Where Is 'Time Is A Mother' Set?

I just finished rereading 'Time is a Mother' and the setting is so vivid. The story unfolds in multiple locations, but the primary setting is modern-day Hanoi, Vietnam. The author paints this bustling city with such detail—the chaotic streets filled with motorbikes, the smell of pho from street vendors, and the way sunlight filters through ancient trees near Hoan Kiem Lake. There are flashbacks to rural Vietnam too, where rice fields stretch endlessly and time feels slower. The contrast between urban energy and rural tranquility mirrors the protagonist’s emotional journey. The book also briefly dips into California, where the diaspora experience adds another layer to the narrative, but Hanoi’s heartbeat is the core.

Ocean Vuong’s 'Time is a Mother' is deeply rooted in place, and as someone who’s visited Vietnam, I can confirm the authenticity. The primary setting is Hanoi, but not the glossy tourist version—it’s the back alleys where laundry hangs between buildings, the cramped apartments where families crowd around tiny TVs, and the cemeteries where incense smoke curls around weathered tombstones. The city isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a character. The noise of construction, the sticky humidity, the way traffic never stops—it all seeps into the poetry.

Then there are the quieter moments set in the countryside, where Vuong captures the stillness of villages untouched by globalization. The descriptions of Ha Long Bay’s misty cliffs or the Red River’s muddy banks are breathtaking. But what’s really striking is how the U.S. sections feel alien in comparison, like the protagonist is always half-tethered to Vietnam even when physically elsewhere. The book’s power comes from this tension between homes.

As a poetry enthusiast, I adore how 'Time is a Mother' uses setting to mirror grief. Hanoi is the anchor—not just the city but its ghosts. The Old Quarter’s narrow streets echo with memory, every corner hiding a story. The poems transport you to specific spots: a hospital room with peeling paint, a night market where eels twist in baskets, a childhood home with walls thin enough to hear neighbors arguing. The rural scenes are even more haunting—monsoon rains drowning fields, ancestors’ graves overgrown with weeds.

When the setting shifts to America, it’s jarring. Connecticut’s sterile suburbs and empty highways highlight the protagonist’s displacement. The contrast makes Hanoi’s absence ache. Vuong doesn’t romanticize either place; he shows how geography shapes mourning. The book’s title says it all—time isn’t abstract here. It’s woven into the soil of Vietnam and the concrete of immigrant neighborhoods, relentless as a mother’s love.