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Roots
Southeast Asian Family History Project
By the Vietnamese Student Union at UCLA
A leaf will always fall back down to its roots. We are the leaves, and no matter where we are, we can reconnect with our roots through our heritage and our stories.
Latest Stories
Resilience in Uncertainty, by Dylan Djoenadi - Class of 2023
When I was a fourth grader, my teacher assigned us the book Esperanza Rising by Pam Muñoz Ryan. It’s an immigrant story of a family going from riches to rags in their pursuit for a better life in the United States. At the time, I knew nothing about my own family history relative to what I know now, but this story of riches to rags sparked inquiry in myself. It forced me to ask, “What is the point of leaving the best of circumstances for a life in the United States.” This idea baffled me.
A few years after fourth grade, I found myself crying in front of a coffin in Semarang, Indonesia. Everyone around me was crying, but I did not know the person in the coffin. I did not know what made him laugh, who made him cry, or why he chose to live the way he did. I cried, because I had no memories of my grandfather. I only met him in person just once and a handful of times through Skype.
In contrast, my mother had a wealth of memories that motivated the tears streaming down her face. By her account, my grandfather was a self-made, wealthy, and respected Indonesian-Chinese businessman who, like so many others, lost just about everything in the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis.
Before he cemented his legacy, he was the Associated Student Body President at his Tiong Hon Hwee Koan (THHK) school in Semarang. He married my grandmother when they were young and still lived in a crowded alley in the Semarang Chinatown. My grandfather began his business career going door-to-door selling soap. He decided to get his hands dirty and started fixing up cars. One opportunity led to another, and he began reselling cars for a profit until he got his own showroom. With his profits, he began buying real-estate and accumulated a great deal of wealth to make sure his wife and children had everything they ever wanted.
Having the freedom to pursue anything, my mother found a passion in architecture. She went to one of the best universities in Indonesia and lived a “comfortable” life. She worked at one of the best firms in Indonesia and made “comfortable” money.
My family was living the dream. Everything was going great until the Asian Financial Crisis that rocked Southeast Asia in the late 1990s. Civil unrest mounted in the May Riots of 1998 in Indonesia where the ethnically Chinese were heavily persecuted and used as scapegoats for the financial and political ruin. My mom experienced riots for the second time, and it brought back memories of decades of Chinese oppression and discrimination.
My mom recalls one particular riot that broke out while she was in elementary school in Semarang. The decades of racial tension between indigenous people, pribumi, and Chinese immigrants resulted in many riots throughout the years. My mom had to get a ride home from her father’s indigenous business partner in his Jeep. She hid in the leg area of the front seat and could only hear the screams, flames, and destruction. There was a mob of people who burned cars in the middle of the street in front of her house, so my mom could not get in her own home. “They were banging on the doors, burning all the other shops and chanting “Cina” (China), my mom detailed. Fires were set to the many Chinese businesses in Semarang. This traumatizing event and several other instances throughout her life made my mom dream of something better.
“I moved here, because there are clear and in place civil rights,” my mom told me after I asked why she left. She explained that living in the U.S makes her appreciate a government that protects your rights. “People that have been born and raised here, sometimes they need to appreciate more of what we have here. You did not realize your rights as a human if you weren’t born in that environment,” she said. She gave me an example of her living in Indonesia, where there is no policy to regulate civil rights. People can call you out as Cina when walking on the street. She just needed to take it, that’s how life was. It's just part of life, to be discriminated by others.
My mom seeked asylum in the United States in 2001, a few months before I was born. She went against her family’s wishes and chose to be a single mother. My mom suffered backlash for having me without the father present. People wanted her to abort me, but my mom didn't want that to happen.
My mom could not use her degree as an architect here to find a job because of different credentials. She needed to take more courses to establish herself as an architect here in the United States. Because she just became a mother, she did not pursue architecture, so she learned about the real-estate industry. She tried to find a job that was able to bring me up and not put me in child care for entire days.
My mom’s story in the United States is still unravelling, but I see her as someone who’s overcome all the odds to be where she’s at. Losing everything in the 2008 recession, my mom had to figure out where we would sleep and what we would eat. I never remember her crying or breaking down because of her situation. She does not kneel to her circumstance. My mom taught me resilience and instilled in me this idea that there is not one place or state of being you can inhabit in your life. Life is a continual challenge, and I’ve learned that everything will be better in the end if I continue to push against the current. She pushed against people telling her not to have me and against the economic decimation of the recession. I only hope to continue that push.
I love my mom for being the powerful person she is. I am grateful that she brought me to the United States and raised me the way she did.
A few years after fourth grade, I found myself crying in front of a coffin in Semarang, Indonesia. Everyone around me was crying, but I did not know the person in the coffin. I did not know what made him laugh, who made him cry, or why he chose to live the way he did. I cried, because I had no memories of my grandfather. I only met him in person just once and a handful of times through Skype.
In contrast, my mother had a wealth of memories that motivated the tears streaming down her face. By her account, my grandfather was a self-made, wealthy, and respected Indonesian-Chinese businessman who, like so many others, lost just about everything in the 1997 Asian Financial Crisis.
Before he cemented his legacy, he was the Associated Student Body President at his Tiong Hon Hwee Koan (THHK) school in Semarang. He married my grandmother when they were young and still lived in a crowded alley in the Semarang Chinatown. My grandfather began his business career going door-to-door selling soap. He decided to get his hands dirty and started fixing up cars. One opportunity led to another, and he began reselling cars for a profit until he got his own showroom. With his profits, he began buying real-estate and accumulated a great deal of wealth to make sure his wife and children had everything they ever wanted.
Having the freedom to pursue anything, my mother found a passion in architecture. She went to one of the best universities in Indonesia and lived a “comfortable” life. She worked at one of the best firms in Indonesia and made “comfortable” money.
My family was living the dream. Everything was going great until the Asian Financial Crisis that rocked Southeast Asia in the late 1990s. Civil unrest mounted in the May Riots of 1998 in Indonesia where the ethnically Chinese were heavily persecuted and used as scapegoats for the financial and political ruin. My mom experienced riots for the second time, and it brought back memories of decades of Chinese oppression and discrimination.
My mom recalls one particular riot that broke out while she was in elementary school in Semarang. The decades of racial tension between indigenous people, pribumi, and Chinese immigrants resulted in many riots throughout the years. My mom had to get a ride home from her father’s indigenous business partner in his Jeep. She hid in the leg area of the front seat and could only hear the screams, flames, and destruction. There was a mob of people who burned cars in the middle of the street in front of her house, so my mom could not get in her own home. “They were banging on the doors, burning all the other shops and chanting “Cina” (China), my mom detailed. Fires were set to the many Chinese businesses in Semarang. This traumatizing event and several other instances throughout her life made my mom dream of something better.
“I moved here, because there are clear and in place civil rights,” my mom told me after I asked why she left. She explained that living in the U.S makes her appreciate a government that protects your rights. “People that have been born and raised here, sometimes they need to appreciate more of what we have here. You did not realize your rights as a human if you weren’t born in that environment,” she said. She gave me an example of her living in Indonesia, where there is no policy to regulate civil rights. People can call you out as Cina when walking on the street. She just needed to take it, that’s how life was. It's just part of life, to be discriminated by others.
My mom seeked asylum in the United States in 2001, a few months before I was born. She went against her family’s wishes and chose to be a single mother. My mom suffered backlash for having me without the father present. People wanted her to abort me, but my mom didn't want that to happen.
My mom could not use her degree as an architect here to find a job because of different credentials. She needed to take more courses to establish herself as an architect here in the United States. Because she just became a mother, she did not pursue architecture, so she learned about the real-estate industry. She tried to find a job that was able to bring me up and not put me in child care for entire days.
My mom’s story in the United States is still unravelling, but I see her as someone who’s overcome all the odds to be where she’s at. Losing everything in the 2008 recession, my mom had to figure out where we would sleep and what we would eat. I never remember her crying or breaking down because of her situation. She does not kneel to her circumstance. My mom taught me resilience and instilled in me this idea that there is not one place or state of being you can inhabit in your life. Life is a continual challenge, and I’ve learned that everything will be better in the end if I continue to push against the current. She pushed against people telling her not to have me and against the economic decimation of the recession. I only hope to continue that push.
I love my mom for being the powerful person she is. I am grateful that she brought me to the United States and raised me the way she did.
Love is Love is Love, by Kevin Lu Nguyen - Class of 2020
“When I grow up, I’m going to buy us a big house so that we could all live together.” This is a promise that I made and have learned to let go of recently. I used to dedicate my whole life to my parents when I was younger. I understood their sacrifices very well, as they would remind me every time when I did something wrong.
My parents came to America in search for a better life due to the aftermath of the Vietnam War. My father had tried to escape by boat but was caught and went to prison where he picked up his smoking habit. He finally came in 1987 with American government assistance due to having ties with the South Vietnam military. My mother came in 1991 with the assistance of my uncle, as he went through the boat refugee process and sponsored her after working several years in America. They came from affluent, respectable backgrounds back in Vietnam before the war. My father came from a military family along with having affiliations with a successful printing press company in Sài Gòn. My mother came from Mỹ Tho, a rural part of South Vietnam; her family owned a rice cutting machine which made them prominent members of the local community.
They would tell me that I have it much easier now compared to how heavily disciplined they were when they were my age. In Vietnam, they needed to be obedient to elders given that teachers and older members of the family could punish you. They had to remember and recite everything verbatim in school given how difficult it is to advance to the next grade level. They could not speak out against the government and abide by societal norms given the pressures to maintain face and conformity which allowed prosperity and success for them and the family. My father had aspired to become a doctor, and my mother had an interest with pursuing biology. Given the downfall of South Vietnam, roads to higher education and lucrative careers were no longer options for both of my parents after graduating among the top ranks of their high schools.
I noticed a common theme in my parents’ way of thinking such that they believe that hard work now could lead to a happier future, but the future for them had changed many times. It occurred once with the war, another time with immigrating to America, and a third time with raising me.
Their American Dream was nothing like they expected, as they were hoping for a better life. They experienced new stressors with needing to assimilate to American customs and immediately finding jobs that did not require a higher education to support their families being in America. My parents met in Ventura County, CA, as they worked together at a manufacturing and assembly company and got married in 1996. Having children for them meant a potential that all their sacrifices were worth it, and that future success would validate all that they went through. Ideally, they wanted two children: an older son to look over a younger daughter so that they can complement their parents and support each other as they grew older.
I had cancer when I was three. I was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia when they rushed to the hospital after seeing my skin turn pale, lacking in melanin. Cancer in Vietnam meant death, and all the jargoned medical terms jumbled through my parents’ ears. They had to take time off work to battle through hours of LA traffic daily to check up on me at the hospital. Undergoing various medications, steroid injections, and chemo at such a young age, I didn’t remember much of it—but my parents did. My mother had tried for another child at the time but decided on abortion as bringing in another child was no longer ideal given how stressful the current situation is on the family. Since then, my mother had switched career paths into being a nail technician as the job paid better along with being more accommodating around my personal schedule.
I would hear about their chronic aches and newfound bodily pains from their physically demanding work. The need to succeed lie heavy on my shoulders to the point where I grew apart from my parents as I hid a lot of myself to make my parents happy and proud of me. From mediocre test scores to my queer identity, I knew all of those would bring shame to the family. In their eyes, being a student is all that I should be focusing on right now. They would white-out previous assignments and exams along with buying practice books for me to work on in my free time and summers. I would be punished for every question I got wrong in addition to any undesired behaviors that I exhibited. As damaging it was to my mental health, I never resented them for how I was brought up because I understood their history and good intentions with freeing me from a life of hardships like theirs.
Coming out of high school, I felt that I had a lot to prove to myself. Growing up, many of my accomplishments were motivated by my parents; as a result, I lost my sense of individuality and grasp of what was my true passion. College freed me as I became more confident and comfortable with my authentic self. I could pursue my career choice with mental health without judgment and criticism. I was openly dating and surrounded myself with people who accepted me for my sexual orientation. I had support systems that I could always fall back on whenever I experienced academic struggles and personal hardships with stress, anxiety, and heartbreaks. It was different from what I had from home. It was what I lacked and wished that I had when I was growing up. UCLA became my bubble, as I understood more about myself and who I can personally rely on.
Coming home periodically, I felt more like a house guest than someone who was a part of the family. They would always encourage me to come home more often, as they would make my favorite meals and do laundry for me—not only to save money but also for them to feel like they are a part of my life. The warm welcome felt ingenuine; after two days, previous tension began to grow again. I am reminded why I don’t like being at home. Being at home felt more like a formal check-in compared to how others define home as a safe place to be yourself. Similar to before, I still can’t let them know about the classes I haven’t been doing so well in along with my social engagements and dating life.
There were three moments during my time at UCLA when I realized that I can’t keep living this double life. The first moment was when my grandmother passed away during my first year in college which reminded me that my parents were also growing older. The second moment was during winter break my third year when my parents expressed that they recognized that I do not share anything with them and wished for us to be closer. The third moment was when I was studying abroad half-way across the world in Australia during my fourth year and realized that I terribly lacked cooking skills along with going through a breakup and not having personal support to lean on.
With the end of college, I realize that I cannot keep on living in this bubble. Part of knowing myself is to also let others know what I need and make compromises to mend personal differences. I came out to my parents during my time abroad, and we’ve been having a series of personal conversation since then. Braving through tough realizations, maintaining distance and boundaries, understanding cultural contexts, and giving reassurance that we will love each other no matter what, my parents and I have uncovered a genuine connection that I wished to have for a while now.
My parents came to America in search for a better life due to the aftermath of the Vietnam War. My father had tried to escape by boat but was caught and went to prison where he picked up his smoking habit. He finally came in 1987 with American government assistance due to having ties with the South Vietnam military. My mother came in 1991 with the assistance of my uncle, as he went through the boat refugee process and sponsored her after working several years in America. They came from affluent, respectable backgrounds back in Vietnam before the war. My father came from a military family along with having affiliations with a successful printing press company in Sài Gòn. My mother came from Mỹ Tho, a rural part of South Vietnam; her family owned a rice cutting machine which made them prominent members of the local community.
They would tell me that I have it much easier now compared to how heavily disciplined they were when they were my age. In Vietnam, they needed to be obedient to elders given that teachers and older members of the family could punish you. They had to remember and recite everything verbatim in school given how difficult it is to advance to the next grade level. They could not speak out against the government and abide by societal norms given the pressures to maintain face and conformity which allowed prosperity and success for them and the family. My father had aspired to become a doctor, and my mother had an interest with pursuing biology. Given the downfall of South Vietnam, roads to higher education and lucrative careers were no longer options for both of my parents after graduating among the top ranks of their high schools.
I noticed a common theme in my parents’ way of thinking such that they believe that hard work now could lead to a happier future, but the future for them had changed many times. It occurred once with the war, another time with immigrating to America, and a third time with raising me.
Their American Dream was nothing like they expected, as they were hoping for a better life. They experienced new stressors with needing to assimilate to American customs and immediately finding jobs that did not require a higher education to support their families being in America. My parents met in Ventura County, CA, as they worked together at a manufacturing and assembly company and got married in 1996. Having children for them meant a potential that all their sacrifices were worth it, and that future success would validate all that they went through. Ideally, they wanted two children: an older son to look over a younger daughter so that they can complement their parents and support each other as they grew older.
