It was spring 1998. I was studying abroad in Vietnam with 12 other American college students. We were there to immerse ourselves in the culture, people, history, and land of this Southeast Asian country. We followed the rhythms of the day as day turned to night.

In the evenings, we ate Pho at street-side stalls. The heat and the aroma wafted from the bowls, as we sat on our plastic stools. We slurped up the goodness as sweat poured down our faces. We were ready to take our full bellies dancing.

“Where should we go?” Jasmine asked as she stood up from her stool.

Anne, who had grown up visiting family in Vietnam, said between bites, “my cousins like to go to a place called Apocalypse Now.”

I took out my Lonely Planet guidebook and read aloud, ‘Apo’ has been around since 1991 and remains one of the must-visit clubs in town. It’s a sprawling place with a big dance floor and a courtyard, and its eclectic cast combines travelers, expats, Vietnamese movers and shakers, plus the odd working girl. Expect pounding techno.”

Melanie smiled, “Sounds like we at least have to go check it out,” then frowned, “I am not sure how I feel about the “odd working girl” but in this city, it doesn’t surprise me.”

We followed the directions from the book and made it to the entrance of the club. Spice Girls, Wannabe, was blasting from the speakers. The dance floor was packed with people, mostly Americans and Vietnamese. 

“I think we need some liquid courage,” I commented as we made our way to the bar. 

“Yes, please.” Anne agreed. “Em muon bon Bombay Sapphire Gin and Tonics, lam on,” she said in Vietnamese. 

With our G and Ts in hand, we headed to the dance floor. The music was thumping and the dancefloor was beginning to fill up with people gyrating to the music. I stayed on the periphery to get a better view and have some space. It was a little quieter and I could hear myself think better. 

A tall, dark, and handsome man came over to me. Oh no, I thought. I don’t know how to flirt. What am I going to say to him?

Since the music was so loud, he got close, a little too close.  “Hi,” he said. His eyes were the color of caramel.

“Hi,” I replied, fiddling with my drink straw. “Do you come here often?” 

Did I really just say that? I have been watching way too many American sitcoms.

“No, this is my first time here. My name is Jean. What is your name?” 

I detected a faint French accent. “My name is Hannah. What are you doing here in Vietnam?” I asked. 

“I am visiting from Cameroon. I am on holiday with some friends.” He motioned with his head to another corner of the dance floor. 

I had so many questions! I have never met someone from Cameroon. What is it like there? Is French the official language of Cameroon? My thoughts were interrupted, when Jean said, “Do you want to dance?”

“Sure,” Jean and I made our way to the dance floor. 

The DJ was playing Ace of Base. I closed my eyes and listened to the lyrics.

“I saw the sign and I opened up my eyes, I saw the sign.” Suddenly, I heard some kerfuffle. I opened my eyes to see five or six Vietnamese women hitting Jean with their handbags and screaming at him. I stood there motionless. What is going on? I thought to myself. He hasn’t done anything wrong? 

Jean was a big man, but looked powerless from the mob of angry women throwing their loaded handbags at him. He held up his arms to block his face, yielding to the injustice. It was then that I saw what the Vietnamese women saw: A black man dancing with a white woman. But, I didn’t feel what they felt. Were they trying to protect me? Were the women justifying their actions as brave and noble? This is so fucked up, I thought. 

“Dung lai!” I screamed. “Stop!” I pulled Jean away from the dance floor and ran to my friends, who witnessed the melee. 

“We need to leave NOW!” His friends also saw what was happening and ran out of there. 

All seven of us (four Americans and three Cameroonians) reconvened outside. 

“What just happened?” Jean’s friend asked in confusion. 

“I don’t know. I was dancing with Hannah,” Jean replied, as he pointed to me. “And then these ladies started hitting me.”

“Those women were racist,” Jasmine said angrily, “you were the target of their prejudices.”

“I didn’t think there would be racism against blacks in Vietnam,” Melaine said innocently.

I shook my head, “racism is systemic.”

From that night on, I started noticing microaggressions everywhere. The American tourists disregard of Vietnamese “street people.” The North Vietnamese disdain for the Western views of the South Vietnamese. The Vietnamese prejudism against Cambodians. Although these were isolated occurrences, racism and injustices did happen and still happen in Vietnam today. The night at the dance club proved that. 

After that night I was able to walk away and go back to the freedoms I have as a white American. Jean did not. I wonder where he is now and how he remembers that night. I wonder if he feels free.