Becoming Vietnamese [Again]
I hurried to become an American like it was my destiny.
The first weeks and months in the United States unfolded in surreal fashion. People appeared to have jumped off the pages of the Sears catalog that once occupied my daydreams. They talked too fast, but I noticed they could also slow down a bit, enunciating each syllable as if that would help me. I liked car rides, so goddamn fast and smooth. There was a machine that washed your clothes. Shampoo for your hair, plus conditioner! Buttered toast sprinkled with sugar. Television was in color and it was on all hours of the day. I watched The Price is Right because I understood the numbers, and I pretended to understand Happy Days because I laughed when the live(?) audience laughed. Each house came with a room for the cars too.
To be more American meant being less Vietnamese — the only way to fill up this cup was to dump out stuff already in it.
I formally changed my name to Fawn when I got my citizenship. It never occurred to me and my then Vietnamese husband to give our three children Vietnamese names. His real name was changed to John, for God’s sake. His mother enrolled our kids in Sunday school to learn Vietnamese because she knew it’d be the only way they could pick up the language. I felt bad for our kids as I knew from childhood experience that the meanest teachers on the planet were Vietnamese Catholic nuns. The class lasted no more than three sessions.
I was generally annoyed with all things Vietnamese. Except the food. And except the beauty salons because they were cheap and knew how to cut Asian hair. However, I had to endure hours of Paris by Night playing on the TV screen — how could anyone listen to these insufferable singers and watch their gaudy display? Worst is having to listen to whiny cai luong, a type of “modern folk opera.”
My mother is apparently too old to assimilate to American society. I can’t tell you how many times her children had to tell her, Mom, this is not Vietnam. Stop doing that! My sister called me to say, “Guess what your mother did at Costco today? She poked a hole in the salmon package to smell it!” I also couldn’t understand why she’d continue to squat whenever she was in the kitchen when we had perfectly good countertops.
I nearly died at sea to be here, so I could not be bothered with my mother’s failure to get along.
Then it happened, and I allowed a hint of pride when I first heard someone say to me, “You don’t have an accent at all… thought you were born here.” The cup was full — I had become a full-grown American.
What also happened along the way was my three Vietnamese children were unable to communicate with my mother or with any other Vietnamese who didn’t speak English. This remains one of the saddest failures on my part. Other Vietnamese parents my age have children who are fluent in both and have beautiful Vietnamese names. Outside of a handful of Vietnamese dishes, my kids don’t know much about the Vietnamese culture because it had become foreign to me. I’ve tried to explain it away that I myself was only 11 years old when I immigrated. But that’s entirely dishonest because I’d actively distanced myself from where I came from. Would this have happened if my parents came over at the same time though? I don’t know. They didn’t get to leave Vietnam until 15 years later, so I grew up pretty much without my parents.
Undoubtedly I was stupid and arrogant. Too dumb to not realize that I can embrace both cultures. Too arrogant (and stupid) to believe that the Sears catalog lifestyle was better. I deprived my own children of their roots, all in one swift generation.
I like listening to Vietnamese music now; my favorite is still Khanh Ly, but I’m finding other wonderful artists too. What I once dreaded — the folk genre of cai luong — has suddenly become heartbreakingly beautiful because it’s all about story telling, stories about family and love, war and famine, honor and sacrifice. I now call my mother when it’s not even her birthday or Mother’s Day. She laughed when I told her that I learned the benefits of squatting from a CrossFit routine.
Sabrina, my youngest kid, and her husband plan to spend a month in Vietnam later this year. I hope she’ll get to learn and celebrate this most beautiful country where her parents were born. We are truly a rich nation when we celebrate and honor all the cultures.
Saigon, 1997
I was 11 when I left in 1976. So, I was 32 when I returned and visited my old elementary school. The name changed, so did all the street names.