I had cancer when I was three. I was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia when they rushed to the hospital after seeing my skin turn pale, lacking in melanin. Cancer in Vietnam meant death, and all the jargoned medical terms jumbled through my parents’ ears. They had to take time off work to battle through hours of LA traffic daily to check up on me at the hospital. Undergoing various medications, steroid injections, and chemo at such a young age, I didn’t remember much of it—but my parents did. My mother had tried for another child at the time but decided on abortion as bringing in another child was no longer ideal given how stressful the current situation is on the family. Since then, my mother had switched career paths into being a nail technician as the job paid better along with being more accommodating around my personal schedule.
I would hear about their chronic aches and newfound bodily pains from their physically demanding work. The need to succeed lie heavy on my shoulders to the point where I grew apart from my parents as I hid a lot of myself to make my parents happy and proud of me. From mediocre test scores to my queer identity, I knew all of those would bring shame to the family. In their eyes, being a student is all that I should be focusing on right now. They would white-out previous assignments and exams along with buying practice books for me to work on in my free time and summers. I would be punished for every question I got wrong in addition to any undesired behaviors that I exhibited. As damaging it was to my mental health, I never resented them for how I was brought up because I understood their history and good intentions with freeing me from a life of hardships like theirs.
Coming out of high school, I felt that I had a lot to prove to myself. Growing up, many of my accomplishments were motivated by my parents; as a result, I lost my sense of individuality and grasp of what was my true passion. College freed me as I became more confident and comfortable with my authentic self. I could pursue my career choice with mental health without judgment and criticism. I was openly dating and surrounded myself with people who accepted me for my sexual orientation. I had support systems that I could always fall back on whenever I experienced academic struggles and personal hardships with stress, anxiety, and heartbreaks. It was different from what I had from home. It was what I lacked and wished that I had when I was growing up. UCLA became my bubble, as I understood more about myself and who I can personally rely on.
Coming home periodically, I felt more like a house guest than someone who was a part of the family. They would always encourage me to come home more often, as they would make my favorite meals and do laundry for me—not only to save money but also for them to feel like they are a part of my life. The warm welcome felt ingenuine; after two days, previous tension began to grow again. I am reminded why I don’t like being at home. Being at home felt more like a formal check-in compared to how others define home as a safe place to be yourself. Similar to before, I still can’t let them know about the classes I haven’t been doing so well in along with my social engagements and dating life.
There were three moments during my time at UCLA when I realized that I can’t keep living this double life. The first moment was when my grandmother passed away during my first year in college which reminded me that my parents were also growing older. The second moment was during winter break my third year when my parents expressed that they recognized that I do not share anything with them and wished for us to be closer. The third moment was when I was studying abroad half-way across the world in Australia during my fourth year and realized that I terribly lacked cooking skills along with going through a breakup and not having personal support to lean on.
With the end of college, I realize that I cannot keep on living in this bubble. Part of knowing myself is to also let others know what I need and make compromises to mend personal differences. I came out to my parents during my time abroad, and we’ve been having a series of personal conversation since then. Braving through tough realizations, maintaining distance and boundaries, understanding cultural contexts, and giving reassurance that we will love each other no matter what, my parents and I have uncovered a genuine connection that I wished to have for a while now.
Jangan Putus Asa (Never Give Up), by Jason Nathanael Muljadi - Class of 2021
“Tidak bisa.” *1
Closing her eyes to calm the tears that were about to burst, my mother stood up from the living room couch and walked away from the room, away from her father. It wasn’t an unexpected outcome, but the snaring sting of rejection always hurts. She was not allowed to be a doctor. It was too unsafe for her. But what else will she be now? What is going to be her future?
————————————————————
My mother, Liliana Lioe, was born in Jakarta, Indonesia in a downtown alley neighborhood. She grew up in a poor, in a place where the sun beats down incessantly and the A.C. that they lacked was the only respite. She used to tell me that when the rain comes down, that is where she and her three other siblings, two older sisters and one younger brother, would go outside and shower in the rain, gathering enough water for multiple uses afterwards.
The Indonesia my mother grew up in did not look favorably on Chinese- Indonesians. Oftentimes she and her family were bullied for the color of their skin and for their appearance. It was because of these racial tensions that my grandparents sent all their children to either Catholic or Christian schools, schools that would accept Chinese-Indonesians and were primarily Chinese-Indonesian. It was an expensive endeavor, but it was for the safety and for the good education that made my grandparents sacrifice their finances even further. Every night, regardless of my mother and her siblings’ school activities or their jobs, they would have to come home early, for fear of further discrimination or something worse.
As my mom graduated from Sekolah Menengah Atas*2, she had to decide what major she would pursue. She loved the sciences and, up to that point in her life, she believed that she was on the right path of being a doctor. But her parents disagree; it was too dangerous for her, as a Chinese-Indonesian woman, to be a doctor in the current climate that Indonesia was in. At a loss, my mother pondered for a moment before deciding that to attend secretary college was beneficial for her; it may be her way out of the slums that she lived in.
She finished her degree all the while maintaining a full-time job to help her parents out. As a secretary, she got to experience the life outside of downtown Indonesia, a life in which gave her opportunities that she never dreamt of before. She went to Australia for six months, learning English while working for her company. Afterwards, her company sent her to Japan for two years alongside her husband. She fell in love with Japan, wanting to stay there for the rest of her life
May 8, 1998. My mother watched the news in Japan of what was going on in Indonesia, horrified at what was happening. The first of many student riots and protests ran rampant across major cities like Jakarta, and soon they were engulfed in flames and violence. Ethnic Chinese were beaten, abused, and killed while their homes and business were burned down. My mother frantically prayed for the safety of her family, as they were all locked down in their homes, living in silence for fear of being found out. My mother could not believe that a travesty of this magnitude was unfurling, all the while she was carrying her child. She made up her mind. She can no longer live in Indonesia.
————————————————————
As a young child, I can remember memories of my mother in the midnight, stroking my hair as I am lulled back to sleep, kissing me back to my dreams. She worked as a nurse assistant and as a waitress at one point, working a day shift at the hospital and a night shift at the restaurant. She was, and still is, the most incredible woman I know. She always had so much energy for a rambunctious toddler and she always made my day with the amount of love she showered me, making my days always happy days.
The transition to the United States was arduous. After having me in Indonesia, her husband first went off the work in America to scope out how it was. Soon, in 2001, my mother and I immigrated to the United States. Listed as refugees, there were a lot of legal proceedings that plagued my parents before they were thankfully granted asylum. Still, there were a lot of challenges facing my family. It was a race to survive in America.
She worked tirelessly, scraping to get tips. I could remember seeing her after school, exhausted, but still having to go to work. But in 2006, she got a job working in a bio-tech company, and she quit her waitress job. Berkat, she says, or a blessing. This was the turn of her entire life and the start of a career that began on the manufacturing floor to now a quality release specialist, overseeing the work that the company has done. She went from surviving in America to thriving in America. When asked about her motivation, she solemnly states, “It is because of my faith in God that I was able to last this long,” before cheekily adding, “and also, because I have a son that would probably not survive without me doing everything in the house.”
Throughout all of the struggles, my mom was persistent. She withstood a house foreclosure, a divorce, and toxicity coming from the many aspects of her life. As a mother, she was always kind but fair. She never expected anything out of me, only that my happiness and faith are the things I should ascertain for. She has raised me to be independent, and to always do good for others. She never impeded my wild ideas, but has always supported me in everything that I do. She always tells me she loves me whenever I feel the most unloved and unsupported. She is my cornerstone, a rock that I hope to build a house where she is proud of.
To say that I am grateful and proud of my mom is an understatement. I can never sufficiently express how much I love I have for her and how she is everything to me and to every person that has the honor of meeting her. But I hope to always make her proud, hoping to be even a quarter of the amazing person and role model she is to me.
————————————————————
It is summer 2017. My mother approaches the podium standing in front thousands of Indonesian-Americans just like her. She glances at the crowd, subconsciously shuffling her notes. With a grin drawn on her face, she takes a deep breath, starting, “Nama saya Liliana Lioe dari Los Angeles, California. Saya mempunyai satu anak, namanya Jason. Sebentar lagi, dia akan berkuliah di UCLA....”*3 Thousands sit in their seats, enraptured by the story of her struggle and of her success. My mother tells the story that she knows is familiar to Indonesian- Americans. With a rousing applause at the end of her speech, the video ends.
My mom looks up at me, both of us sitting on the living room couch. She asks me, “Are you proud of me?”
With tears in my eyes, I answer, “Forever and always.”
Saya sayangMu, Mom. Selamalamanya.*4
“The problems in our lives make us stronger.” - Liliana Lioe.
*1 - “You cannot.” *2 - Indonesian equivalent of high school *3 - “My name is Liliana Lioe from Los Angeles, California. I have one child named Jason. Soon, he will attend UCLA...” *4 - “I love you, Mom. Forever and always.”
Closing her eyes to calm the tears that were about to burst, my mother stood up from the living room couch and walked away from the room, away from her father. It wasn’t an unexpected outcome, but the snaring sting of rejection always hurts. She was not allowed to be a doctor. It was too unsafe for her. But what else will she be now? What is going to be her future?
————————————————————
My mother, Liliana Lioe, was born in Jakarta, Indonesia in a downtown alley neighborhood. She grew up in a poor, in a place where the sun beats down incessantly and the A.C. that they lacked was the only respite. She used to tell me that when the rain comes down, that is where she and her three other siblings, two older sisters and one younger brother, would go outside and shower in the rain, gathering enough water for multiple uses afterwards.
The Indonesia my mother grew up in did not look favorably on Chinese- Indonesians. Oftentimes she and her family were bullied for the color of their skin and for their appearance. It was because of these racial tensions that my grandparents sent all their children to either Catholic or Christian schools, schools that would accept Chinese-Indonesians and were primarily Chinese-Indonesian. It was an expensive endeavor, but it was for the safety and for the good education that made my grandparents sacrifice their finances even further. Every night, regardless of my mother and her siblings’ school activities or their jobs, they would have to come home early, for fear of further discrimination or something worse.
As my mom graduated from Sekolah Menengah Atas*2, she had to decide what major she would pursue. She loved the sciences and, up to that point in her life, she believed that she was on the right path of being a doctor. But her parents disagree; it was too dangerous for her, as a Chinese-Indonesian woman, to be a doctor in the current climate that Indonesia was in. At a loss, my mother pondered for a moment before deciding that to attend secretary college was beneficial for her; it may be her way out of the slums that she lived in.
She finished her degree all the while maintaining a full-time job to help her parents out. As a secretary, she got to experience the life outside of downtown Indonesia, a life in which gave her opportunities that she never dreamt of before. She went to Australia for six months, learning English while working for her company. Afterwards, her company sent her to Japan for two years alongside her husband. She fell in love with Japan, wanting to stay there for the rest of her life
May 8, 1998. My mother watched the news in Japan of what was going on in Indonesia, horrified at what was happening. The first of many student riots and protests ran rampant across major cities like Jakarta, and soon they were engulfed in flames and violence. Ethnic Chinese were beaten, abused, and killed while their homes and business were burned down. My mother frantically prayed for the safety of her family, as they were all locked down in their homes, living in silence for fear of being found out. My mother could not believe that a travesty of this magnitude was unfurling, all the while she was carrying her child. She made up her mind. She can no longer live in Indonesia.
————————————————————
As a young child, I can remember memories of my mother in the midnight, stroking my hair as I am lulled back to sleep, kissing me back to my dreams. She worked as a nurse assistant and as a waitress at one point, working a day shift at the hospital and a night shift at the restaurant. She was, and still is, the most incredible woman I know. She always had so much energy for a rambunctious toddler and she always made my day with the amount of love she showered me, making my days always happy days.
The transition to the United States was arduous. After having me in Indonesia, her husband first went off the work in America to scope out how it was. Soon, in 2001, my mother and I immigrated to the United States. Listed as refugees, there were a lot of legal proceedings that plagued my parents before they were thankfully granted asylum. Still, there were a lot of challenges facing my family. It was a race to survive in America.
She worked tirelessly, scraping to get tips. I could remember seeing her after school, exhausted, but still having to go to work. But in 2006, she got a job working in a bio-tech company, and she quit her waitress job. Berkat, she says, or a blessing. This was the turn of her entire life and the start of a career that began on the manufacturing floor to now a quality release specialist, overseeing the work that the company has done. She went from surviving in America to thriving in America. When asked about her motivation, she solemnly states, “It is because of my faith in God that I was able to last this long,” before cheekily adding, “and also, because I have a son that would probably not survive without me doing everything in the house.”
Throughout all of the struggles, my mom was persistent. She withstood a house foreclosure, a divorce, and toxicity coming from the many aspects of her life. As a mother, she was always kind but fair. She never expected anything out of me, only that my happiness and faith are the things I should ascertain for. She has raised me to be independent, and to always do good for others. She never impeded my wild ideas, but has always supported me in everything that I do. She always tells me she loves me whenever I feel the most unloved and unsupported. She is my cornerstone, a rock that I hope to build a house where she is proud of.
To say that I am grateful and proud of my mom is an understatement. I can never sufficiently express how much I love I have for her and how she is everything to me and to every person that has the honor of meeting her. But I hope to always make her proud, hoping to be even a quarter of the amazing person and role model she is to me.
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It is summer 2017. My mother approaches the podium standing in front thousands of Indonesian-Americans just like her. She glances at the crowd, subconsciously shuffling her notes. With a grin drawn on her face, she takes a deep breath, starting, “Nama saya Liliana Lioe dari Los Angeles, California. Saya mempunyai satu anak, namanya Jason. Sebentar lagi, dia akan berkuliah di UCLA....”*3 Thousands sit in their seats, enraptured by the story of her struggle and of her success. My mother tells the story that she knows is familiar to Indonesian- Americans. With a rousing applause at the end of her speech, the video ends.
My mom looks up at me, both of us sitting on the living room couch. She asks me, “Are you proud of me?”
With tears in my eyes, I answer, “Forever and always.”
Saya sayangMu, Mom. Selamalamanya.*4
“The problems in our lives make us stronger.” - Liliana Lioe.
*1 - “You cannot.” *2 - Indonesian equivalent of high school *3 - “My name is Liliana Lioe from Los Angeles, California. I have one child named Jason. Soon, he will attend UCLA...” *4 - “I love you, Mom. Forever and always.”
Just Like My Mother, by Grace Joy Yang - Class of 2020
Whenever I’m home, surrounded by family, everyone loves to comment on how much I look like my mother. I’ve lost count of how many times an aunt or my grandmother have sidled up to me, chatting away, only to realize they weren’t talking to my mother but to me. Then I’m met with sheepish laughs and in Hmong, “Xav tias koj yog koj niam no,” I thought you were your mother.
My mother is beautiful. From browsing through thick, dusty photo albums and rewatching old VHS tapes from my childhood, I am blessed to say I share her genes. My parents got married the summer of 1997, right after my mother graduated from high school. She loved to joke with me that my father was not the most handsome of all her suitors, but there was just something about him that captured her attention. And one day, she decided she was going to spend the rest of her life with him and off they ran away to his parents’ house.
This was a large turning point for my mother because growing up in a household that practiced shamanism, she was suddenly thrust into a new family that believed in Christianity. When I asked her if she felt comfortable converting her religion by getting married to my father, she smiled and said she was happy to do so. Even though she had grown up believing something entirely different her whole life, she told me that a small part of her had always been curious about God, and something in her had believed even before she officially converted.
