My life

My inspiration to write this piece stems from my reading of Robert S. Chang’s piece[1] regarding Asian American scholarship and narrative space, as well as my fixation on the model minority myth.[2] In his article, Chang asserts that the model minority myth renders Asian oppression invisible. However, given the natural plurality of Asian Americans in this country, it is understandably difficult to typecast any particular group of Asians into a certain set of experiences. Therefore, it is important to use narrative space as a means to convey these experiences.

I have struggled with the notion of the model minority myth because upon a prima facie analysis, I am the embodiment of the model minority. My parents came to this country with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. Through hard work, focus, and without rattling the institution, I sit here as their child, thirty years after their arrival, writing a paper for law school – a seeming bastion of privilege. By and large, I appear to have had the opportunities given to me in order to succeed in life: stable childhood, strong family support, and exceptional schools. Yet, I have done so largely by not emphatically displaying the Chinese culture in which I was raised. Instead, I have mostly played down such characteristics in favor of general assimilation. At the same time, my experiences leading up to this point have been atypical compared to most of my law school colleagues because there existed so much more colorful substance underneath those experiences.

Therefore, I was compelled to write a piece that exposed these underlying experiences. This piece is my narrative space. However, I write this piece not as a vessel in which to transport a story of oppression. Rather, the purpose of this piece is merely to convey my individual story of how the most important people in my life -- my family -- has contributed significantly in the development of my individual identity. Rather than attempt to agree with the model minority myth or dispel it, I urge the reader to make that judgment for him/herself because embedded in my experiences and my family’s experiences are many of the social issues that frequently plague Asian American communities and underscore the model minority myth, including language barriers, systemic discrimination, and lack of social services. I do not attempt to analyze my family dynamic from the outside, but chose instead to tell the story from inside looking out. However, this is not a story of struggle and oppression; instead, this is a story of survival, perseverance, and hope – the end result has not yet been written. I refuse to be simply cast as a statistic. This is my story.

***

On the day before my brother’s wedding, I was sitting in contracts class that Friday morning – eager to bypass the lecture on unjust enrichment in favor of driving across state lines towards home in Massachusetts. The weekend was going to be hectic. My brother Mike was getting married to his high school sweetheart Fiona – the same woman he had been dating for almost the last decade. He had suspiciously bestowed on me the honor of being his best man, since my inclination was that he could not choose between his two best friends. As such, I have been roped into all the wedding festivities. Of course, I was terribly excited for this weekend because there were many people whom I had not seen for a while. At the same time, I know the time commitment was going to be challenging both physically and mentally, since my brother and his future wife wanted to have two weddings: a Western-style wedding and a Chinese-style wedding.

My mother was adamantly against the notion of two separate weddings. She advocated for one simple Chinese wedding – the same ones that I have seemingly been going to my whole life. These weddings – which are almost always held at a local Chinese restaurant in Chinatown – comprise of a rather uninspiring menu, tons of old people chattering in various Asian languages and dialects, all while the bride and the groom would be subject to various ‘customary’ games in which to jump start their soon-to-be married lives. She thought that having two separate weddings was an absolute waste of money. That money, she said, could be saved to provide for a future home or even to provide a college education for their future children.

I. My Mother

Of course, my mother would advocate for the cheaper and more practical alternative. Having grown up in a poor family in the Chinese district of Ho Chi Minh City in South Vietnam, money has always been a concern of hers. She started working for her family when she was eight years old and therefore was never given the opportunity for formal schooling. She met my father because they were neighbors and after a somewhat short courtship they soon fell in love. Unfortunately, during the 1970’s, Vietnam was in the midst of a tragic and turbulent war. Violence, uncertainty, and political instability infected the entire country, and both my parents knew that it was inevitable that they would one day be forced to leave their homeland.

