When Worlds Collide

The search for our home, for ourselves, often takes the course of our lives. The winds of our lives throw us in a myriad of directions. We grow up, indulge, rebel, run off, move, work, play, love, and hate in a heated soup of self-realization. As an inevitable part of my journey, a destination meant for me since birth, Vietnam has been able to yield many answers. Sometimes they are satisfying, more often, they are not.

Growing up secular and Asian in white Christian America can often prove to be a daunting task. In ways both explicit and self-determined, separation happens. To adapt, I had to wear many hats. At home, the Vietnamese way of life was to be respected. In society, American values were to be pioneered. The detachment to both would become at once natural, and defensive. Cling to Vietnamese tradition for too long, and risk being mocked. Embrace the American lifestyle too whole heartedly and lose your heritage. Find compromise and have the identity of neither culture.

Coming to Vietnam would be enlightening in two parts. One, was to see what being Vietnamese really meant. Who are these people? Of what stock am I pulled from? Secondly, to find and identify the heritage, the culture, and the history of the country. In finding these things I would and will be able to find more of myself, to know what to take and what to leave behind.

Of the people I have written some, but to paraphrase, I think it can be defined in a single word: survivors. The man with no legs, scooting his way across the road on his make-shift skate-board, hand on his wood block, his single method of propulsion. The woman selling gum, baby child in one hand and pack of sweets in the other, hawking her spearmint as the little malnourished boy grabs my shirt, tugging the fibers, and pulling at the strings of my heart. The street women hanging in the clubs, dressed in the skimpiest western clothes they could find, make-up piled on like icing over a beautiful cake. All their eyes look me straight on. The only shame is mine. This is their country, their lives, and they will survive. I am just a viet-kieu. A lost brother.

Let us pretend that I can stereotype, and that doing so is fair. The Vietnamese people are industrious, determined, studious, and intelligent. They will work till their fingers bleed or their minds melt. Shops stay open to ridiculous hours of the night, students refuse to go out, and you can feel the energy of an emerging, growing, bustling economy. The entrepreneurial spirit runs rampant, perhaps a token left by Americans, and it can be seen on every street corner, every food cart, every high-rise, and every new building under construction. However, the best in people can often, quickly, turn into our worst. The corruption, dishonesty, malevolence, and outright rudeness can often reach shocking levels. A few days ago an American friend and I went out for some sandwiches. As we leave our cook turns to me and yells in Vietnamese 'Your friend is too fat!'. I can understand the need for both diligence and vehemence in the war that is survival in an emerging country. Still, I can hardly believe, much less excuse, such crass behavior.

In no other country have they reclassified returning sons and daughters. But here we are, Viet-Kieu (VK). There is no mistaking us for locals. Look at our skin, usually light and pale. Our bones, gorged with the luxury that is calcium, fat, and protein. Our muscles are toned from vigorous exercise, a testament to the surplus of time, food, and energy we enjoy. We speak in broken, accented Vietnamese, letting slip the language of our heritage in the race to lose ourselves into the West. Arriving from America, Australia, and France we come back kings, no longer the scraping survivors of yesteryear, but the gluttons of success. Coming to this land, I am simply vacationing. Passing by to lament their troubles for a few months, knowing I will return to my gilded life. Even while I am here I seek escape the people will never have, I hole up in air-conditioned cafes, leave for trips to far-away beaches, and cruise the streets in taxis. I pretend to be accepting, to be an equal, as to ease my way into being Vietnamese. But I kid myself if I think that I do not look down on these people who, in turn, treat me like a foreigner, like an opportunity. Even in this land, we are separated.

I often find myself a chameleon. Adapter to all circumstances, I am the water which seeps from bowl to bowl, taking shape and color, and moving on. In the flow of life, it easy to run the shades together. The grays go rampant. Vietnam has provided a reprieve and adequate foil to America, painting clear the landscape of my heritage, of who I was, and of who I want to become.

I am Vietnamese-American. I will face the challenges of both cultures and will be stronger for it. I may have to forge a new identity, but this is not nearly a unique problem.

In the end, I hope to be the best of both worlds.