After almost 23 years of marriage, 5 children, and countless laughs and tears, my mother is still as youthful as ever. She still gets a kick out of it when complete strangers ask if we’re sisters. My mother is the stricter of my parents, with my father being a little more laidback and chill. I think my personality is more like my dad’s. Let’s just go with the flow and see where life takes us. I think my mom is stricter with me especially because I am her only daughter. She can probably see her younger self in me, and all of the hopes and dreams she had once wanted for herself she now wishes for me. It can be a lot of pressure at times, but I do want to make her proud. Make both of my parents proud. Make my whole family proud.
I think like most other mothers, my mom can express a lot with just her eyes. From happiness to anger to sadness, one look from her is all my brothers and I needed to know about how she was feeling. It’s been several months since I’ve last seen my mother in person. I haven’t been able to look her in the eyes for a long time and I do wonder how she’s doing. Phone calls, text messages, and video chats aren’t enough to tell me how she’s really doing so I can’t wait to go back home and see her again. I want to give her a tight hug and tell her how much I’ve missed her. Thankfully it will be soon! Whenever people tell me how much I look at my mom, I just smile because that’s one of the greatest compliments I’ll ever receive. I love you, mom! Kuv hlub koj <3
My mother is beautiful. From browsing through thick, dusty photo albums and rewatching old VHS tapes from my childhood, I am blessed to say I share her genes. My parents got married the summer of 1997, right after my mother graduated from high school. She loved to joke with me that my father was not the most handsome of all her suitors, but there was just something about him that captured her attention. And one day, she decided she was going to spend the rest of her life with him and off they ran away to his parents’ house.
This was a large turning point for my mother because growing up in a household that practiced shamanism, she was suddenly thrust into a new family that believed in Christianity. When I asked her if she felt comfortable converting her religion by getting married to my father, she smiled and said she was happy to do so. Even though she had grown up believing something entirely different her whole life, she told me that a small part of her had always been curious about God, and something in her had believed even before she officially converted.
After almost 23 years of marriage, 5 children, and countless laughs and tears, my mother is still as youthful as ever. She still gets a kick out of it when complete strangers ask if we’re sisters. My mother is the stricter of my parents, with my father being a little more laidback and chill. I think my personality is more like my dad’s. Let’s just go with the flow and see where life takes us. I think my mom is stricter with me especially because I am her only daughter. She can probably see her younger self in me, and all of the hopes and dreams she had once wanted for herself she now wishes for me. It can be a lot of pressure at times, but I do want to make her proud. Make both of my parents proud. Make my whole family proud.
I think like most other mothers, my mom can express a lot with just her eyes. From happiness to anger to sadness, one look from her is all my brothers and I needed to know about how she was feeling. It’s been several months since I’ve last seen my mother in person. I haven’t been able to look her in the eyes for a long time and I do wonder how she’s doing. Phone calls, text messages, and video chats aren’t enough to tell me how she’s really doing so I can’t wait to go back home and see her again. I want to give her a tight hug and tell her how much I’ve missed her. Thankfully it will be soon! Whenever people tell me how much I look at my mom, I just smile because that’s one of the greatest compliments I’ll ever receive. I love you, mom! Kuv hlub koj <3
All That I am is Because of You, by Gorety Nguyen - Class of 2021
When I was younger, I made every effort to dissociate myself from my culture and the Vietnamese traditions my parents instilled in me. Since I was the only Vietnamese girl in my classes and was surrounded by people who were primarily white and hispanic, this wasn’t too difficult for me at all. I always made up excuses that hid my Vietnamese identity, and I realized that it was because I knew nothing about it. There are deeper implications than what I saw on the surface, and I realize now that these are things that make me who I am today. They are also the parts of me that I am most proud of. And it’s all thanks to my dad.
My dad was born in the early sixties, and did everything he could to escape Vietnam when it came time to it. He escaped to China on a small boat of about 24 people, and thought he was going to die multiple times. Once, they had gone ten days without water. My dad jumped into the ocean with currency in his hand, swimming to a Chinese boat because he was desperate for anything they would give him. After many months of trying to survive and work in Hong Kong, my uncle was able to sponsor him to come to America. Although it was definitely difficult for him to adjust having known no English, all he had to say of America when I asked him about his first memories of life here was that everyone was so nice, and that it was a big contrast compared to the state of Vietnam when he left it. It made him feel as though he was finally free.
After all that he’s been through, my dad has remained one of the most gracious and giving people I know. Although he doesn’t have much, he gives to and helps those who need it. He doesn’t ask for anything in return and always tells me to give so that other people will learn to help people as well. Like many Vietnamese parents, he also sacrifices a lot so that his family will be able to have better opportunities. Although not the best example of this, when I was in middle school, I really wanted to go on a class field trip. Not knowing the value of money at the time, I begged my parents over the course of a month to let me go. Looking back now from a more mature viewpoint, it was not something that I should have even considered asking for due to my parents’ daily struggle to make ends meet. Knowing how much it meant to me, my dad paid for the trip and plane ticket. He convinced my mom that it would be beneficial for me and worth it, despite being the type of parent to not want his daughter to even sleep over at a friend’s house. Despite being a material gesture, I cry everytime I think of this memory from almost a decade ago because I now know how much extra work it took for him to be able to afford the cost of the overpriced trip. This is the type of person my dad is: someone who will sacrifice and quietly work harder to be able to give his children a better life and more opportunities than he had. Despite that being many years ago, life is still not easy for him. My dad has 12+ hour work days and still manages to check up on me at 3 a.m. since he knows that I would be up studying. His simple “hi” brings me out of my stress every time because I can hear the one-worded text in his meek and gentle voice.
When conducting this interview, there were many things I wanted to know about, but didn’t know how to ask. Often using a template that was given to me, I ended the interview by asking him who had had a big influence on his life growing up and what they had taught him. Without hesitation like how he began many of his other answers, my dad was quick to say that his own
dad was someone who had greatly impacted his life. He went on to talk about how my grandpa sacrificed a lot to care for his family, since my dad had nine other siblings growing up. Despite how hard life got for my grandpa, he didn’t complain and worked hard out of the love that he had for others. The last time my dad was able to see him was when he left Vietnam for a better life, since my grandpa passed away shortly after due to sickness. While my dad was discussing this, I realized that it mirrored the impact that my dad has had on me. He has taught me to work hard despite circumstances that may make you feel like the world is against you. He inspires me to love unconditionally and to be a kind person to everyone, despite how badly they may treat you. I never got to meet my grandpa, but I know I would love him like I love my dad since he has affected my dad’s life the same way my dad affects mine. Though he is not necessarily a conversationalist, his actions are what speak to me the loudest. Although our conversations are few and sparse, I have never doubted his love for me as it is evident in the sacrifices that he continues to make for me every day. I am proud to be his daughter and hope that one day I can have half the courage and selflessness that he does.
Bố, I love you so much, and I hope I am able to make you proud.
My dad was born in the early sixties, and did everything he could to escape Vietnam when it came time to it. He escaped to China on a small boat of about 24 people, and thought he was going to die multiple times. Once, they had gone ten days without water. My dad jumped into the ocean with currency in his hand, swimming to a Chinese boat because he was desperate for anything they would give him. After many months of trying to survive and work in Hong Kong, my uncle was able to sponsor him to come to America. Although it was definitely difficult for him to adjust having known no English, all he had to say of America when I asked him about his first memories of life here was that everyone was so nice, and that it was a big contrast compared to the state of Vietnam when he left it. It made him feel as though he was finally free.
After all that he’s been through, my dad has remained one of the most gracious and giving people I know. Although he doesn’t have much, he gives to and helps those who need it. He doesn’t ask for anything in return and always tells me to give so that other people will learn to help people as well. Like many Vietnamese parents, he also sacrifices a lot so that his family will be able to have better opportunities. Although not the best example of this, when I was in middle school, I really wanted to go on a class field trip. Not knowing the value of money at the time, I begged my parents over the course of a month to let me go. Looking back now from a more mature viewpoint, it was not something that I should have even considered asking for due to my parents’ daily struggle to make ends meet. Knowing how much it meant to me, my dad paid for the trip and plane ticket. He convinced my mom that it would be beneficial for me and worth it, despite being the type of parent to not want his daughter to even sleep over at a friend’s house. Despite being a material gesture, I cry everytime I think of this memory from almost a decade ago because I now know how much extra work it took for him to be able to afford the cost of the overpriced trip. This is the type of person my dad is: someone who will sacrifice and quietly work harder to be able to give his children a better life and more opportunities than he had. Despite that being many years ago, life is still not easy for him. My dad has 12+ hour work days and still manages to check up on me at 3 a.m. since he knows that I would be up studying. His simple “hi” brings me out of my stress every time because I can hear the one-worded text in his meek and gentle voice.
When conducting this interview, there were many things I wanted to know about, but didn’t know how to ask. Often using a template that was given to me, I ended the interview by asking him who had had a big influence on his life growing up and what they had taught him. Without hesitation like how he began many of his other answers, my dad was quick to say that his own
dad was someone who had greatly impacted his life. He went on to talk about how my grandpa sacrificed a lot to care for his family, since my dad had nine other siblings growing up. Despite how hard life got for my grandpa, he didn’t complain and worked hard out of the love that he had for others. The last time my dad was able to see him was when he left Vietnam for a better life, since my grandpa passed away shortly after due to sickness. While my dad was discussing this, I realized that it mirrored the impact that my dad has had on me. He has taught me to work hard despite circumstances that may make you feel like the world is against you. He inspires me to love unconditionally and to be a kind person to everyone, despite how badly they may treat you. I never got to meet my grandpa, but I know I would love him like I love my dad since he has affected my dad’s life the same way my dad affects mine. Though he is not necessarily a conversationalist, his actions are what speak to me the loudest. Although our conversations are few and sparse, I have never doubted his love for me as it is evident in the sacrifices that he continues to make for me every day. I am proud to be his daughter and hope that one day I can have half the courage and selflessness that he does.
Bố, I love you so much, and I hope I am able to make you proud.
Sisyphus left Vietnam by boat and his name is Vince, by Justin Nguyen - Class of 2020
Click to watch the video.
The Things We'll Never Know, by Jason Tuan Vu - Class of 2021
My mother’s story begins with uncertainty. For my first question, I asked her something I thought would be pretty simple—her birthday. I had forgotten that the day listed on her official documents was completely fabricated. No one, not even my grandma, knows the exact day when my mom was born. A story without a clear start—it’s a fitting description for someone who still remains a mystery to me even after I’ve interviewed her. Shared in fragments, my mom’s story is what I try to piece together here.
Life in Vietnam is especially hard to remember. Her most vivid childhood memory, for instance, was having to escape into the basement of her house whenever military sirens alerted her town of Da Nang that an artillery strike was about to take place. As she shared about this, I could visibly see her tensing up, and soon enough, she was trying to move away from the topic of her childhood. In a way, my mom’s past experiences continue to haunt her to this day. Despite her best efforts to suppress and forget, however, it always finds a way of coming back.
When I asked her what it was like to come to the US for the first time, she shared that she was both excited and scared. For her, coming to the US meant living in the land of opportunity, of saying goodbye to the hardships of Vietnam. At the same time, it meant leaving some behind for the sake of the family as a whole. In the end, it was my mom’s eldest brother who stayed behind so that she and her siblings could go to America. It would be years before they would get in touch again.
Living in the US wasn’t easy to begin with, she shared. As a large family with limited resources, tough decisions had to be made about who would do what for the good of the family. Sacrifices were inevitable. For instance, my uncle who was a doctor in Vietnam was unable to practice because his license wasn’t recognized in the US. Instead of trying to get a new degree, he knew that his family needed money sooner rather than later so he went to find work straight away. As for my mom, being the eldest daughter in the family, she had to balance between helping with housework and working toward an associate’s degree in community college. One of her proudest moments, she said, was when she walked the stage to receive her diploma. One of her happiest was when she had me.
Other fond memories came back to her in no particular order: odd weekend trips with my dad to Reno and Vegas; learning to drive on the freeway and getting lost in San Francisco; buying her first house and starting a family. As we came to the end of our interview, I felt as though I had more questions than answers. There was so much more I wanted to know, but it was nearing time for dinner and my mom was not going to let us eat any later. As I look back on my notes and think of what more I want to ask her, I realize that, no matter how much she tells me, there will always be things I’ll never know like her real birthday. And I’m okay with that.
Má, there will always be gaps between us, things I’ll never know about you, and things you’ll never know about me. But that doesn’t stop us from loving one another. Con thương mẹ nhiều.
Life in Vietnam is especially hard to remember. Her most vivid childhood memory, for instance, was having to escape into the basement of her house whenever military sirens alerted her town of Da Nang that an artillery strike was about to take place. As she shared about this, I could visibly see her tensing up, and soon enough, she was trying to move away from the topic of her childhood. In a way, my mom’s past experiences continue to haunt her to this day. Despite her best efforts to suppress and forget, however, it always finds a way of coming back.
When I asked her what it was like to come to the US for the first time, she shared that she was both excited and scared. For her, coming to the US meant living in the land of opportunity, of saying goodbye to the hardships of Vietnam. At the same time, it meant leaving some behind for the sake of the family as a whole. In the end, it was my mom’s eldest brother who stayed behind so that she and her siblings could go to America. It would be years before they would get in touch again.
Living in the US wasn’t easy to begin with, she shared. As a large family with limited resources, tough decisions had to be made about who would do what for the good of the family. Sacrifices were inevitable. For instance, my uncle who was a doctor in Vietnam was unable to practice because his license wasn’t recognized in the US. Instead of trying to get a new degree, he knew that his family needed money sooner rather than later so he went to find work straight away. As for my mom, being the eldest daughter in the family, she had to balance between helping with housework and working toward an associate’s degree in community college. One of her proudest moments, she said, was when she walked the stage to receive her diploma. One of her happiest was when she had me.
Other fond memories came back to her in no particular order: odd weekend trips with my dad to Reno and Vegas; learning to drive on the freeway and getting lost in San Francisco; buying her first house and starting a family. As we came to the end of our interview, I felt as though I had more questions than answers. There was so much more I wanted to know, but it was nearing time for dinner and my mom was not going to let us eat any later. As I look back on my notes and think of what more I want to ask her, I realize that, no matter how much she tells me, there will always be things I’ll never know like her real birthday. And I’m okay with that.
Má, there will always be gaps between us, things I’ll never know about you, and things you’ll never know about me. But that doesn’t stop us from loving one another. Con thương mẹ nhiều.
Family Matters, by Jimmy Tran - Class of 2023
If you don’t know what you stand for, you won’t fall for anything. If you don’t know where you come from, you won’t know where you’re going.
My cousin Jey L. Tran is on my dad’s side of the family and is around 30 years older than me. He lived in a small country village in Đà Nẵng, Vietnam. After the Vietnam war, the communist party controlled everything there. From the crops that were grown to what they were learning in schools. Leaving was the only choice from him and his family. However it wasn’t an easy choice as his mom, younger brother, and younger sister could not come with him. In the middle of the night, him, his sister, and his dad boarded a small boat along with others that was driven by his uncle and left for Hong Kong. Hungry, thirsty, and out of gas, the boat had to stop by two islands in between Vietnam and Hong Kong and begged the locals for help. The villagers took them in with kindness and gave them what they needed. A villager even took Jey and his sister to a restaurant where he’d eat a meal that he said was “the best meal I ever had.” When his boat arrived in Hong Kong, instead of staying in the city in Hong Kong like other refugees, him and his family stayed in poor crowded refugee camps for months due to lack of space in the city. When he found a sponsorship he had to wait in the Philippines for 9 more months while papers were processed. It took him more than a year to get to the United States.
