Bringing Stories Home

: A Reflective Evening with Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai in Chicago

This past Thursday, May 8, I had the honor of hosting a live, in-person author conversation with Vietnamese best-selling author Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai—a powerful and grounding experience that I’m still reflecting on.

The event was part of the Vietnamese Association of Illinois (VAI)’s commemoration of 50 years of Vietnamese community building in Illinois, and it held additional meaning as it aligned with the anniversary of the Fall of Saigon. Co-hosted by VAI and Haibayo, and supported by Women & Children First Bookstore, this evening brought together members of Chicago’s Vietnamese and AAPI communities to celebrate storytelling, healing, and connection.

We held the event at Furama Restaurant, right in the heart of the Asia on Argyle neighborhood, a historic and deeply meaningful home to many Vietnamese, Chinese, and Khmer families in Chicago. It was the perfect setting—full of community energy, family history, and cultural resilience.

This was Que Mai’s first time in Chicago, and I was thrilled to welcome her. I first interviewed her back in early 2023 for my podcast, just before the release of her second novel, Dust Child. Even before we hit “record,” I knew she was someone special—deeply curious, warm, and completely grounded. That conversation easily flowed into friendship, and I’ve been grateful to follow her journey as an author, an advocate, and a keeper of Vietnamese history and culture ever since.

Her novels, The Mountains Sing and Dust Child, are literary touchstones—works that center Vietnamese voices with tenderness, truth, and agency. And now, she’s preparing to release her poetry collection, The Color of Peace, which will no doubt continue to uplift voices often left out of dominant narratives.

During our conversation, I asked Que Mai about the importance of agency in storytelling—why it matters when we get to document and shape our community’s narratives, particularly around the Vietnam War. We also discussed the urgency of healing and reconciliation, especially as time passes and our elders who are survivors of war and displacement, age and pass away. She reinforced the significance of how Vietnam is far more than the Vietnam War, and reminded people that our history is “more than just the war, but 4,000 years of history.” Que Mai spoke powerfully about the role of literature in humanizing people, especially at a time when censorship is rising and war and genocide are unfolding in places like Gaza, Ukraine, and around the world."

The conversation became even more personal when Que Mai shared a story from just two days prior, when she spoke at Haymarket House. She had recently lost her father. Even though she had been with him in his final months, she shared with the audience her deep regret of never having said, “I love you” to him—three words that, for many of us in our communities, are often a struggle to verbalize.

Her story hit me hard. I thought about my brother, who passed away earlier this year, and how I never got to say those words to him either. But I remembered the voicemail he left me while I was hospitalized last year, where he did say them. That memory stayed with me all day. In fact, during the car ride to the event, Que Mai and I talked about the difficulty of being vulnerable—not just with our parents, but with our siblings too.

We brought that conversation to the stage. I was emotional. But Que Mai, in her warm and open-hearted way, reminded us that we honor our loved ones by how we celebrate our lives—that working through our grief allows them to rest, knowing we are okay. She read from her beautiful poetry, sang a Vietnamese Cải Lương folk song to close the night, and shared tender reflections on culture, love, and loss.

It was an unforgettable evening. The room was filled with familiar faces—elders, youth, friends, and first-time guests—each person deeply engaged, visibly moved, and, I believe, inspired. One woman told Que Mai that our conversation gave her the courage to finally tell her parents she loved them.

That’s the kind of ripple effect I was hoping for.

I hope this conversation helps more people start or deepen the healing process. I hope it encourages folks to ask their elders the hard questions now, while they still can. And I hope it opens space for more connection—more agency—in how we hold and pass on our stories, and evolve as a community in the continuing and changing diaspora.

After the signing, our VAI staff shared a meal with Que Mai at Miss Saigon Restaurant back on Argyle. We swapped stories and laughter over hot bowls of phở and bun bo hue. Que Mai listened intently to each of us, asking thoughtful questions, making each person feel heard. My dear friends Amy M. Le and her husband Joe had come all the way from Oklahoma just for the event, and their presence made the evening even more special.

Later that night, I drove Que Mai back to her hotel along Lake Shore Drive. She lit up seeing the Chicago skyline and Lake Michigan. “It’s so beautiful,” she beamed. And it really was.

This night will stay with me for a long time. My deepest thanks to Que Mai and her team, to VAI, Haibayo, Furama Restaurant, Women & Children First Bookstore, to my friends, and to our community. Thank you for making this day possible, and for helping to generate ideas, conversations, and moments for healing that I know will continue long after this evening.

To pre-order your copy of “The Color of Peace”, https://www.blackocean.org/catalog1/color-of-peace

To follow Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai on IG @ nguyenphanquemai_ or on Facebook.