I cannot imagine the difficult choice that they had to make in order to escape tyranny and economic persecution. Nevertheless, they made the ultimate journey to a new land with nothing more but the clothes on their back. My parents – like many other Vietnamese at the time – fled the country under the cover of darkness in small boats packed to the brink of capacity. As ‘boat people’, they endured rough seas and risked capture and torture in order to pursue the freedom that they sought. After the sea voyage, they spent 18 months on a remote refugee island – fending for their own survival and praying that someday, someone would be able to take them to a land far away.

That hope did come, and ultimately, the young couple ended up in America through the generosity and selflessness of a Presbyterian Church in Elizabethton, Tennessee. The church embraced them with open arms, and my parents had to overcome significant cultural and linguistic barriers to adapt to their new lives in Tennessee – where, for the first time, they were surrounded with people that looked nothing like themselves. Alas, they were strangers in a foreign land.

Nevertheless, my mother has been a rock solid matriarch of our family. In her capacity as a mother, she has worked tirelessly for years while maintaining the family unit. Somehow, she always found the time to prepare a home-cooked Chinese or Vietnamese dinner for the family. Looking back, my mother’s emphasis on the importance of family dinners was instrumental in creating a foundation for our family. As time progressed, and despite our busy schedules, dinner was always a priority and it gave my family an opportunity to unwind and catch up at the dinner table. As I got older, the issues that I faced – particularly with college and careers - it became increasingly difficult to have conversations with her beyond the traditional daily activities because of her lack of experience in that area.[3]

Having gone through her life experience, I consider my mother one of the strongest woman that I know. With this strength, she tried arduously to motivate her children to perform highly in academics in order to take advantage of the opportunities that were not afforded to her. She was not unlike many of her friends in pushing for high academic achievement in their children because it is not only a symbol of success, but also used as a bragging tool among the Chinese community in Boston.

Unfortunately my siblings nor I, were not able to meet such a high bar of achievement – where anything short of either Harvard or MIT constituted disappointment. But it seemed like the more she pushed me, the more I seemingly pushed back. I recall the shear hurt in my mother’s eyes when in high school, I told her that I could not be like one of those “other children” who studied relentlessly and instead, needed friends and a social life. Although short-sighted in my ignorant teenage wisdom, I think that statement did have a profound impact on my mother. Perhaps after that moment, my mother realized the futility in her control over her children and decided to play more of a periphery role in our lives – opting to give us the freedom to make our own life choices.

Nonetheless, her wisdom and knowledge extend far beyond my educational and career endeavors. My mother to this day, struggles to grasp the English language both verbal and written. In fact, much of her time in America has been spent either working or providing care for her family – which relegated very little time for her to pursue a formal English-language education or even associate extensively with mainstream America. In fact, her seeming apathy towards assimilation has relegated her to mostly watching satellite Chinese television after work, which further reinforces the notion that complete assimilation will likely never happen.

Therefore, the remaining weapon in her arsenal consists of her own wisdom with regard to our life choices. Without formal education to complement her knowledge, she relies primarily on her life experience. Such wisdom gives her an unmatched ability to dispense advice which can be applicable in any situation. Regardless of what I am facing at any given point in time, the simplicity of her wisdom seemingly transcends all boundaries. No matter what issues plagued me, she would always caution me about over-exerting myself. Never wavering, her advice to me was always to fall back on simplicity and to remain true to my values – as if the most complicated of problems in this world can be reduced to the simplest of elements. I have since tried to apply such a philosophy to my every day life.

***

At any rate, my mother advocated for a simpler wedding, but my brother and his fiancé were not going to have just a Chinese wedding. Too corny, they thought. I agreed. But then again, my mother had her wedding in the living room of the Presbyterian couple who refused to have my father and mother stay under the same roof without being married. Their wedding, therefore, was the embodiment of simplicity: borrowed suit, borrowed dress, and guests that they hardly knew. In stark contrast one generation later, the finalized plans for my brother’s wedding entailed an elaborate Western wedding at the Colonnade Hotel in downtown Boston – with a full course dinner along with unlimited drinks and a full variety of hors d'œuvres, followed by a typical Chinese banquet at a local Chinese restaurant the next day.