Jey and his family went through an excruciating journey I could never imagine doing myself just to have a better future for themselves. For his story I was more interested in how he maintained family ties when everyone had to leave their old lives behind and start new ones upon coming to the states. It wasn’t until 2010 that Jey decided to have annual Tran family gatherings, almost 20 years after he arrived in the states. I remember going to one when I was around 11 years old seeing the old dad OG’s sitting together (my dad amongst them) with Heineken beers. The moms talking amongst each other. The younger kids would be playing with each other. Then there was me sitting next to my dad, quietly eating the food. Every time I went to these family gatherings, I didn’t know a name. I probably recognized a few faces but that was it, while all the kids my age knew each other and the older people. I hated it. I was always confused on why Jey kept inviting me to reunions when I didn’t know anyone.
But every time I went, the people there always treated me just like everyone else. They offered me a plate, the moms complimented me on my height, the old head dads would always shake my hand aggressively with a heineken on the other hand. As I have gotten older and went through my first year of college, I’ve realized how important family means to me, and because of that I've come to see Jey’s reunions in a different light. I only get to see my dad’s side of the family like once a year but whenever I do, I feel the joy of being surrounded by loving family and the pride of seeing how far we came from a small fishing/farming village in Đà Nẵng. We all have different lives but we come together because we’re united under something that cannot ever be taken away, lost, or destroyed: family. At the end of the day, we’re all we got.
It’s important to know and appreciate the roots that you came from. But it’s just as important to live your life with love and hard work in order to continue these roots and keep our family proud, united, and strong. Jey’s commitment and effort to organize these events are an embodiment of this. His journey did not end when he arrived in the states. He could have just lived the rest of his life and settled down but he made the extra effort to bring the family together. All this time I resented going to family reunions. I’m mad at myself for never looking at it the way my cousin Jey did.
To Jey, thank you cuz. For understanding the importance of never weakening the ties that bring family together and taking initiative to bring us all together. I never realized how important your efforts were to maintaining our family. He inspires me to have his compassion and to never stop spreading the love. Jey is a personal trainer with his own fitness programs and uses that big heart of his to help others. He is happily married and has two adorable daughters, Mia and Mísha. Jey is even thinking about writing his own book about his story. Again, thank you Jey for all you do and I can’t wait for the next family reunion.
My cousin Jey L. Tran is on my dad’s side of the family and is around 30 years older than me. He lived in a small country village in Đà Nẵng, Vietnam. After the Vietnam war, the communist party controlled everything there. From the crops that were grown to what they were learning in schools. Leaving was the only choice from him and his family. However it wasn’t an easy choice as his mom, younger brother, and younger sister could not come with him. In the middle of the night, him, his sister, and his dad boarded a small boat along with others that was driven by his uncle and left for Hong Kong. Hungry, thirsty, and out of gas, the boat had to stop by two islands in between Vietnam and Hong Kong and begged the locals for help. The villagers took them in with kindness and gave them what they needed. A villager even took Jey and his sister to a restaurant where he’d eat a meal that he said was “the best meal I ever had.” When his boat arrived in Hong Kong, instead of staying in the city in Hong Kong like other refugees, him and his family stayed in poor crowded refugee camps for months due to lack of space in the city. When he found a sponsorship he had to wait in the Philippines for 9 more months while papers were processed. It took him more than a year to get to the United States.
Jey and his family went through an excruciating journey I could never imagine doing myself just to have a better future for themselves. For his story I was more interested in how he maintained family ties when everyone had to leave their old lives behind and start new ones upon coming to the states. It wasn’t until 2010 that Jey decided to have annual Tran family gatherings, almost 20 years after he arrived in the states. I remember going to one when I was around 11 years old seeing the old dad OG’s sitting together (my dad amongst them) with Heineken beers. The moms talking amongst each other. The younger kids would be playing with each other. Then there was me sitting next to my dad, quietly eating the food. Every time I went to these family gatherings, I didn’t know a name. I probably recognized a few faces but that was it, while all the kids my age knew each other and the older people. I hated it. I was always confused on why Jey kept inviting me to reunions when I didn’t know anyone.
But every time I went, the people there always treated me just like everyone else. They offered me a plate, the moms complimented me on my height, the old head dads would always shake my hand aggressively with a heineken on the other hand. As I have gotten older and went through my first year of college, I’ve realized how important family means to me, and because of that I've come to see Jey’s reunions in a different light. I only get to see my dad’s side of the family like once a year but whenever I do, I feel the joy of being surrounded by loving family and the pride of seeing how far we came from a small fishing/farming village in Đà Nẵng. We all have different lives but we come together because we’re united under something that cannot ever be taken away, lost, or destroyed: family. At the end of the day, we’re all we got.
It’s important to know and appreciate the roots that you came from. But it’s just as important to live your life with love and hard work in order to continue these roots and keep our family proud, united, and strong. Jey’s commitment and effort to organize these events are an embodiment of this. His journey did not end when he arrived in the states. He could have just lived the rest of his life and settled down but he made the extra effort to bring the family together. All this time I resented going to family reunions. I’m mad at myself for never looking at it the way my cousin Jey did.
To Jey, thank you cuz. For understanding the importance of never weakening the ties that bring family together and taking initiative to bring us all together. I never realized how important your efforts were to maintaining our family. He inspires me to have his compassion and to never stop spreading the love. Jey is a personal trainer with his own fitness programs and uses that big heart of his to help others. He is happily married and has two adorable daughters, Mia and Mísha. Jey is even thinking about writing his own book about his story. Again, thank you Jey for all you do and I can’t wait for the next family reunion.
Ba, by Tam Ngoc-Nhu Nguyen, Class of 2023
My name is Tâm, which means “heart” in Vietnamese. It was a name that my father chose because he wanted to pass down the Vietnamese culture and the beauty of the language. The roots of my family’s story lies in Saigon, Vietnam where my father was born. My father, Dũng Nguyễn, was born in 1965. He is someone that always seems boisterous and cheerful, having the ability to make friends everywhere he went. He values family traditions greatly as it brings him joy because despite life being full of strife in Vietnam, it was a place he called home.
My family lived in poverty under the communist regime, struggling to get by each day. My father could not attend school because there was not enough money to pay for it. Yet, he fondly describes his childhood memories with being a troublemaker in the neighborhood. At the time, my grandmother was the main source of income by running a small restaurant, while my grandfather was a soldier in the Southern army during the Vietnam War. When the war ended, my grandfather was sent to an “education camp.” It was through my grandfather that my family was able to migrate under the category of being political refugees.
Beneath my father’s cheerful exterior, he has been through a lot. My father had arrived first in 1994, leaving behind my mother and older brother. Coming to the United States, it was very different from Vietnam. My father often felt lonely, working a strenuous job in a Farmer John factory. I remember how he used to tell me that he loved playing the guitar and it was a hobby that made him happy. However, it is a hobby he can no longer enjoy because the job caused an injury in the fingers he needed to strum the guitar. It saddens me to think about the many things my father has sacrificed to provide for the family. I have always been amazed at the seemingly endless talents my father had. He was good at mechanics, art, music, and is very knowledgeable on many topics. I admire him greatly and sometimes I wonder what he would have done with his life if he had the chance to pursue his interests. It wasn’t until years later, in 2000, when my mom and older were finally able to be sponsored over to the United States.
My connection in this storyline begins in 2001, when I was born. During my childhood, my parents used to argue a lot and threatened to divorce each other every quarrel. Their pride prevented them from apologizing to each other and many times they would say that it was only because of my siblings and I that they stayed together. It was a rough time, but I know my parents love each other. The circumstances that they were in did not allow them to enjoy their time together, being constantly overworked and stressed. I remember that my parents weren’t home a lot when I was a child, but the few times that we did get to spend together were blissful.
I have always been grateful to my parents for all the things that they do for my siblings and I, but it was hard to understand their actions at times. I never understood until later on when my parents opened up to me more. My father told me that he was always worried about being enough, about being able to provide us the future he never had the chance to pursue. It made it difficult for him to open up because he did not want to seem weak. It pained me to know that my parents were doing their best for my siblings and I, even at the cost of themselves.
The most difficult elements to preserve in a culture are the ones that often go unseen: the roots of the past. The story of my father along with my family runs parallel to many others in the Vietnamese community and I hope that by sharing the story of my father and my family that the roots of Vietnamese culture is remembered and appreciated.
My family lived in poverty under the communist regime, struggling to get by each day. My father could not attend school because there was not enough money to pay for it. Yet, he fondly describes his childhood memories with being a troublemaker in the neighborhood. At the time, my grandmother was the main source of income by running a small restaurant, while my grandfather was a soldier in the Southern army during the Vietnam War. When the war ended, my grandfather was sent to an “education camp.” It was through my grandfather that my family was able to migrate under the category of being political refugees.
Beneath my father’s cheerful exterior, he has been through a lot. My father had arrived first in 1994, leaving behind my mother and older brother. Coming to the United States, it was very different from Vietnam. My father often felt lonely, working a strenuous job in a Farmer John factory. I remember how he used to tell me that he loved playing the guitar and it was a hobby that made him happy. However, it is a hobby he can no longer enjoy because the job caused an injury in the fingers he needed to strum the guitar. It saddens me to think about the many things my father has sacrificed to provide for the family. I have always been amazed at the seemingly endless talents my father had. He was good at mechanics, art, music, and is very knowledgeable on many topics. I admire him greatly and sometimes I wonder what he would have done with his life if he had the chance to pursue his interests. It wasn’t until years later, in 2000, when my mom and older were finally able to be sponsored over to the United States.
My connection in this storyline begins in 2001, when I was born. During my childhood, my parents used to argue a lot and threatened to divorce each other every quarrel. Their pride prevented them from apologizing to each other and many times they would say that it was only because of my siblings and I that they stayed together. It was a rough time, but I know my parents love each other. The circumstances that they were in did not allow them to enjoy their time together, being constantly overworked and stressed. I remember that my parents weren’t home a lot when I was a child, but the few times that we did get to spend together were blissful.
I have always been grateful to my parents for all the things that they do for my siblings and I, but it was hard to understand their actions at times. I never understood until later on when my parents opened up to me more. My father told me that he was always worried about being enough, about being able to provide us the future he never had the chance to pursue. It made it difficult for him to open up because he did not want to seem weak. It pained me to know that my parents were doing their best for my siblings and I, even at the cost of themselves.
The most difficult elements to preserve in a culture are the ones that often go unseen: the roots of the past. The story of my father along with my family runs parallel to many others in the Vietnamese community and I hope that by sharing the story of my father and my family that the roots of Vietnamese culture is remembered and appreciated.
The Before and After of a Continuing Journey, by Jamie Vu - Class of 2023
Being the daughter of my dad, I’ve never realized who my dad was and what kind of life he lived before I was born. And, though I’m ashamed to admit it, I never really bothered or cared to ask him about his life before me, before his assumed American identity as Klan Vu, before his finding of stability. I’ve only known him as who he is now: Giang Vu (American name being Klan), father of three, 52 years-old. But now that I know his “before,” my dad is much more than those superficial labels; he is passionate, he is caring, and he is hardworking.
Born in Saigon in 1967, my dad was immediately given to a caretaker by my grandma. My grandma would visit him and the caretaker every two to three months. As a child, one could only imagine how lonely it must have been to not know who your father was, why you couldn’t be with your mom, and why you were living with a woman that wasn’t related to you. My grandma then married another man and had two more sons, going with them to America by plane in 1975. Meanwhile, my dad was still in Vietnam living with the caretaker. It wasn’t until after the communists took over did my dad finally leave Vietnam in 1982. However, he didn’t immediately leave for the States; he first traveled by boat to Malaysia, a journey that he was lucky to survive out of the many that died during the trip. From there, my grandma sponsored him, and he was finally able to fly to America.
However, even when he came to America, he wasn’t able to fully live through his youth in a place that was supposed to provide him with better opportunities. He didn’t know English, he didn’t have money, and he was still practically alone. His night shifts as a dishwasher prevented him from fully focusing on his studies during high school. Though he graduated with a high school diploma, he couldn’t go to college, having to work full-time to help my grandma with the finances. My dad’s adolescent years consisted of working tirelessly and endlessly.
However, now that my dad has a stable job and kids, he doesn’t have to work as hard or worry as much as he did in the past. Without this project, I don’t think I ever would have had the courage or found the excuse to learn more about my dad’s past – about his roots. Now that I understand what his life was like, I have a greater appreciation for my dad and for what he’s done for me. Despite his past hardships, my dad likes to joke around and have fun and is overall an easygoing person. Though I did find the excuse to learn more about my dad’s past with this Roots project, I still haven’t found the courage to show my dad my appreciation in person nor tell him that I really love him. But, for now, it will suffice through text: I love you, dad, and thank you for everything that you’ve done for me.
Born in Saigon in 1967, my dad was immediately given to a caretaker by my grandma. My grandma would visit him and the caretaker every two to three months. As a child, one could only imagine how lonely it must have been to not know who your father was, why you couldn’t be with your mom, and why you were living with a woman that wasn’t related to you. My grandma then married another man and had two more sons, going with them to America by plane in 1975. Meanwhile, my dad was still in Vietnam living with the caretaker. It wasn’t until after the communists took over did my dad finally leave Vietnam in 1982. However, he didn’t immediately leave for the States; he first traveled by boat to Malaysia, a journey that he was lucky to survive out of the many that died during the trip. From there, my grandma sponsored him, and he was finally able to fly to America.
However, even when he came to America, he wasn’t able to fully live through his youth in a place that was supposed to provide him with better opportunities. He didn’t know English, he didn’t have money, and he was still practically alone. His night shifts as a dishwasher prevented him from fully focusing on his studies during high school. Though he graduated with a high school diploma, he couldn’t go to college, having to work full-time to help my grandma with the finances. My dad’s adolescent years consisted of working tirelessly and endlessly.
However, now that my dad has a stable job and kids, he doesn’t have to work as hard or worry as much as he did in the past. Without this project, I don’t think I ever would have had the courage or found the excuse to learn more about my dad’s past – about his roots. Now that I understand what his life was like, I have a greater appreciation for my dad and for what he’s done for me. Despite his past hardships, my dad likes to joke around and have fun and is overall an easygoing person. Though I did find the excuse to learn more about my dad’s past with this Roots project, I still haven’t found the courage to show my dad my appreciation in person nor tell him that I really love him. But, for now, it will suffice through text: I love you, dad, and thank you for everything that you’ve done for me.
30-4, by Professor NGUYỄN-VÕ THU-HƯƠNG
Justifying the need to bury her brother against orders from the king, Antigone says in that ancient Greek tragedy:
It is the dead
Not the living, who make the longest demands:
We die for ever.
Aren’t we here to do just that on this commemorative occasion? To answer to the continuing demands of the dead? The dead could be my grandfather, who was tortured and tossed outside to die whimpering for water within 48 hours of his arrest by the French Security Police in 1946 at the beginning of the First Indochina War. The dead could be your grandfather, who died starved, ill, or stuffed down a well, in a re-education camp in the years after 1975 at the end of the Second Indochina War, also known as the Vietnam War. The dead could be your aunt, who was raped and thrown overboard that rickety boat trying to cross the Eastern Sea in the decades of the 1980s and 1990s, following the Third Indochina War.
But how do you reconcile the time of the dead - that “for ever” - and the future that must be lived?
