The head and the feet

A fond tourist pats a small Vietnamese child on the head, the way he would back home — and he immediately senses a faint unease pass over the parents' faces. The same traveler, sitting on the floor, stretches out his legs and points his feet toward the family altar: unease again. Nothing dramatic, no one will say a word, but something has just been broken. In Vietnamese culture, the body has a top and a bottom, a noble part and a lowly part: the head is the most sacred thing, the feet the lowest. Understanding this geography of the body helps you avoid a host of small blunders and grasp a very old way of thinking about respect and space.

The head, the most sacred part of the body

In Vietnam, the head, đầu (“doh”), is considered the noblest, “highest” part of the body, both literally and figuratively. It is the seat of the mind, of a person's dignity, and — in a sensibility tinged with Buddhism — almost the point of contact with the sacred. So you don't touch it lightly.

This holds even for children. Where a Westerner sees a tender gesture — ruffling a little one's hair — a Vietnamese person sees something out of place, a hand laid on the highest part of another. It isn't coldness: children are adored and showered with attention. But you stroke the cheek, take the hand, lift the child into your arms rather than patting the crown of the head. Toward an adult, touching the head would be downright shocking, an intrusive familiarity, except between intimates.

• Avoid: patting or stroking the head of a child you barely know.
• Avoid: passing your hand over someone's head, or placing an object on their head as a joke.
• Do: show affection to children with a smile, a kind word, a hand on the shoulder.

The feet, the lowest part

At the other end, literally, are the feet, chân (“chun”). They touch the ground, the dust, the dirt; they are the lowest and least pure part of the body. From this flows a whole series of rules. You do not point your feet at a person, and above all not at an elder, a statue, a monk or an altar. Aiming the soles of your feet at someone is like sending them the dirtiest thing about you: a silent insult.

You never use your foot to point at an object, push something toward someone, or touch a person. You don't put your feet on a table, on a chair others sit in, on a pillow, or on anything that touches the head. You rarely step over a person sitting or lying on the floor, as that would pass your feet over them. This same logic explains why you take off your shoes when entering: shoes, in contact with the feet and the street, gather up everything that is “low.”

• Avoid: crossing your legs so the sole points at someone or at an altar.
• Avoid: pointing at or moving something with your foot.
• Do: tuck your legs to the side when sitting on the floor, feet turned backward, away from people and sacred places.

High and low: a moral map of body and space

This head-feet opposition isn't a whim of rules: it draws a real map of high and low that organizes all space. What is high is dignified; what is low is less so. The ancestral altar, the bàn thờ (“ban ther”), is placed up high, never at floor level. Books, especially sacred books, are kept high, never on the ground where people walk. You don't sit on cushions meant for the head. You avoid hanging laundry, especially underwear, above a passage where heads will move.

This sensitivity to high and low also meets the social hierarchy. In a room, the “high” seat — facing the door or near the altar — goes to the elder or the guest of honor; the youngest stay lower, closer to the door. Lowering your head slightly before an elder, bowing a little, means putting your body “lower” than the other's as a sign of respect. The body, decidedly, constantly speaks the language of rank and deference.

Sitting, sleeping: the body in the home

Since traditional life unfolds so much close to the floor, these rules become very concrete when it's time to sit. On a mat, chiếu (“chyew”), or a rug, you settle with your legs folded to one side, or cross-legged, taking care not to aim your feet at the other guests or at the altar. Facing an elderly person, you adopt a restrained posture rather than sprawling with legs stretched out. This way of sitting, discreet and attentive, is in itself a mark of good upbringing.

Sleep obeys the same geography. Traditionally you orient your head and feet with care, you don't sleep with feet pointing toward the ancestral altar or, in some beliefs, toward the door, and you don't put your feet where another's head will rest. The pillow, which cradles the head, is an almost intimate object that you neither tread on nor soil. Even the direction a bed faces can be a matter of attention, blending respect for the body with household beliefs about luck and the home's harmony.

Beliefs, superstitions and respect for the sacred

Behind these customs lies a bedrock of old beliefs blending Confucianism, Buddhism and folk practices. People readily believe that the body, space and luck are connected; that a misplaced gesture can offend an ancestor, draw bad luck, or simply break the harmony. Before the altar, or in a temple, these rules tighten: you don't abruptly turn your back on the statues, you never point your feet at the Buddha (Phật, “fat”), you bow your head, you speak softly. The body makes itself humble.

It's worth stressing that most Vietnamese people won't hold it against you if, as a foreigner, you slip up: everyone knows these codes aren't universal. But making the effort to respect them produces an immediate effect of consideration. It says, without a word: I know the value you place on the head and the feet, and I respect it. Few gestures win goodwill as quickly as that kind of delicacy.

This opposition between the pure and the impure, the high and the low, extends into a thousand details of daily life. You don't set your hat, which touches the head, on a seat where people sit. You avoid passing food — which will nourish the body — under a table or near the floor. You don't use your foot to close a door or pick up an object in front of someone. Affectionately touching the face of an adult you barely know makes people uneasy, because the face is an extension of the head. So many nuances that, strung together, sketch one and the same conviction: the body has a dignity, and that dignity plays out in a constant hierarchy between what rises and what sinks.

• Remember: anything that touches the head (hat, pillow, cushion) is “high” and is treated with respect.
• Remember: anything that touches the feet (shoes, socks) is “low” and is kept away from clean and sacred places.

• Do in a temple: keep your feet tucked under you, head slightly bowed, voice low.
• Avoid: leaning on an altar, sitting on a step leading to a statue, pointing your feet at the sacred.
• Do in a family home: mirror your hosts' posture; without saying so, they show you what's done.

In short: a body that speaks

The rule is beautiful in its simplicity: the top is noble, the bottom is not; the head is protected, the feet are tucked away. Behind it lie centuries of thought about respect, the sacred, hierarchy and the home's harmony. Keep these two reflexes — don't touch heads, don't point feet — and you'll avoid most missteps, while showing that you've grasped a deep intuition of Vietnamese culture: the body is never neutral, it always says something about the respect you carry for others.

Vietnamese to remember

• đầu (doh) — the head
• chân (chun) — the foot, the leg
• tay (tai) — the hand, the arm
• đừng (durng) — don't (imperative: “do not”)
• đừng chỉ chân (durng chi chun) — don't point with your foot
• ngồi (ngoy) — to sit
• chiếu (chyew) — the woven mat you sit on
• bàn thờ (ban ther) — the ancestral altar
• Phật (fat) — the Buddha
• tôn trọng (tohn trong) — to respect, respect
• thiêng liêng (thyeng lyeng) — sacred, holy
• gối (goy) — the pillow, the cushion