The decision to hold two weddings was the reflection of cultural conflicts that my brother and my family has had to experience growing up in America. On the one hand, my parents wanted the reverence to tradition by holding the wedding strictly in the Chinese sense. Meanwhile, on the other hand, the decision to have the wedding at the hotel was merely a reflection of the society in which we have been accustomed to. As a rather expensive compromise, they decided to have it in both locations.[4]

***

The wedding ceremony was beautiful. Inside the Roman Catholic Church, Mike and Fiona exchanged their vows and were united under holy matrimony. I stood there bearing the ring as the best man – feeling slightly awkward because western religion has never infused my family until Mike met Fiona. Ironically, they met at a summer camp sponsored by the same Catholic Church – the same camp that my siblings and I attended briefly as children. In fact, my family has always been primarily Buddhist, even though the only person who is devout is my mother. She visits the Buddhist temple regularly to pay homage to her faith. The absence of western religion, therefore, meant that the religiousness of the ceremony itself was for the most part, new and rather uncomfortable.

Nevertheless, after the ceremony, we were all shuttled off to the Colonnade Hotel for the reception. While the western wedding comprised primarily of my brother and his wife’s friends and co-workers, the Chinese banquet the following day was reserved almost exclusively for my parents’ friends and associates. The western wedding was spectacularly decadent: striking decor, great food, excellent music, and unmatched energy from a younger crowd.

What truly stuck out in my mind, however, was seeing my father in a tuxedo. He looked like a million dollars, and quite frankly, his attire was completely out of character. My father has been a laborer and has worked with his hands all of his life. In fact, I do not think he has put on a bow tie since the days when he was a waiter at various Chinese restaurants – and even then, it was probably a clip-on tie.

II. My Father

Prior to the Vietnam War, my father’s family operated a paper business. In fact, most ethnic Chinese in Saigon were entrepreneurial and owned many small businesses. As such, I think my father developed his entrepreneurial skills early in his life. He was and always has been a rather ambitious person, and this ambition is compounded by his desire to provide for his family. Given the systematic linguistic, cultural, and educational factors against him in this country, he has taken to paving a path for himself outside of the mainstream.

Therefore, my father was always an entrepreneur and for as long as I can remember, he has operated in the restaurant business – starting as a waiter and ultimately achieving his American dream by owning and operating a small restaurant business. However, the small business partnership with his sister eroded gradually over time, and as such, he sought an alternative means of supporting his family.

After saving for many years, my father’s most significant operation was a local pizza shop in a vibrant neighborhood, which went against conventional wisdom because it was a rarity to see ethnic Chinese operating a pizza restaurant. To my surprise, he purchased the pizza shop in hopes of converting it into a hybrid Chinese restaurant/pizza shop. Prior to that conversion, though, I was told that I had to work on weekends to help the family out – which is typical among first generation Chinese immigrants whose parents resorted to family-businesses because of the lack of transferable skills demanded by the majority workforce. As such, I spent my weekends during my freshman year in high school learning about the restaurant business, and partaking in all the daily operations: making the sauce, kneading the dough, spinning the pizza in the air, and interacting with eclectic customers.

The most memorable part of my day involve hanging out with the wonderful cast of characters that worked beside me. I worked with Elaine primarily – a mother and a friend of my parents who shared the same refugee roots as my parents. Then there was Constantine – a large Russian man who worked at the pizza shop during the day time, and went to the local community college at night. He had a wife and child back in his native Russia, and would one day like to file their immigration papers. There was Tom – a former alcoholic on welfare recovering from his disease and who had worked with the previous owners. Finally, Scott was a relatively young aspiring musician who embellished me with his stories of indiscretion.