Nowadays, you hear calls for reconciliation, for leaving the past behind, so that business could prosper on both sides of the Pacific in a future of “Trans-Pacific Partnership” between Vietnam and the US. For the sake of reconciliation and moving forward in US-Vietnam relations, the Vietnamese undersecretary of foreign affairs has recently announced rather magnanimously that the government of Vietnam will no longer hold the illegal departure of Vietnamese boat people who perished at sea against them, because after all these dead were merely victims of the war. The state of Vietnam, in other words, is forgiving the dead at its own hands. This is magnanimous indeed because those boat people thought they had to flee because of the socialist Vietnamese government's policies of repression, expulsion, and imprisonment after war. Given how forgiving the Vietnamese government has become, “progressive” people here and in Vietnam say those who refuse to forgive and forget are sore losers who hold a grudge and can’t see past their dead. People who count themselves reasonable say because these sore losers are not forward-looking, they have forfeited their “objectivity,” consigning themselves to irrelevance, you know, as in the persistent anti-communist protesters that refuse to let business and good cheer rule the day.
But where is that objective history to be found?
Last night, you had a chance to hear stories from the panel about our history. You heard perspectives of the war that surprised you. The Vietnamese you know, your family, friends - well, the men don’t shoot from trees, the women don’t say boom boom love you long time like in those Hollywood movies. The war you hear from people of your community doesn’t sound like the one you learn in a university history class, ucla included. Nor does it sound like the one in the soundbites uttered by every US Presidential candidate to this day about American patriotism during war and generosity in welcoming and saving your parents and my parents from the communist hellhole of Vietnam after war.
History is like that, incomplete and self-serving. Some versions get written, taught, guaranteed by police, military, economic, or political force. Others can only get whispered, sighed, or put to song. You can try to seek out more, to be truthful to what you find. But if you ever find the truth to history - objective history or universal history - you must turn and run. Any history worth a damn will always be fragmentary and contradictory, when it’s conveniently half-remembered by each and all, when the powerful like nation-states and empires, try with all their might (and might they have) to organize our remembering and forgetting for their own use.
But if we cannot know history in its truth, in its totality, should we allow it to be overcome, to be resolved, to be reconciled, forgiven and forgotten? So that former enemies can reconcile with each other for the sake of the motherland, the fatherland, the business of the future?
To submit to the future means to bring the past to closure. To insist that life goes on means we must foreclose on those who are dead or counted as dead.
Are you prepared to do that? I am not.
I understand the dead cannot speak truth to lies, because they themselves possess no more of the truth than nations or families or persons do. Truth comes no more from the dead than from the living. The business of the dead is not to speak truth, but to disturb any truth that some academic, businessman, government functionary, or politician can conjure in the form of historical closure.
Reconciliation?
No.
To those whose business it is to foreclose on the past for national unity, for the global world and its economy, may they live under that curse uttered by Oedipus, Antigone’s father. When the ruler of Thebes asks him to return from exile to die and be buried in the soil of his country, blessing it, Oedipus vengefully swears: “My ghost to haunt thy country without end.”
I want to speak that curse on this day of all days, may the dead “for ever” haunt countries - the US or Vietnam, so that their history will be “for ever” disturbed, unclosed.
And I want to speak that curse to us all, so that we may remain open to the straying fragments from the past. May we be haunted, without end.
(Dr. Nguyễn-Võ Thu-Hương is an Associate Professor in the Departments of Asian Languages and Cultures and Asian American Studies at University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA), as well as an author of many articles and book.)
Chống lại lệnh nhà vua để chôn cất người anh của mình, Antigone khuyến cáo trong vở bi kịch Hy Lạp cổ thời rằng:
Không phải người sống mà là người chết
Đòi hỏi dài lâu nhất
Chúng tôi chết mãi mãi kia mà.
Có phải chăng chúng ta có mặt trong dịp tưởng niệm đêm nay cũng để đáp lại đòi hỏi của người chết? Người chết có thể là Ông Ngoại tôi, bị tra tấn, quăng ra sân rên xin nước uống cho đến chết trong vòng 48 tiếng sau khi bị An Ninh Pháp bắt vào năm 1946, lúc bắt đầu trận chiến tranh Đông Dương lần thứ nhất. Người chết có thể là Ông Nội bạn, chết đói, chết bệnh, hay bị quăng xuống giếng ở trại cải tạo sau năm 1975, khi cuộc chiến tranh Đông Dương lần thứ hai chấm dứt. Người chết có thể là cô, là dì của bạn, bị xúc phạm và quăng xuống Biển Đông vào những thập niên 1980 và 1990 sau cuộc chiến tranh Đông Dương lần thứ ba.
Nhưng chúng ta sống như thế nào đây với tương lai khi mà thời tính của người chết lại là “mãi mãi”?
Dạo sau này, các bạn hay nghe người ta kêu gọi hãy hòa hợp hòa giải, hãy khép quá khứ lại để tìm đến kinh tế phồn vinh cho cả hai bờ Đại Dương trong một quan hệ “Đối Tác Kinh Tế Xuyên Thái Bình Dương” giữa Mỹ và Việt Nam (TPP). Trong nỗ lực hòa hợp hòa giải với người Mỹ gốc Việt nhằm làm trơn tru quan hệ Việt-Mỹ, Thứ Trưởng Bộ Ngoại Giao Việt Nam, ông Nguyễn Thanh Sơn đã tuyên bố một cách rất rộng lượng rằng nhà nước khoan hồng không truy cứu lý do ra đi của những người đã chết trên Biển Đông nữa, và coi họ chỉ là những nạn nhân của chiến tranh mà thôi. Có nghĩa là nhà nước Việt Nam đang tha thứ cho những người chết vì chánh sách đàn áp, trục xuất, và giam cầm của chính họ sau chiến tranh. Cũng chính vì nhà nước Việt Nam rất hải hà, những người “tiến bộ” ở Mỹ và Việt Nam nghĩ rằng những kẻ chiến bại xấu nết đang thù dai, không vượt qua được người chết của mình. Những người tự coi mình biết điều nói rằng những kẻ thua trận không chịu nhìn về phía trước và đã đánh mất khả năng có thể “khách quan” trước lịch sử.
Nhưng chúng ta tìm đâu ra lịch sử khách quan?
Tối qua, các bạn có cơ hội nghe những câu chuyện và quan điểm về cuộc chiến có thể đã làm bạn ngạc nhiên. Những người Việt Nam mà các bạn biết, gia đình, bạn bè, thì đàn ông không bắn sẻ, đàn bà không rao bum bum yêu anh dài lâu như trong phim Hollywood. Cuộc chiến các bạn biết từ cộng đồng không giống cuộc chiến các bạn học trong lớp sử ở đại học, kể cả UCLA. Và chắc chắn nó cũng không giống như trong lời tuyên bố của mỗi ứng cử viên tổng thống Hoa Kỳ trong những thập kỷ qua về tinh thần yêu nước Mỹ trong chiến tranh và sự rộng rãi của người Mỹ khi đã cứu vớt cha mẹ bạn, cha mẹ tôi thoát khỏi địa ngục cộng sản sau chiến tranh.
Lịch sử là thế đó, khiếm khuyết và vị kỷ. Có phiên bản lịch sử thì được viết, được dạy, được bảo kê bởi sức mạnh của cảnh sát, của quân đội, của kinh tế, của chính trị. Còn những câu chuyện quá khứ khác người ta chỉ có thể nói thì thầm, thở dài, hay hát. Các bạn có thể tìm hiểu, và thành tâm với những gì tìm thấy. Nhưng nếu các bạn bắt gặp sự thật lịch sử - thứ “lịch sử khách quan” hay “lịch sử phổ quát”, thì các bạn nên bỏ chạy. Lịch sử chỉ có thể cho ta những mảnh rời mâu thuẫn, khi mà mỗi chúng ta đều nửa nhớ nửa quên, khi mà những thế lực quốc gia và đế quốc dùng hết quyền năng để tổ chức những điều ta quên ta nhớ.
Nếu chúng ta không thể biết lịch sử trong sự thật như một tổng thể vẹn toàn, thì chúng ta có nên chăng vượt qua nó, hóa giải, hòa giải, tha thứ, và quên đi? Để những kẻ cựu thù có thể hòa giải với nhau vì quê mẹ, đất cha, hay công việc của tương lai?
Để quy phục tương lai, chúng ta phải khép lại quá khứ. Để đời sống phăng phăng đi tới, chúng ta phải khóa sổ người chết và người được xem như đã chết.
Các bạn có sẵn sàng làm điều đó? Tôi không sẵn sàng.
Tôi hiểu người chết không thể nói lên sự thật chống lại điều dối trá, bởi vì họ cũng không làm chủ sự thật như một quốc gia, một đế quốc, một con người không thể làm chủ sự thật. Sự thật không đến từ người chết cũng như nó không đến từ người sống. Công việc của người chết không phải là nói sự thật, mà là quấy nhiễu mọi sự thật một học giả, một thương gia, một quan chức nhà nước, hay một chánh khách bày ra để hóa giải quá khứ.
Hòa hợp hòa giải?
Không.
Những người làm công việc khóa sổ quá khứ để đoàn kết quốc gia, để phát triển thế giới toàn cầu và nền kinh tế của nó, hãy để họ sống với lời nguyền của Oedipus, cha Antigone. Khi kẻ cầm quyền thành Thebes kêu gọi Oedipus bị lưu đày hãy trở về chết trên xứ mình, chôn thây vào đất tổ để mang quyền phép về cho nó, ông ta đã nguyền rằng: Hồn ma ta sẽ ám đất nước nhà ngươi, không dứt.
Tôi muốn thốt lên lời nguyền đó vào ngày này: Hãy để người chết mãi ám những quốc gia - Hoa Kỳ hay Việt Nam - để lịch sử họ mãi bất an, không thể khép.
Và tôi muốn nói lên lời nguyền này với chúng ta để còn may ra đón nhận những mảnh lạc từ quá khứ. Hãy để chúng ta bị ám mãi, không nguôi.
(Giáo sư tiến sĩ Nguyễn-Võ Thu-Hương hiện giảng dạy tại hai phân khoa Ngôn Ngữ và Văn Hóa Á Châu và Nghiên Cứu Người Mỹ Gốc Á thuộc đại học University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA) và là tác giả của nhiều bài viết, nghiên cứu, lý luận, sách.)
It is the dead
Not the living, who make the longest demands:
We die for ever.
Aren’t we here to do just that on this commemorative occasion? To answer to the continuing demands of the dead? The dead could be my grandfather, who was tortured and tossed outside to die whimpering for water within 48 hours of his arrest by the French Security Police in 1946 at the beginning of the First Indochina War. The dead could be your grandfather, who died starved, ill, or stuffed down a well, in a re-education camp in the years after 1975 at the end of the Second Indochina War, also known as the Vietnam War. The dead could be your aunt, who was raped and thrown overboard that rickety boat trying to cross the Eastern Sea in the decades of the 1980s and 1990s, following the Third Indochina War.
But how do you reconcile the time of the dead - that “for ever” - and the future that must be lived?
Nowadays, you hear calls for reconciliation, for leaving the past behind, so that business could prosper on both sides of the Pacific in a future of “Trans-Pacific Partnership” between Vietnam and the US. For the sake of reconciliation and moving forward in US-Vietnam relations, the Vietnamese undersecretary of foreign affairs has recently announced rather magnanimously that the government of Vietnam will no longer hold the illegal departure of Vietnamese boat people who perished at sea against them, because after all these dead were merely victims of the war. The state of Vietnam, in other words, is forgiving the dead at its own hands. This is magnanimous indeed because those boat people thought they had to flee because of the socialist Vietnamese government's policies of repression, expulsion, and imprisonment after war. Given how forgiving the Vietnamese government has become, “progressive” people here and in Vietnam say those who refuse to forgive and forget are sore losers who hold a grudge and can’t see past their dead. People who count themselves reasonable say because these sore losers are not forward-looking, they have forfeited their “objectivity,” consigning themselves to irrelevance, you know, as in the persistent anti-communist protesters that refuse to let business and good cheer rule the day.
But where is that objective history to be found?
Last night, you had a chance to hear stories from the panel about our history. You heard perspectives of the war that surprised you. The Vietnamese you know, your family, friends - well, the men don’t shoot from trees, the women don’t say boom boom love you long time like in those Hollywood movies. The war you hear from people of your community doesn’t sound like the one you learn in a university history class, ucla included. Nor does it sound like the one in the soundbites uttered by every US Presidential candidate to this day about American patriotism during war and generosity in welcoming and saving your parents and my parents from the communist hellhole of Vietnam after war.
History is like that, incomplete and self-serving. Some versions get written, taught, guaranteed by police, military, economic, or political force. Others can only get whispered, sighed, or put to song. You can try to seek out more, to be truthful to what you find. But if you ever find the truth to history - objective history or universal history - you must turn and run. Any history worth a damn will always be fragmentary and contradictory, when it’s conveniently half-remembered by each and all, when the powerful like nation-states and empires, try with all their might (and might they have) to organize our remembering and forgetting for their own use.
But if we cannot know history in its truth, in its totality, should we allow it to be overcome, to be resolved, to be reconciled, forgiven and forgotten? So that former enemies can reconcile with each other for the sake of the motherland, the fatherland, the business of the future?
To submit to the future means to bring the past to closure. To insist that life goes on means we must foreclose on those who are dead or counted as dead.
Are you prepared to do that? I am not.
I understand the dead cannot speak truth to lies, because they themselves possess no more of the truth than nations or families or persons do. Truth comes no more from the dead than from the living. The business of the dead is not to speak truth, but to disturb any truth that some academic, businessman, government functionary, or politician can conjure in the form of historical closure.
Reconciliation?
No.
To those whose business it is to foreclose on the past for national unity, for the global world and its economy, may they live under that curse uttered by Oedipus, Antigone’s father. When the ruler of Thebes asks him to return from exile to die and be buried in the soil of his country, blessing it, Oedipus vengefully swears: “My ghost to haunt thy country without end.”
I want to speak that curse on this day of all days, may the dead “for ever” haunt countries - the US or Vietnam, so that their history will be “for ever” disturbed, unclosed.
And I want to speak that curse to us all, so that we may remain open to the straying fragments from the past. May we be haunted, without end.
(Dr. Nguyễn-Võ Thu-Hương is an Associate Professor in the Departments of Asian Languages and Cultures and Asian American Studies at University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA), as well as an author of many articles and book.)
Chống lại lệnh nhà vua để chôn cất người anh của mình, Antigone khuyến cáo trong vở bi kịch Hy Lạp cổ thời rằng:
Không phải người sống mà là người chết
Đòi hỏi dài lâu nhất
Chúng tôi chết mãi mãi kia mà.
Có phải chăng chúng ta có mặt trong dịp tưởng niệm đêm nay cũng để đáp lại đòi hỏi của người chết? Người chết có thể là Ông Ngoại tôi, bị tra tấn, quăng ra sân rên xin nước uống cho đến chết trong vòng 48 tiếng sau khi bị An Ninh Pháp bắt vào năm 1946, lúc bắt đầu trận chiến tranh Đông Dương lần thứ nhất. Người chết có thể là Ông Nội bạn, chết đói, chết bệnh, hay bị quăng xuống giếng ở trại cải tạo sau năm 1975, khi cuộc chiến tranh Đông Dương lần thứ hai chấm dứt. Người chết có thể là cô, là dì của bạn, bị xúc phạm và quăng xuống Biển Đông vào những thập niên 1980 và 1990 sau cuộc chiến tranh Đông Dương lần thứ ba.
