing to hide, nothing to cover. I saw freedom in them.


Five minutes passed and I was still struggling with the new roll of the toilet paper. I could not figure out how to put the new roll in. Noticing I was in need of help, a kind lady asked:


“Are you new?”


I timidly nodded. She showed some pity on me but continued to put her panty hose on. When she finished, she came closer to help. She showed me the lever under the case to pull it open. There were just the two of us left and she was about to leave too. When she put the handbag on her shoulder, she dropped her brush. I quickly picked it up and handed it to her. The woman jokingly said:


“Merci.”


It was surprising. I haven’t heard anybody speak French since I came here. Just hearing one single French word, I happily replied:


“Je vous en prie.”


The woman looked at me as if she could not believe I just spoke French to her. She asked:


“You speak French?”


“A little bit.”


Then the woman said she was cold in French:


“Je suis froide.”


My teaching experience suddenly kicked in. I quickly corrected her without thinking that I may hurt her feelings:


“No, it’s not like English. You should say J’ai froid.”


To my surprise, she was not upset. She constantly thanked me:


“Thank you. Thank you so much for correcting me. I am learning French and speak French whenever I have a chance. Now I have someone to practice with. I’ll see you
tomorrow.”


I said “Au revoir” then go back to my cleaning. The washrooms. The floors. The lockers. The garbage. All of those had to be done and I did not have much time left. I sat down on the floor, head in hands, crying.


My first night at work did not go well. I stayed an hour late to get the job done. My supervisor would not be happy tomorrow. I looked at my hands and wanted to cry again. Trained as a language teacher, I used my hands to write on the blackboard, to mark my students’ papers, to shake hands with the superintendent, the guests. Now those hands helped me make a living by cleaning a swimming pool while people were enjoying themselves. I missed swimming. I never swam since I came to Edmonton. I missed that activity so much. Making minimum wages, I could not afford swimming. I had bills to pay and some relatives back home to support. I had to pinch every penny so that I would not be short of money by the end of the month.


I never had a chance to see that lady again. I quit my janitor job the very next day. I was accepted to university. I was able to take out a student loan and pursue my new career. After five hard working years, I got a decent job and could get back to my swimming activity. My new career had nothing to do with my teaching experience but I enjoyed it. I often saw women immigrants with very little English coming to clean my office. Every time I saw a new lady, I always asked her to sit down and chat for a little while. She represented me, a newcomer who had to struggle with the new life. And every time someone left for a better job, I was happy for her. I encouraged women to fight for their better life, and most important of all, fight to be visible. We women had been in the dark for so long. We had to be aware that when we had some light on, the dark had to leave. It could not tell us that it had been there for a long time, the light could not be there. Be visible! If we were not seen, we were not heard and we would pass our invisibility on to our daughters, granddaughters and the next, next generations.