My mom places both fists beneath her chin as if she’s pulling up a blanket and is being tucked into bed. I plunk myself on to one of the two single beds. From here, everywhere I look, I see my mom’s reflection bouncing from the shiny black lacquered furniture. Huong Le’s doppelganger is ivory skinned and bee-eyed and looks back at me with rare approval. She stands in the middle of the room, sucks in a deep breath, and says, “Ah, finally.”

“Finally, it’s warming up.” The hotel concierge is bent over the tub with her hand beneath the faucet. She wears blue flowered pajamas and flip-flops. She shakes the water off and I watch the drops splatter against her knee. There’s a wet bloom where she wipes her hand. A band of pale skin reveals itself when the elastic waist of her pants gives. She flushes the toilet. It’s modern and porcelain and the water swirls and drains just fine except there’s no seat to lift up or set down.

My mom says, “See? The flat edge is for balance so you can squat easily on top of it. Elle, don’t cringe, it’ll give you wrinkles.” My mom is examining herself in the bathroom mirror as she says this. She studies her face as if it’s an object or a tool. She presses her cheeks back. She has not remarried after the divorce, although not from a lack of offers from Vietnamese men stretching up and down the California coast. Still studying her face she says, “Don’t forget, you come from squatters.”

My mom recounts her first classes in America. When the first wave of Vietnamese immigrants arrived in America, public restrooms began posting these “prohibited” and “how-to” signs. One had a person squatting on top of the bowl with big primate toes curved around the rim. The drawing was inside a big red circle with a big red X over it. The church volunteer who taught mom and dad and Aunt Kim and Uncle Lam how to be Americans told them this meant No! The other sign had a person sitting on the toilet as if it was an office chair with a serene expression on her face. My mom says, “One of the church people told me that squatting leads to hemorrhoids.”

I consider risking hemorrhoids to have the true coming-home experience. Except I look down at my platform shoes with the ties and snaps and realize why the concierge and so many others wear flip flops.