Nhưng chúng ta sống như thế nào đây với tương lai khi mà thời tính của người chết lại là “mãi mãi”?
Dạo sau này, các bạn hay nghe người ta kêu gọi hãy hòa hợp hòa giải, hãy khép quá khứ lại để tìm đến kinh tế phồn vinh cho cả hai bờ Đại Dương trong một quan hệ “Đối Tác Kinh Tế Xuyên Thái Bình Dương” giữa Mỹ và Việt Nam (TPP). Trong nỗ lực hòa hợp hòa giải với người Mỹ gốc Việt nhằm làm trơn tru quan hệ Việt-Mỹ, Thứ Trưởng Bộ Ngoại Giao Việt Nam, ông Nguyễn Thanh Sơn đã tuyên bố một cách rất rộng lượng rằng nhà nước khoan hồng không truy cứu lý do ra đi của những người đã chết trên Biển Đông nữa, và coi họ chỉ là những nạn nhân của chiến tranh mà thôi. Có nghĩa là nhà nước Việt Nam đang tha thứ cho những người chết vì chánh sách đàn áp, trục xuất, và giam cầm của chính họ sau chiến tranh. Cũng chính vì nhà nước Việt Nam rất hải hà, những người “tiến bộ” ở Mỹ và Việt Nam nghĩ rằng những kẻ chiến bại xấu nết đang thù dai, không vượt qua được người chết của mình. Những người tự coi mình biết điều nói rằng những kẻ thua trận không chịu nhìn về phía trước và đã đánh mất khả năng có thể “khách quan” trước lịch sử.
Nhưng chúng ta tìm đâu ra lịch sử khách quan?
Tối qua, các bạn có cơ hội nghe những câu chuyện và quan điểm về cuộc chiến có thể đã làm bạn ngạc nhiên. Những người Việt Nam mà các bạn biết, gia đình, bạn bè, thì đàn ông không bắn sẻ, đàn bà không rao bum bum yêu anh dài lâu như trong phim Hollywood. Cuộc chiến các bạn biết từ cộng đồng không giống cuộc chiến các bạn học trong lớp sử ở đại học, kể cả UCLA. Và chắc chắn nó cũng không giống như trong lời tuyên bố của mỗi ứng cử viên tổng thống Hoa Kỳ trong những thập kỷ qua về tinh thần yêu nước Mỹ trong chiến tranh và sự rộng rãi của người Mỹ khi đã cứu vớt cha mẹ bạn, cha mẹ tôi thoát khỏi địa ngục cộng sản sau chiến tranh.
Lịch sử là thế đó, khiếm khuyết và vị kỷ. Có phiên bản lịch sử thì được viết, được dạy, được bảo kê bởi sức mạnh của cảnh sát, của quân đội, của kinh tế, của chính trị. Còn những câu chuyện quá khứ khác người ta chỉ có thể nói thì thầm, thở dài, hay hát. Các bạn có thể tìm hiểu, và thành tâm với những gì tìm thấy. Nhưng nếu các bạn bắt gặp sự thật lịch sử - thứ “lịch sử khách quan” hay “lịch sử phổ quát”, thì các bạn nên bỏ chạy. Lịch sử chỉ có thể cho ta những mảnh rời mâu thuẫn, khi mà mỗi chúng ta đều nửa nhớ nửa quên, khi mà những thế lực quốc gia và đế quốc dùng hết quyền năng để tổ chức những điều ta quên ta nhớ.
Nếu chúng ta không thể biết lịch sử trong sự thật như một tổng thể vẹn toàn, thì chúng ta có nên chăng vượt qua nó, hóa giải, hòa giải, tha thứ, và quên đi? Để những kẻ cựu thù có thể hòa giải với nhau vì quê mẹ, đất cha, hay công việc của tương lai?
Để quy phục tương lai, chúng ta phải khép lại quá khứ. Để đời sống phăng phăng đi tới, chúng ta phải khóa sổ người chết và người được xem như đã chết.
Các bạn có sẵn sàng làm điều đó? Tôi không sẵn sàng.
Tôi hiểu người chết không thể nói lên sự thật chống lại điều dối trá, bởi vì họ cũng không làm chủ sự thật như một quốc gia, một đế quốc, một con người không thể làm chủ sự thật. Sự thật không đến từ người chết cũng như nó không đến từ người sống. Công việc của người chết không phải là nói sự thật, mà là quấy nhiễu mọi sự thật một học giả, một thương gia, một quan chức nhà nước, hay một chánh khách bày ra để hóa giải quá khứ.
Hòa hợp hòa giải?
Không.
Những người làm công việc khóa sổ quá khứ để đoàn kết quốc gia, để phát triển thế giới toàn cầu và nền kinh tế của nó, hãy để họ sống với lời nguyền của Oedipus, cha Antigone. Khi kẻ cầm quyền thành Thebes kêu gọi Oedipus bị lưu đày hãy trở về chết trên xứ mình, chôn thây vào đất tổ để mang quyền phép về cho nó, ông ta đã nguyền rằng: Hồn ma ta sẽ ám đất nước nhà ngươi, không dứt.
Tôi muốn thốt lên lời nguyền đó vào ngày này: Hãy để người chết mãi ám những quốc gia - Hoa Kỳ hay Việt Nam - để lịch sử họ mãi bất an, không thể khép.
Và tôi muốn nói lên lời nguyền này với chúng ta để còn may ra đón nhận những mảnh lạc từ quá khứ. Hãy để chúng ta bị ám mãi, không nguôi.
(Giáo sư tiến sĩ Nguyễn-Võ Thu-Hương hiện giảng dạy tại hai phân khoa Ngôn Ngữ và Văn Hóa Á Châu và Nghiên Cứu Người Mỹ Gốc Á thuộc đại học University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA) và là tác giả của nhiều bài viết, nghiên cứu, lý luận, sách.)
Thank You Mom, by Tiffany Dong - Class of 2023
I sat by my aunt in the car gently rubbing her shoulder as she softly cried. Her hands placed on the steering wheel, forehead atop her fingers, as if she was trying to steady herself from the immense pain she felt in her heart. She recalled memories of the past where her father, my grandpa, had been stripped away from her, imprisoned for 10 years by the communists. In the backseat of the car, my mother also wept over memories she thought she had long forgotten.
My grandpa had been a general in the Southern Vietnamese military. As a result, when my mom was younger, her family was well off. Every day she was chauffeured to and from school. She wore lavish clothing and never had to worry about putting food on her plate. A lot can happen in 10 years. My mom’s family lost everything when my grandpa was taken to the labor camps. The communists took all five of their houses and left them with nothing. My mother went from never worrying about food to never knowing when she would have her next meal. She had to stop going to school in order to provide for her family. At the age of 18, she started her own tailoring business in order to support the people she loved. At the age of 18, I started attending the university of my dreams. We live drastically different lives because she made sacrifices in her past to help me fulfill my dreams today.
To make matters worse for my mom at the time, her eldest brother died in a dangerous boat journey to America. Her mother and older sister had no means to financially support their family. To ensure her younger siblings could stay in school, my mom worked as the breadwinner of the family. After my grandpa was finally freed from the labor camps, my mother was able to immigrate with her family through the Humanitarian Operations program.
She came to America with hope of a brighter future and she worked hard to obtain it. In America, she was able to receive the education she long desired at Cal State Fullerton. My mom fulfilled the opportunity she thought she had lost in Vietnam and graduated with college honors. My father wooed her heart during college through a serenade and she married him shortly after graduation. She worked as a hairstylist to support him through his years of medical school, but my father’s family didn’t approve of her. My grandma constantly made scathing remarks like, “You come from a poor family. You’re only using my son. Divorce him.” I remember holding her hand one night as my grandma was screaming at her to leave the house. We walked out into the cold and ended up sleeping in the car, my hand never leaving hers.
Despite these obstacles, my mother’s determination never faltered. She continued to support my father and her family for many years by working countless hours in a hair salon. She is the strongest and hardest working person I know. I wouldn’t be where I am today without my mother. Originally, this project was an opportunity for me to learn more about my family and myself. Over time, it has evolved into so much more. I have a newfound appreciation for my mother and all she has sacrificed for me. I love you mom and, although you won’t say it to me in return, you’ve shown me unwavering love and care through your actions. Cảm ơn mẹ nhiều.
My grandpa had been a general in the Southern Vietnamese military. As a result, when my mom was younger, her family was well off. Every day she was chauffeured to and from school. She wore lavish clothing and never had to worry about putting food on her plate. A lot can happen in 10 years. My mom’s family lost everything when my grandpa was taken to the labor camps. The communists took all five of their houses and left them with nothing. My mother went from never worrying about food to never knowing when she would have her next meal. She had to stop going to school in order to provide for her family. At the age of 18, she started her own tailoring business in order to support the people she loved. At the age of 18, I started attending the university of my dreams. We live drastically different lives because she made sacrifices in her past to help me fulfill my dreams today.
To make matters worse for my mom at the time, her eldest brother died in a dangerous boat journey to America. Her mother and older sister had no means to financially support their family. To ensure her younger siblings could stay in school, my mom worked as the breadwinner of the family. After my grandpa was finally freed from the labor camps, my mother was able to immigrate with her family through the Humanitarian Operations program.
She came to America with hope of a brighter future and she worked hard to obtain it. In America, she was able to receive the education she long desired at Cal State Fullerton. My mom fulfilled the opportunity she thought she had lost in Vietnam and graduated with college honors. My father wooed her heart during college through a serenade and she married him shortly after graduation. She worked as a hairstylist to support him through his years of medical school, but my father’s family didn’t approve of her. My grandma constantly made scathing remarks like, “You come from a poor family. You’re only using my son. Divorce him.” I remember holding her hand one night as my grandma was screaming at her to leave the house. We walked out into the cold and ended up sleeping in the car, my hand never leaving hers.
Despite these obstacles, my mother’s determination never faltered. She continued to support my father and her family for many years by working countless hours in a hair salon. She is the strongest and hardest working person I know. I wouldn’t be where I am today without my mother. Originally, this project was an opportunity for me to learn more about my family and myself. Over time, it has evolved into so much more. I have a newfound appreciation for my mother and all she has sacrificed for me. I love you mom and, although you won’t say it to me in return, you’ve shown me unwavering love and care through your actions. Cảm ơn mẹ nhiều.
For the Opportunities I Have Today, by Briana Thuy Khuu - Class of 2020
Being Vietnamese American to me means to remember and recognize the hardships our parents and relatives went through to get us to where we are today.
My father, Dat The Khuu, was born on September 17, 1967 in the city of Saigon into a family of ten. As a child, he would go to school and help his mom with the business (making bicycle parts). He remembers sneaking outside as a child and playing with other children in the neighborhood. They would kick around a can, blowing on paper frogs until they flip, or play hide and seek. Then, he and his siblings would run back inside when they saw his mom coming home. (My grandma did not like when they played with neighborhood kids thinking that they were bad influences.) He was your typical kid with no thoughts about the future at that time.
When the communists came in 1975, he said they were “kind of like robbers” and would take everything, leaving people left with nothing. During that time, a lot of people were committing suicide. Sometimes whole families. He remembers watching the communists go through the streets from the roof of his house and feeling so much hatred, wishing they would disappear. My father told me everything with a straight face, saying that he is now desensitized to the past.
Some of my father’s siblings left by boat towards America in 1975 while my father and the rest of the family stayed in Vietnam. They got a sponsorship and left Vietnam by airplane in 1986. He stayed in the Philippines for a year with a few of his siblings to learn to adapt to American culture. Then, they arrived in America in 1988. He remembers looking out of the plane window and seeing America for the first time. His first impression was that it was “big, nice, and had a lot of cars…. But a little bit quiet. Haha.”
He did not know English very well at that time. He temporarily studied at Pierce Community College, but soon dropped out since he did not have a high school education and looked for work instead. He said at that time, he felt worried about how he would be able to study for his life here. He also worried about being able to pay rent and taking care of a family.
My father worked several different jobs with either electric soldering or assembly connectors (where he met my mom). Then, he started work at Special Device Company where he worked with airbags and is now working a job as a machine operator. Finding a job was difficult for my father due to his lack of education and English skills. I remember helping him make resumes when I was in elementary school when he became unemployed.
Nowadays, my father does not have as many worries and lives a stable life. He loves to goof around and values his children. He always emphasizes the importance of family and living a life where we can be happy. I am forever thankful to my father for allowing me to have the opportunities I have today.
“What I want you guys [my siblings and I] to remember when you grow up? Hm, always love each other even when you fight. And study well so you can do whatever you want. Nothing else matters.”
My father, Dat The Khuu, was born on September 17, 1967 in the city of Saigon into a family of ten. As a child, he would go to school and help his mom with the business (making bicycle parts). He remembers sneaking outside as a child and playing with other children in the neighborhood. They would kick around a can, blowing on paper frogs until they flip, or play hide and seek. Then, he and his siblings would run back inside when they saw his mom coming home. (My grandma did not like when they played with neighborhood kids thinking that they were bad influences.) He was your typical kid with no thoughts about the future at that time.
When the communists came in 1975, he said they were “kind of like robbers” and would take everything, leaving people left with nothing. During that time, a lot of people were committing suicide. Sometimes whole families. He remembers watching the communists go through the streets from the roof of his house and feeling so much hatred, wishing they would disappear. My father told me everything with a straight face, saying that he is now desensitized to the past.
Some of my father’s siblings left by boat towards America in 1975 while my father and the rest of the family stayed in Vietnam. They got a sponsorship and left Vietnam by airplane in 1986. He stayed in the Philippines for a year with a few of his siblings to learn to adapt to American culture. Then, they arrived in America in 1988. He remembers looking out of the plane window and seeing America for the first time. His first impression was that it was “big, nice, and had a lot of cars…. But a little bit quiet. Haha.”
He did not know English very well at that time. He temporarily studied at Pierce Community College, but soon dropped out since he did not have a high school education and looked for work instead. He said at that time, he felt worried about how he would be able to study for his life here. He also worried about being able to pay rent and taking care of a family.
My father worked several different jobs with either electric soldering or assembly connectors (where he met my mom). Then, he started work at Special Device Company where he worked with airbags and is now working a job as a machine operator. Finding a job was difficult for my father due to his lack of education and English skills. I remember helping him make resumes when I was in elementary school when he became unemployed.
Nowadays, my father does not have as many worries and lives a stable life. He loves to goof around and values his children. He always emphasizes the importance of family and living a life where we can be happy. I am forever thankful to my father for allowing me to have the opportunities I have today.
“What I want you guys [my siblings and I] to remember when you grow up? Hm, always love each other even when you fight. And study well so you can do whatever you want. Nothing else matters.”
From My Dreams to Yours, by Henry Nguyen - Class of 2022
A core part of the human psyche is a person’s drive or motivation, and it’s something everyone tries to find even subconsciously as a child. In a journey to discover that for myself, I tried to find that which pushed the people around me. From my peers, I hear cheery responses, the likes of which were “I get up to do the things I love!” or “To be around good friends”. It wasn’t long before I realized that the people whose motivation I understood the least were my parents. With both a language barrier in place and a reluctance to speak about the past, I didn’t really have an answer from my parents.
I guess that’s what this is all about, trying to understand the “why” behind Trung Nguyen, my father and one of the most important people in my life.
