Become a teacher

There were once some truly extraordinary teachers. In them, their careers, personalities, and character were indistinguishable. Their profession haunted them, and their lives seemed to embody it. In other words, the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha were all harmoniously integrated into a single image: the teacher. I had the privilege of learning from such teachers.

Whenever I read Lao Tzu or Zhuang Tzu, instead of the images of those sages from Chinese paintings or statues, the image of Professor Tran Dinh Huou comes to mind: his high forehead, his flowing silver hair, his relaxed posture, his hearty laughter at the conclusion of a philosophical proposition. And his life is like a crane soaring through the vast forest. His expertise and lifestyle, upon reflection, make it unclear whether Zhuang Tzu became him or he became Zhuang Tzu.

Professor Vo Quang Nhon's lectures were different. He seemed to have just stepped straight down from the communal house, as if he had hastily dropped his basket and axe before entering the lecture hall. Even his voice sounded as if he had just come down from the village, smelling of smoke and hearing the grass sprouting after the rain. His laughter was sometimes innocent, sometimes shy. He taught us the magnificent epics of the Central Highlands. Everyone thought he was Ede, but few knew that he was a genuine Kinh person who had gone to Cambodia, spoken French fluently, and translated for a roundtable discussion for a delegation of experts for three or four months. Upon returning to Vietnam, he was completely silent.

There are many other teachers like that, but let's not mention them here, because it would be a waste of time, as they are still healthy. I want to tell you a little about Professor Bui Duy Tan, a teacher like that for many of us. He has just passed away.

We entered university after the 1973 Paris Agreement was signed. The school had moved from its evacuation location to Me Tri, Hanoi. Professor Bui Duy Tan lived alone in an attic on the third and a half floors. His only possession was a spoon for eating meals in the kitchen. Because he ate communal meals, he walked diagonally across the courtyard in his brown trousers. I stood under a tree muttering, "That old-fashioned guy!" Suddenly, an older student hit me on the head with a B52-style bowl: "Idiot! That's Nguyen Trai!" And that's how I came to respect him. It was from that point that I had the opportunity to study Nguyen Trai's works under him.

What did I learn? I went upstairs to ask the teacher that question.If you avoid petty people, gentlemen will suffer.I didn't understand a single word of Nguyen Trai's Nôm poetry. My teacher explained it, and after listening for a while, I concluded that Nguyen Trai held a feudalistic viewpoint. My teacher raised his glasses and said, "What logic!" He then grabbed a spoon, poked it at a line of poetry, and recited, "Listen carefully."Reading books leads to understanding their meaning."Nguyen Trai taught this. The meaning here isn't just the meaning of the words. It's also the moral principles of how people live their lives. Understand? Once you understand, follow them and live a decent life. Go read some books, you city dwellers!" So the teacher lent him the book.Confucianismby Phan Boi Chau. The people in the room were very impressed that I managed to borrow such a valuable book from the teacher, and they praised me for my flattery. So I read it.Confucianism.

In 1976, I was compiling a bibliography of Nguyen Trai for my thesis. One day, I walked from the National Library back to the dormitory because I didn't have 5 cents for the tram fare, and the students had eaten my food. I felt so sad and cried. My professor heard about it and called me in, giving me 2 cents to finish the work. By then, we had become close, and he taught me that the books of humanity that remain contain many good things, and that reading books should first be about learning good things to live by; research can come later.

Ah, I see. Literature of a certain era is, first and foremost, about the moral principles of literature. Whether ancient or eternal, that's how it is. But clearly, living alongside people whose literature is based on morality is often more reassuring than living alongside those whose literature is merely the art of language. My teachers were often like that.

Later, having the opportunity to work with him, I gradually learned from one basic lesson to another as he grew older and I grew older too.

In 2000, after finishing the book about Phùng Khắc Khoan, my professor invited me and a few students to Phùng Xá to offer incense at the temple. Seeing him place 500,000 VND on a plate as an offering, I was startled. That amount of money was what my family spent in a month at that time. On the bus, I asked him why he offered so much, and he said: "I started my career with Phùng Khắc Khoan. That was in the 1960s, I didn't know anything back then. Mr. Đinh Gia Khánh dictated all the Nôm characters to me; I couldn't even keep up with him writing them down. But recently I heard someone say that Mr. Khánh didn't know Hán Nôm, and I find that strange. How could that be?"

Another time, I accompanied my professor to Hiep Hoa, the former evacuation site of the Faculty. I saw the professors sitting and discussing pooling money to buy a buffalo for the grandchild of a deceased landowner, and I realized I still have much to learn from them.

Recently, a delegation of local officials, complete with gifts, traveled all the way from Dai Tu, Thai Nguyen, to my school to request certifications for families who had sheltered officials during the evacuation years, so that the province could award them commendations. The school's representatives didn't dare sign because none of us from later generations had evacuated there. They suggested the local officials find some retired people to verify the information. It was difficult; coming from the mountains to Hanoi to find people who had been sheltered by the local people was incredibly challenging. Who was still alive and who was gone in this bustling city? At midday, I took them to see Mr. Nguyen Kim Dinh first. He exclaimed, "Heavens! I'll sign everything! I'll sign everything! If I can't repay the debt, then so be it! And you're making me travel all afternoon like this!" Then we went to Mr. Bui Duy Tan's house. He was suffering from a severe sore throat and couldn't speak (at that time, he didn't know he had cancer). He signed while crying. I said, "It's better to be careful, sir." He waved his hand and said hoarsely, "Is it possible that no one trusts anyone anymore? Has it come to this?"

That's how my teachers were. For them, literature was first and foremost about morality, about being a good person, a citizen of the country.

Upon hearing the news of his sudden illness, Dr. Nguyen Kim Son and I went to visit him. That was the day he regained consciousness and was able to speak more. He confided: "My life has been full of torment, especially regarding family matters growing up... I've also been at the school for a long time and witnessed many things. Recently, someone threw leaflets into the yard asking me to write this and that... but I think a country is like a person, with its ups and downs. We should consider the bigger picture, not harbor resentment over trivial details. You all still have work to do, so prioritize the common good. Initially, I wasn't from a scholarly family like others. My only life experience is that hard work compensates for lack of ability. Listen carefully..."

Unexpectedly, those were my teacher's last words of advice.

• Nguyen Hung Vi