Every weekend, I looked forward to working with this eclectic group of people and every weekend, without fail, I would come away with some great stories of Scott’s party hangover, or of Constantine’s family in Russia. As a 14 year old working among these characters, I truly came to appreciate the diversity in their ideals, as well as the crassness in their humor. However, I felt left out of the ordinary course of a teenager’s life. At the time, I still experienced a sense of resentment towards my parents for compelling me to work on weekends and as such, I missed out on many of the social opportunities available to a young and insecure teenager.

At the same time, the reason I worked at the restaurant was because my father could rest on the weekends. The long operating hours required my father and his partner’s presence almost around the clock during the week. For the most part, my father and his business partner worked until the late hours of the morning – most often not even having time to return home in between the morning and evening shifts. As such, they took turns to sleep on a cot in the back. It pained me to watch my father work such excruciatingly long hours six days out of the week in order to provide my family with the financial stability that we sought. I was constantly torn between trying to live the life of a teenager and at the same time, commit to my parents’ economic endeavors.

The restaurant was the heart and soul of my father’s efforts. Fortunately, or unfortunately, that business endeavor came to a screeching halt. After less than a year of operation, and thousands of dollars spent on renovating the existing structure, the pizza restaurant succumbed to fire, and subsequently burned to the ground. The effects of the fire were devastating, as I knew my parents – and especially my father – had high expectations for economic stability in the restaurant. He injected every bit of time, effort, and capital into the restaurant only for it to go up in flames.

I remember stopping for the first time one afternoon to see the saddening view myself. The charred remains of the restaurant brought utter tears to my eyes, as I saw our family’s future temporarily evaporate into a heap of charred remains. I ran into Tom there as well, while I stood and gazed into the restaurant. He, too, expressed his disappointment as his job also disappeared overnight. At that moment, all that resentment that I felt towards my parents disappeared immediately, and for once, I finally understood the pain of providing for the family. Shortly after that moment, it seemed as if the carefree days of my childhood disappeared.

Of course, there is always a silver lining in a dark cloud. For our family, the lining was that my father no longer had to work absurdly long hours at the restaurant. At the same time, we wondered where the next direction was for our family. Regardless, it seemed like this particular event solidified a sense of fiscal responsibility in me. No longer did I feel comfortable asking my parents for money. Instead, throughout the rest of high school and throughout college, I felt obligated to work as much as possible in order to provide for my own well being and in turn, lessen the financial burden to be placed on them.

My father always maintained that ambitious drive, despite this monumental setback. However, his opportunities were scarce after the accident, and as such, drifted in and out of odd jobs for a few years. During that time, it was immensely difficult to watch my father – someone whom I have always admired – have to resort to various means of financial support. Thankfully, my mother was still working and supporting our family. But at the same time, my father – the same person who has built an entire life for himself and his family – struggled to achieve his potential. This was the same proud man who, when my sister was born, was so ecstatic to have a girl in the family that he picked her and my mother up from the hospital in a new Buick that he purchased for the occasion.

My father, above all else, is the embodiment of hard work, perseverance, and luck. He eventually did get back on his feet, but not without a few years of struggle. However, I was never privy to any of my parents’ business and financial decisions; they chose instead to allow me to focus on our academic endeavors. When I was younger, he often spoke to my mother about our finances in Vietnamese, so as to ensure that my siblings and I would be kept in the dark about specifics. To the extent that we have a close relationship, I seldom understand what he is thinking at any given point in time because he rarely speaks at length about his thoughts or his feelings.

Yet, a tacit understanding exists between us. He leads primarily by example, and I have tried to emulate so many aspects of my life after him. Fiercely practical, he often chooses simplicity over flamboyance, despite his relative economic success. From him, I gain not only a practical approach to life -- particularly economically -- but also a strong sense of responsibility in general from an early age. Although he is someone that I aspire to be in terms of character and selflessness, he would want nothing more than to see my siblings and me to surpass his achievements in life.