As I expected of my dad, he had the nerve to say that the saddest point in his life was when I chose not to be a doctor and to instead pursue another career. Trying to zone out his jokes about a lack of filial piety after everything he had done for me, I tried to stay serious to what I imagined would be a difficult set of topics to walk through. While this wasn’t how I had intended the interview to go, it made me consider my father’s role as a parent in my life and my brothers’ lives as well. He tells me that his only wish is for all three of us to earn well-paying jobs in a respectable field and live the rest of our lives as comfortably as possible. Hearing an answer given to me hundreds of times in the past, I pressed for more. Why did he always offer an answer that seemed so selfless? What did he want for himself? What did he originally chase when he moved to America?
It was a question that didn’t have a simple answer, so I delved into his childhood. Born in the Long An province of Vietnam, my father spent most of his time with work that’s not typical of any American child. Even during his early teens he had been expected to work on the farm, tending to crops or herding around animals. Life seemed to be simply just surviving from one meal to the next with education a faraway thought. For a long time, it had seemed to him that this was the life he was resigned to; he had lost some dice roll and was subject to these circumstances. That was until he began to hear stories of people who immigrated to far off places and had become incredibly successful, sending back huge sums of money to their relatives in Vietnam. It wasn’t long until he became infatuated with the idea of the American dream, that his hard work would translate into luxury and status, where his poor background didn’t matter.
Eventually, he did manage to move to the U.S., though life here was not what he had envisioned. People had spoken of America as if it was El Dorado, a city where gold grew on trees. He thought he had left all his problems behind for a life of no worries. He hadn’t expected that his meager education and lack of English proficiency would come to limit him so much. One incident he remembers particularly was in the early months that he arrived, when he had gone to a bus stop to be approached by a woman who asked him about how long he had been waiting. Misinterpreting the question, he had replied with six months, the time he had spent in America. The stranger had laughed but slowly became confused as my dad had given no sign that had been a joke. While there were these incidents here and there that had seemed funny and harmless, more often than not, it was a problem. From being belittled by people in the workplace or even out in public, it seemed as though little had changed other than the nature of his work, now machinery instead of farm tools.
Life afterwards was a blur of moments, good and bad. At times, adjusting to a world that didn’t really accept him was difficult. Applying for work was hard when he could barely understand what the interviewer was asking, and more often than not it felt as though he was moved around by a system that just took advantage of him for cheap labor. However, there was a silver lining. After he recounted fond memories of meeting my mom and their first dates, I felt the atmosphere of the room become a bit less heavy. Their marriage sealed the deal, and he
said that it was one of the happiest moments of his life. It wasn’t long before my brothers and I came into the picture, and he says that we have been the focus since.
In a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability, he retold a painful memory. His own mom had passed away soon after the move to America, and there was little they could had done to prevent it. With no way to provide for her, it was only just a matter of time. For a while that had brought a lot of bitterness, as a situation that was only marginally better didn’t seem to be worth his mother’s life. That made me think back to when a relative of ours had prepared a dish of baby clams. My father was bleeding at the mouth with the number of times he had bitten his lip trying to wolf it down. Later, I would find out that the dish was something his mom had prepared for special occasions while she was still alive.
Here I was stuck trying to understand a relationship that I had never even seen for myself, and in it, I see a lot of parallels with my own life. My dads says that tears only fall to the ground, that love is passed down from parent to child, not the other way around. For him, it was something he took a long time to figure out. His mother’s death had always made him doubt the choice of coming over, but in a lot of ways he realized a truth he would cherish. To his mother, the simple hope of a better future for her kids was worth everything and her sacrifice was more than proof of that. Similarly, my dad’s wish is the same. After having enjoyed his youth going on adventures exploring California and being able to meet his soulmate, he was able to live out a life that he was pretty much satisfied with. It was everything he had asked for and more when he had dreamed of setting foot in this land of opportunity. Now, it was his turn to give me the chance to have everything I could dream of.
His story tells me that what he carried over to America was much less any language or tradition, but a sense of family. It was the only thing that brought any joy back in Vietnam, and he hopes that even now in face of all the privilege I’ve been blessed with that I can still understand. In truth, I feel as though the world I come from is so different from his. I’ve never been so desperate as to be on my last legs and have no one to turn to. My worries seem so superficial in the face of what he has gone through, and yet he finds every way to support me through those the best he can.
While I so often struggle to voice and express my appreciation for everything my dad has done for me, I like to think that actions speak louder than words. I might always just be a little boy in his eyes, but I hope that he knows his life has ultimately shaped my character and that just maybe I’ve grown up to be someone who can really carry on that family legacy, an unconditional love and compassion that goes beyond personal gain.
I guess that’s what this is all about, trying to understand the “why” behind Trung Nguyen, my father and one of the most important people in my life.
As I expected of my dad, he had the nerve to say that the saddest point in his life was when I chose not to be a doctor and to instead pursue another career. Trying to zone out his jokes about a lack of filial piety after everything he had done for me, I tried to stay serious to what I imagined would be a difficult set of topics to walk through. While this wasn’t how I had intended the interview to go, it made me consider my father’s role as a parent in my life and my brothers’ lives as well. He tells me that his only wish is for all three of us to earn well-paying jobs in a respectable field and live the rest of our lives as comfortably as possible. Hearing an answer given to me hundreds of times in the past, I pressed for more. Why did he always offer an answer that seemed so selfless? What did he want for himself? What did he originally chase when he moved to America?
It was a question that didn’t have a simple answer, so I delved into his childhood. Born in the Long An province of Vietnam, my father spent most of his time with work that’s not typical of any American child. Even during his early teens he had been expected to work on the farm, tending to crops or herding around animals. Life seemed to be simply just surviving from one meal to the next with education a faraway thought. For a long time, it had seemed to him that this was the life he was resigned to; he had lost some dice roll and was subject to these circumstances. That was until he began to hear stories of people who immigrated to far off places and had become incredibly successful, sending back huge sums of money to their relatives in Vietnam. It wasn’t long until he became infatuated with the idea of the American dream, that his hard work would translate into luxury and status, where his poor background didn’t matter.
Eventually, he did manage to move to the U.S., though life here was not what he had envisioned. People had spoken of America as if it was El Dorado, a city where gold grew on trees. He thought he had left all his problems behind for a life of no worries. He hadn’t expected that his meager education and lack of English proficiency would come to limit him so much. One incident he remembers particularly was in the early months that he arrived, when he had gone to a bus stop to be approached by a woman who asked him about how long he had been waiting. Misinterpreting the question, he had replied with six months, the time he had spent in America. The stranger had laughed but slowly became confused as my dad had given no sign that had been a joke. While there were these incidents here and there that had seemed funny and harmless, more often than not, it was a problem. From being belittled by people in the workplace or even out in public, it seemed as though little had changed other than the nature of his work, now machinery instead of farm tools.
Life afterwards was a blur of moments, good and bad. At times, adjusting to a world that didn’t really accept him was difficult. Applying for work was hard when he could barely understand what the interviewer was asking, and more often than not it felt as though he was moved around by a system that just took advantage of him for cheap labor. However, there was a silver lining. After he recounted fond memories of meeting my mom and their first dates, I felt the atmosphere of the room become a bit less heavy. Their marriage sealed the deal, and he
said that it was one of the happiest moments of his life. It wasn’t long before my brothers and I came into the picture, and he says that we have been the focus since.
In a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability, he retold a painful memory. His own mom had passed away soon after the move to America, and there was little they could had done to prevent it. With no way to provide for her, it was only just a matter of time. For a while that had brought a lot of bitterness, as a situation that was only marginally better didn’t seem to be worth his mother’s life. That made me think back to when a relative of ours had prepared a dish of baby clams. My father was bleeding at the mouth with the number of times he had bitten his lip trying to wolf it down. Later, I would find out that the dish was something his mom had prepared for special occasions while she was still alive.
Here I was stuck trying to understand a relationship that I had never even seen for myself, and in it, I see a lot of parallels with my own life. My dads says that tears only fall to the ground, that love is passed down from parent to child, not the other way around. For him, it was something he took a long time to figure out. His mother’s death had always made him doubt the choice of coming over, but in a lot of ways he realized a truth he would cherish. To his mother, the simple hope of a better future for her kids was worth everything and her sacrifice was more than proof of that. Similarly, my dad’s wish is the same. After having enjoyed his youth going on adventures exploring California and being able to meet his soulmate, he was able to live out a life that he was pretty much satisfied with. It was everything he had asked for and more when he had dreamed of setting foot in this land of opportunity. Now, it was his turn to give me the chance to have everything I could dream of.
His story tells me that what he carried over to America was much less any language or tradition, but a sense of family. It was the only thing that brought any joy back in Vietnam, and he hopes that even now in face of all the privilege I’ve been blessed with that I can still understand. In truth, I feel as though the world I come from is so different from his. I’ve never been so desperate as to be on my last legs and have no one to turn to. My worries seem so superficial in the face of what he has gone through, and yet he finds every way to support me through those the best he can.
While I so often struggle to voice and express my appreciation for everything my dad has done for me, I like to think that actions speak louder than words. I might always just be a little boy in his eyes, but I hope that he knows his life has ultimately shaped my character and that just maybe I’ve grown up to be someone who can really carry on that family legacy, an unconditional love and compassion that goes beyond personal gain.
My Mother and Her Familial Roots, by Hung Tuan Nguyen - Class of 2023
Going into this project, my main intention was getting answers to questions about my parent’s past that I’d never really thought about. These would include their general life background in Vietnam and what hopes they have for the future. Unfortunately, my dad
respectfully declined to be interviewed, as for him, being open has never been all too easy. My mom on the other hand, was a more willing participant, and thus, here is her testimony.
There was no better place to begin than with her life growing up in Vietnam. My mom, Kim Phu Tran, lived in the Phu Yen province of Vietnam for all her life, a very rural region of the country that is surrounded by beaches, mountains, and a whole lot of forest. Some of her fondest memories in her childhood was going to those nearby beaches and collecting sea snails with her younger sister (AKA my aunt). Due to the small age gap, my mom and aunt were very close to one another. However, because my mom was the older sibling, she felt as if she had a sense of responsibility taking care of her younger sister. Most importantly, in my mom’s childhood, she saw my grandparents as the most important people, being the ones who not just raised her, but also shaped her goals and aspirations in life. One of my mom’s dreams was to become a parent who could take care and love her children, just as her parents took care and loved her.
Fast forward about a decade or two and I am now learning about how my parents met.
My dad at the time was living in the U.S. and he was rooming with one of my mom’s older sisters. From my aunt’s trips back to Vietnam, she took my dad back to visit my mom and introduced the two, essentially playing matchmaker. Despite some communication troubles in the beginning (my dad being the strong silent type, and my both are very stubborn), they eventually got married in Vietnam and two years later, came me. Originally, they had wanted to name me Cuong, but it was a name of one of my uncles and to be named after him would’ve been a sign of disrespect. My dad also wanted to give me the American name Norman, but my mom was very adamant on me having a Vietnamese name. Therefore, they eventually settled on the name Hung, which translates roughly to “Hero” in english, as they’d hoped for me to become someone who was strong, but also good of heart.
Finally, I started looking towards the future with my mom, asking her what lessons she’d wanted me to take from her and what parts of our culture would she want me to pass down to future generations. She responded that she’d want me to learn from her hard work, whether it’s taking care of the house or working to provide for the family. She wanted me to understand that with effort and the right mindset there isn’t anything I can’t accomplish. As for what she would like to see passed onto future generations, she’d want to see the respect that Vietnamese children should have from their elders. However, if nothing else she’d also want to see the food to get passed down as well, as for her things like Phở and Bánh xèo shouldn’t be forgotten.
Overall, I had a blast conducting this interview with my mom and getting the chance to just hear her stories and anecdotes. We never really know how much time we have left with the ones we love, so any opportunities I have to become closer to my parents and their heritage, I will always cherish and appreciate.
respectfully declined to be interviewed, as for him, being open has never been all too easy. My mom on the other hand, was a more willing participant, and thus, here is her testimony.
There was no better place to begin than with her life growing up in Vietnam. My mom, Kim Phu Tran, lived in the Phu Yen province of Vietnam for all her life, a very rural region of the country that is surrounded by beaches, mountains, and a whole lot of forest. Some of her fondest memories in her childhood was going to those nearby beaches and collecting sea snails with her younger sister (AKA my aunt). Due to the small age gap, my mom and aunt were very close to one another. However, because my mom was the older sibling, she felt as if she had a sense of responsibility taking care of her younger sister. Most importantly, in my mom’s childhood, she saw my grandparents as the most important people, being the ones who not just raised her, but also shaped her goals and aspirations in life. One of my mom’s dreams was to become a parent who could take care and love her children, just as her parents took care and loved her.
Fast forward about a decade or two and I am now learning about how my parents met.
My dad at the time was living in the U.S. and he was rooming with one of my mom’s older sisters. From my aunt’s trips back to Vietnam, she took my dad back to visit my mom and introduced the two, essentially playing matchmaker. Despite some communication troubles in the beginning (my dad being the strong silent type, and my both are very stubborn), they eventually got married in Vietnam and two years later, came me. Originally, they had wanted to name me Cuong, but it was a name of one of my uncles and to be named after him would’ve been a sign of disrespect. My dad also wanted to give me the American name Norman, but my mom was very adamant on me having a Vietnamese name. Therefore, they eventually settled on the name Hung, which translates roughly to “Hero” in english, as they’d hoped for me to become someone who was strong, but also good of heart.
Finally, I started looking towards the future with my mom, asking her what lessons she’d wanted me to take from her and what parts of our culture would she want me to pass down to future generations. She responded that she’d want me to learn from her hard work, whether it’s taking care of the house or working to provide for the family. She wanted me to understand that with effort and the right mindset there isn’t anything I can’t accomplish. As for what she would like to see passed onto future generations, she’d want to see the respect that Vietnamese children should have from their elders. However, if nothing else she’d also want to see the food to get passed down as well, as for her things like Phở and Bánh xèo shouldn’t be forgotten.
Overall, I had a blast conducting this interview with my mom and getting the chance to just hear her stories and anecdotes. We never really know how much time we have left with the ones we love, so any opportunities I have to become closer to my parents and their heritage, I will always cherish and appreciate.
Roots - Phung Luong and Hong-Van Van, by Long Luong - Class of 2023
Phung Luong was born on March 5, 1965 in the town of Ho Nghia to a large farming family of 11 siblings. Phung was the second youngest. By the time the Vietnam War started, Phung was a young boy that was chosen by his parents to accompany his oldest sister on a journey to the United States. They fled by a boat that the family had constructed with Phung, his sister, her husband and two kids, as well as other relatives. The boat took them towards Indonesia, where they encountered the perils of the jungle, primarily mosquitoes and bugs. Off the coast of Indonesia, their boat was raided by pirates, forcing them to swim to shore. In Indonesia, they did their best to survive with the basic necessities they still had and before long, they received word that a family was going to sponsor their move to the United States. Phung and his family then flew to Houston, Texas, where he spent a few years going to school. He had difficulty there, but tried his best to remain studious. Phung finished his high school education at Santiago High in Garden Grove, CA, and moved in with his older sister, who had settled in San Jose. There, he worked at their catering truck, which led to him landing a job at a furniture store. Inspired by running a business, he took his savings and moved to Merced, CA to open Furniture City. For a little while, he was making deliveries in a small truck he borrowed from a friend, until he saved up enough money to buy his own. After establishing his business, he bought a home and began his search for a wife. He was visiting his family in Vietnam when he met Hong-Van Van, a close friend of his older sister’s. Hong-Van was born on March 2, 1967 in Hanoi, but spent her life in Ho Chi Minh City, living through the war. After meeting by what they called fate, they wrote letters back and forth to each other and called on the phone, despite it being very expensive. It wasn’t long until he asked for her hand in marriage and brought her over to the United States. A year, later their first child was born, followed by two more down the road.
