To be American
I am almost embarrassed to say this.
There was once a time where I was ashamed to be Vietnamese American.
Growing up in a predominantly white neighborhood, I grew up surrounded by girls with sparking ocean-blue eyes and long blonde hair that turned into strands of gold in the sun.
I grew up thinking that I was different, as if having boring brown hair and dull eyes meant something was wrong with me.
As a kid, I always feared going on errands with my mother because as soon as she started to speak Vietnamese in public to me, heads would turn and eyes would be on us.
But, my mom never cared about what people thought of her. She would gladly yell in a store and let herself be heard, if that meant that she was able to say what she wanted.
While I had been embarrassed of her, I also adored her fearlessness.
So, I sat in the car when she went shopping. I threw away my Vietnamese lunches when she made them. I never wore any ao dais during Lunar New Years or tried to learn Vietnamese.
I guess I always had this idea that being more Vietnamese meant that I was less American and I tried to conform to what people wanted of me that I lost myself. I was ashamed of food, people, and culture–myself.
It was only until eighth grade when my teacher asked us to do a heritage project and I realized how little I knew about it because I always tried to keep that part of me hidden and forgotten for so long. I asked my parents about it only to see the way their faces lit up and glowed as they talked about their culture.
How could they be so in love with something that I tried to hide so much?
The answer is that they weren’t afraid of being Vietnamese.
My father had escaped Vietnam in a small ship, risking his life for it. He has seen snakes, Communist soldiers, and so much more. What other people thought of him was the last thing on his mind.
At the same time, my mother has endured so much in America, whether that be working several jobs to earn a living or struggling to find a family and a support system.
Even though they are Americans, they accepted that they could be more than that: Vietnamese Americans.
I got an A on that project; but, it wasn’t the grade that made me happy. It was the fact that I had finally realized who I was and where I came from.
I am proud to be an American. Most importantly, I am proud to be a Vietnamese American because that extra word makes the biggest difference. That word is my culture, pride, heritage, history, and me.
There is nothing wrong with being Vietnamese. It’s not different. It’s not exotic. It’s just who I am.
In the poem, “My Grandmother Washes Her Feet in the Sink of the Bathrooms at Sears,” Mohja Kahf speaks out on how Americans would characterize her grandma and her traditions as foreign and unhygienic.
Many people have done the same to Vietnamese cultures, making jokes about eating cats and dogs and so much more, that it has been normalized in our society. However, those jokes don’t bother me anymore because at the end of the day, I am still Vietnamese American and I wouldn’t change it for the world.
At the same time, many Vietnamese people have told me that I’ve been too whitewashed because of things like my poor pronunciation but also too Vietnamese because of the food I bring to eat for school lunch.
Despite these challenges, I am done being ashamed of who I am.
From dragons, che thai, to ao dais, being Vietnamese means you get to experience a whole new world. There are still times when people try to judge me but I learned that what other people think of me doesn’t matter and I have my parents to thank for that.
So, embrace your culture. Embrace yourself.
