Growing up in the Midwest as a first-generation Vietnamese American, I always felt like an outsider. My English-speaking abilities were nonexistent, and I spoke with a heavy accent. My predominantly white classmates would grimace and ask why I sounded strange. Shame would wash over me. I wanted to be more like them. I wanted to be part of the class, to belong. My classmates often made fun of my lunches. They plugged their noses and groaned about the stinky seaweed, bizarre white mush of rice, and exotic-looking pork belly. As time passed, I started to feel ashamed about my culture.
Then, my elementary school hosted its first International Night, where students created booths to represent their cultural heritage. The school encouraged us to learn about different cultures and educate ourselves. Jumping at this opportunity, I went all out with an ao dai (a traditional dress) and Vietnamese decorations like hand fans and mini carved sculptures. For the first time in my life, I felt a spark of pride for being Vietnamese.
It did not last long.
When I met other Vietnamese American students throughout middle school and high school, I discovered most of them did not know any traditions, holidays, or even the language. My family made it a tradition to teach all the kids how to properly celebrate Tết, the Vietnamese New Year, and Đám Giỗ, also known as the death anniversary of our ancestors. We learned how to pray, how to make offerings, how to ensure blessings for good fortune, and more. However, other parents deterred their kids from learning the culture in order to Americanize and assimilate them into American society. My heart ached for them and for myself. As I grew up, my family, too, no longer conversed in Vietnamese; instead, we eventually only spoke in English, my mother tongue no longer practiced and soon forgotten. Why had we become so ashamed of our culture?
It didn’t help that other Asian Americans repeatedly claimed that people like myself were whitewashed…
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