Dear Mom, by Tom Nguyen - Class of 2023
My mother’s name is Thuy Thu Kim. She was born and raised in the city of Ho Chi Minh, or Saigon. My mother’s grandmother, so my great grandmother, took care of my mother. She loved and cared for her, but died when my mother was 16 years old. At the age of 29, my mother left Vietnam. She went to the refugee camps in Malaysia by boat, where she met my father, Dung Nguyen. Soon after, they moved to America together and got married. At the time, my mother was already pregnant with my older sister, Kim Nguyen. From Vietnam to the U.S., my mother had nothing. She only had my father and my unborn older sister. Throughout my mother’s life, she had gone through many hardships and challenges. There were many stories and details that my mother was not willing to share and tell. She says,
“My life. I do not like speaking about my past to you because I didn't want to make you sad or worried, but as you’re getting older, I want you to know and understand everything I have been through. I want you to know all the sacrifices I made and the challenges I overcame to give you a better life.”
Some time passed and my father had left the family and went back to Vietnam. My mother and father were divorced and my mother single-handedly raised both my sister and I. My mother did not share many happy or funny moments in her life. She spent most of her days trying to take care of her kids. To no end, did she ever forget her children. Everything she does is for her children. My sister and I were her first and only priority. She says,
“I visualized my life as any other person would. Get a job and have a family. Life did not turn out as well as I wanted, but in the end, I still have my two kids. There was not really anything funny about coming to America. Having my two kids was the best and happiest moment of my life. Overall, I did have some fun moments with friends, but there are more sad moments than funny.”
My mother was an independent and strong Vietnamese Woman. She did not live by the expectations of others and carried her own weight as a single mother. She goes on to say,
“All my life, I have lived and survived on my own. No one was there to help me. I achieved everything I have today by myself, including raising my two kids.”
My mother’s life was centered around her children. Her happiest moments were the births of my sister and I. There is not a day that goes by, where she does not think about her children. In her journey, she says,
“I had a dream where I was blessed with a daughter, then I gave birth to my baby girl. Sometime after, I had a dream where I was blessed with a boy, then I had a baby boy.”
Before we came into her life, she already sacrificed hers. My mother leaving Vietnam was to run away from the war, but when my sister and I came into her life, it was more than that. My mother leaving Vietnam, was her giving her children a better life.
Coming to America, one of the biggest changes in my mother’s life was the freedom and lifestyle. It was nothing like Vietnam. The one thing my mother struggled with most was learning English. She spent most of her life in Vietnam, so transitioning to the U.S., was difficult and the language barrier did not make it any better. My mother wishes for future generations to retain and learn the Vietnamese lifestyle and culture: the food, the language, the music, and the respect and discipline the young have for the elderly. My mother taught me,
“Work hard, make money, and try to live a happy life.”
She wants to be remembered as, “Loving and always looking out for her kids.”
Lastly, she wishes for her children to have happy and successful futures. I could never thank and love my mother enough for how much she sacrificed and loved me. Growing up, it hurts to look back into your parent’s past and heritage, because you learn that someone gave away their happiness for yours, but that is the purpose of this paper: to know your roots.
“My life. I do not like speaking about my past to you because I didn't want to make you sad or worried, but as you’re getting older, I want you to know and understand everything I have been through. I want you to know all the sacrifices I made and the challenges I overcame to give you a better life.”
Some time passed and my father had left the family and went back to Vietnam. My mother and father were divorced and my mother single-handedly raised both my sister and I. My mother did not share many happy or funny moments in her life. She spent most of her days trying to take care of her kids. To no end, did she ever forget her children. Everything she does is for her children. My sister and I were her first and only priority. She says,
“I visualized my life as any other person would. Get a job and have a family. Life did not turn out as well as I wanted, but in the end, I still have my two kids. There was not really anything funny about coming to America. Having my two kids was the best and happiest moment of my life. Overall, I did have some fun moments with friends, but there are more sad moments than funny.”
My mother was an independent and strong Vietnamese Woman. She did not live by the expectations of others and carried her own weight as a single mother. She goes on to say,
“All my life, I have lived and survived on my own. No one was there to help me. I achieved everything I have today by myself, including raising my two kids.”
My mother’s life was centered around her children. Her happiest moments were the births of my sister and I. There is not a day that goes by, where she does not think about her children. In her journey, she says,
“I had a dream where I was blessed with a daughter, then I gave birth to my baby girl. Sometime after, I had a dream where I was blessed with a boy, then I had a baby boy.”
Before we came into her life, she already sacrificed hers. My mother leaving Vietnam was to run away from the war, but when my sister and I came into her life, it was more than that. My mother leaving Vietnam, was her giving her children a better life.
Coming to America, one of the biggest changes in my mother’s life was the freedom and lifestyle. It was nothing like Vietnam. The one thing my mother struggled with most was learning English. She spent most of her life in Vietnam, so transitioning to the U.S., was difficult and the language barrier did not make it any better. My mother wishes for future generations to retain and learn the Vietnamese lifestyle and culture: the food, the language, the music, and the respect and discipline the young have for the elderly. My mother taught me,
“Work hard, make money, and try to live a happy life.”
She wants to be remembered as, “Loving and always looking out for her kids.”
Lastly, she wishes for her children to have happy and successful futures. I could never thank and love my mother enough for how much she sacrificed and loved me. Growing up, it hurts to look back into your parent’s past and heritage, because you learn that someone gave away their happiness for yours, but that is the purpose of this paper: to know your roots.
Continuing the Search for Opportunities and Freedom, by Vivian Nguyen - Class of 2023
“I remember coming to America for the first time like it was yesterday. I wore a women’s shirt with a red rose in front of it and wore flip flops of two different colors. I was poor.”
My father is a Vietnamese refugee.
My dad was born in July 1966 in Saigon, in the south of Vietnam. His parents migrated from the North to the South, and due to growing up with them, he adopted the Northern accent. He said that his parents often talked about their journey moving to the South to escape the communists, and to look for freedom.
He described his life as a typical student. He went to school, went home, ate, and slept. However, he was also looking for opportunities and freedom — outside of Vietnam.
In early March 1980, he left Vietnam with an adult cousin as his guardian, as he was only 14 years old. He stayed in Thailand for five months. There, he learned the basics of the Thai language to get by temporarily. As he was in Thailand, he was informed that his other cousin in the states will sponsor him. In late August, he moved to New Orleans, Louisiana. He went to Warren Easton High School on Canal Street. My dad had quite a culture shock, as a girl next to him smiled and said hi to him, showing off her braces. He was taken aback and exclaimed, “Iron teeth!” That high school has a 98% black population, and my dad stood out a lot as a lone Asian boy. He found a living by working for a Chinese restaurant and a supermarket there. In 1989, he obtained his citizenship in New Orleans. After four years, he decided to leave New Orleans. In 1992, he moved to California in search of a better life. During this time, he lived in Orange County at an uncle’s place. He worked at a traffic signal company with good pay and attended Orange Coast Community College — however, he did not have the chance to finish his education.
In 1997, he returned to Vietnam for the first time since 1980 to reunite with family and also met my mother. They became engaged in Vietnam, but my dad had to return to California. In 1999, my mother moved to California to live with my dad in a small apartment in Orange County. They quickly got married and had their first child in 2000. Then, they had me in 2001.
At first, they had many struggles building a family from scratch with limited English capabilities, but my dad was still working at the traffic signal company, making our family, luckily, middle-class. My mom was a housewife, tending to me and my brother. Our lives were quite pleasant and my parents had a strong drive to teach us English and educate us well with many thick educative books and challenging us with copies of “50 math problems in 5 minutes.”
Although our family started off well in the first decade of my life, when my dad was laid off from his middle-class job he had since he was 25 — everything became harder. My little sister was born in 2013, worsening our financial struggles.
My dad did not have anything more than a high school degree. A high school degree won’t give you many job opportunities now compared to then. Then, when I was a sophomore in high school, my dad went to trade school and got a degree in air conditioning because it was the fastest to obtain. My dad quickly realized that it was a mistake. He struggled with finding a stable job, so my mom had to stop being a housewife and went to beauty school to get a license to do nails, like many Vietnamese women in America.
To this day, my family is still going through this struggle. However, this makes me want to work harder in my education and to have a secure future so that I don’t disappoint my parents. I want to continue their search when they came to America — the search for opportunities and freedom.
My father is a Vietnamese refugee.
My dad was born in July 1966 in Saigon, in the south of Vietnam. His parents migrated from the North to the South, and due to growing up with them, he adopted the Northern accent. He said that his parents often talked about their journey moving to the South to escape the communists, and to look for freedom.
He described his life as a typical student. He went to school, went home, ate, and slept. However, he was also looking for opportunities and freedom — outside of Vietnam.
In early March 1980, he left Vietnam with an adult cousin as his guardian, as he was only 14 years old. He stayed in Thailand for five months. There, he learned the basics of the Thai language to get by temporarily. As he was in Thailand, he was informed that his other cousin in the states will sponsor him. In late August, he moved to New Orleans, Louisiana. He went to Warren Easton High School on Canal Street. My dad had quite a culture shock, as a girl next to him smiled and said hi to him, showing off her braces. He was taken aback and exclaimed, “Iron teeth!” That high school has a 98% black population, and my dad stood out a lot as a lone Asian boy. He found a living by working for a Chinese restaurant and a supermarket there. In 1989, he obtained his citizenship in New Orleans. After four years, he decided to leave New Orleans. In 1992, he moved to California in search of a better life. During this time, he lived in Orange County at an uncle’s place. He worked at a traffic signal company with good pay and attended Orange Coast Community College — however, he did not have the chance to finish his education.
In 1997, he returned to Vietnam for the first time since 1980 to reunite with family and also met my mother. They became engaged in Vietnam, but my dad had to return to California. In 1999, my mother moved to California to live with my dad in a small apartment in Orange County. They quickly got married and had their first child in 2000. Then, they had me in 2001.
At first, they had many struggles building a family from scratch with limited English capabilities, but my dad was still working at the traffic signal company, making our family, luckily, middle-class. My mom was a housewife, tending to me and my brother. Our lives were quite pleasant and my parents had a strong drive to teach us English and educate us well with many thick educative books and challenging us with copies of “50 math problems in 5 minutes.”
Although our family started off well in the first decade of my life, when my dad was laid off from his middle-class job he had since he was 25 — everything became harder. My little sister was born in 2013, worsening our financial struggles.
My dad did not have anything more than a high school degree. A high school degree won’t give you many job opportunities now compared to then. Then, when I was a sophomore in high school, my dad went to trade school and got a degree in air conditioning because it was the fastest to obtain. My dad quickly realized that it was a mistake. He struggled with finding a stable job, so my mom had to stop being a housewife and went to beauty school to get a license to do nails, like many Vietnamese women in America.
To this day, my family is still going through this struggle. However, this makes me want to work harder in my education and to have a secure future so that I don’t disappoint my parents. I want to continue their search when they came to America — the search for opportunities and freedom.
Life in Language, by Ashley Tran - Class of 2023
The saying goes, “Nếu tiếng Việt còn, thì nước Việt Nam còn.”
It means, “If the Vietnamese language continues, then so does the country.”
My grandma, mom, and uncle came to the United States in the late 80’s and reunited with my grandpa who had fled Vietnam by boat. They left behind dear relatives and friends for more socioeconomic opportunities and political freedoms. But the chance of a better life didn’t lessen the pain of having to leave the familiar behind. My mom has told me stories of struggling to navigate the bus system to get to and from school and eat school lunches that were starkly different from Vietnamese foods. My grandma has told me stories of working for $30 a day (even for the 80’s that was low), learning English on the job.
Time passed and conditions slowly improved. My mom graduated high school and started college. My grandma went from working for someone else to managing her own nail salon. There were definitely moments of hardship and doubt. However, I have chosen not to focus on them because there are always obstacles and setbacks in a journey. What’s much more important is in the face of adversity, my family didn’t stop. They kept going, striving for better.
Through it all, my family never rejected or forgot where they had come from. Vietnam lived on in them even though they were a whole world apart because the language continued to be spoken. The Vietnamese culture remained strong in the household too, and my mom interestingly returned to Vietnam, met my dad, and got married there (but that’s another story). So, when I came into the world, no wonder my first language was Vietnamese! I’m serious. I didn’t know a word of English on my first day of pre-school! Our family friends asked my parents and grandma if they were worried that this would cause me to perform worse than other students, but my family had no doubts.
Knowing the Vietnamese language so well actually became one of my strengths. Through classes at the Au Co Vietnamese Language and Cultural Center, I learned how to read and write Vietnamese. In the upper levels of the program, I also learned about Vietnam’s history, focusing on the migration of refugees to the United States and reflecting on the specific effects that experience had on my family. This simultaneously fueled my desire to build stronger relationships my distant relatives and have a deep connection with my native country in addition to my passion to incorporate Vietnamese American or Asian American Studies in my academic and professional career. I want to honor my family by doing what they did: taking pride in one’s native language and culture no matter the failures or successes in life.
Strong roots are the basis of a thriving plant. No matter how harsh the weather, that plant will stand and grow. For my family and I, language is the key embedded in our roots to keep us resilient.
It means, “If the Vietnamese language continues, then so does the country.”
My grandma, mom, and uncle came to the United States in the late 80’s and reunited with my grandpa who had fled Vietnam by boat. They left behind dear relatives and friends for more socioeconomic opportunities and political freedoms. But the chance of a better life didn’t lessen the pain of having to leave the familiar behind. My mom has told me stories of struggling to navigate the bus system to get to and from school and eat school lunches that were starkly different from Vietnamese foods. My grandma has told me stories of working for $30 a day (even for the 80’s that was low), learning English on the job.
Time passed and conditions slowly improved. My mom graduated high school and started college. My grandma went from working for someone else to managing her own nail salon. There were definitely moments of hardship and doubt. However, I have chosen not to focus on them because there are always obstacles and setbacks in a journey. What’s much more important is in the face of adversity, my family didn’t stop. They kept going, striving for better.
Through it all, my family never rejected or forgot where they had come from. Vietnam lived on in them even though they were a whole world apart because the language continued to be spoken. The Vietnamese culture remained strong in the household too, and my mom interestingly returned to Vietnam, met my dad, and got married there (but that’s another story). So, when I came into the world, no wonder my first language was Vietnamese! I’m serious. I didn’t know a word of English on my first day of pre-school! Our family friends asked my parents and grandma if they were worried that this would cause me to perform worse than other students, but my family had no doubts.
Knowing the Vietnamese language so well actually became one of my strengths. Through classes at the Au Co Vietnamese Language and Cultural Center, I learned how to read and write Vietnamese. In the upper levels of the program, I also learned about Vietnam’s history, focusing on the migration of refugees to the United States and reflecting on the specific effects that experience had on my family. This simultaneously fueled my desire to build stronger relationships my distant relatives and have a deep connection with my native country in addition to my passion to incorporate Vietnamese American or Asian American Studies in my academic and professional career. I want to honor my family by doing what they did: taking pride in one’s native language and culture no matter the failures or successes in life.
Strong roots are the basis of a thriving plant. No matter how harsh the weather, that plant will stand and grow. For my family and I, language is the key embedded in our roots to keep us resilient.
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