***

I spent the majority of the wedding celebration rekindling with old friends and family, playing the role of the best man. Time was a short commodity, and there were just so many people. However, the shear number of people did not bother me. When it came time for the best man speech, I was naturally leaning towards the nervous side. The couple of glasses of champagne that I had earlier would do nothing to quell my anxiety. I watched intently as Fiona’s little sister – her maid of honor and my ex-girlfriend – make a touching speech about Fiona’s antics and her ability to focus and achieve all of her goals. Fiona’s sister has always been extremely smart and articulate, so fear of embarrassment crept into my conscious as I mustered up enough courage to speak about my brother and his new bride. Fortunately, I did not make an absolute fool of myself. Rather, the words came to me artlessly. After all, Mike was someone that I probably spent the most time with growing up, so I should know him quite well.

III. My Brother

During my childhood, Mike was always the taller, smarter, better looking, and more athletic sibling, or at least that was how I felt. Our two year age difference made it virtually impossible for me to retaliate physically against all of our brotherly shenanigans, and as a result, I was subjected to various painful wrestling moves that seemingly dominated my childhood. He also blossomed at a much earlier age – during little league, he excelled in the major leagues and I was relegated to chasing down his numerous home runs. Even though his physical talents seemed to surpass mine growing up, we never did compete directly with one another. But I always had this slight ugly duckling complex compared to my brother.

We were close growing up. Mike and I shared a room for almost twenty years and even though we had a few more roommates from time to time, in the end, it was still the two of us.[5] Naturally, our interests were very much aligned – ranging from girls to music to sports. Interestingly enough, our athletic aspirations were in spite of the fact that we had no health insurance in our adolescence. Growing up, we always seemed to have a conversation about our lives before going to bed and as a result, I always felt very connected to my brother. However, this relationship almost always stayed on the surface level because for some reason, I was never able to talk to my brother about certain issues - particularly relationships or sex issues. Our bond exists in the same capacity to this day.

Regardless, Mike was instrumental in my own development because he opened a lot of doors for me – both academically and socially. As the first born child, he was the pioneer in school, in addition to many other activities. As such, school was never a mystery because my brother had experienced the same subject matter and teachers two years prior. Socially, he was always the first person to experience everything from having the first girlfriend, the first to drive, or the first to get a part-time job at the local supermarket. I merely followed in his footsteps – each time, trying to rectify some of the mistakes he may have made.

Despite his experiences, Mike unfortunately also had to bear the burden of being as eldest son. As the oldest sibling in a non-assimilated refugee family with no history of higher education ever, his expectations to perform in school and in life were exceptionally high; there was not much room for error. He was expected to set a strong example for his younger siblings, and therefore, had to make certain sacrifices regarding in his life. Growing up, my parents confided in him about our financial struggles and he was expected to provide a buffer between my parents and my sister and me. As such, he had to stay strong for his siblings while worrying constantly about the state of our family.

When my father owned and operated the pizza restaurant which encompassed the late hours of the night, my brother was expected to help out during both the night shifts during the weekends and as a result, he lost out on his social endeavors. As for college, Mike attended a local university and commuted from home, thus missing out on his entire college experience because he made that decision based on my family’s finances. Yet, it was because he went to college and stayed at home, that I was able to spend my college years three hours away from home – the first in my family to ever move away. Without my brother experiencing college first, I never would have had that opportunity to branch away from the Boston area.

When I returned from college, our relationship did not particularly change. He lived at home after graduation to not only save money, but also to help out my parents should they require any assistance. We still had the same interests, and since we both lived at home after graduation, we were able to continue to communicate through our aligned interests. In fact, I relish those simple nights after our respective work days when the two of us would congregate in front of the X-Box video game console for hours on end, despite the fact that we were both grown adults. Regardless, it is reassuring to know that despite the changing circumstances surrounding our lives, we would always have a close bond stemming from years of shared experiences under the same roof. Even to this day, I look to him for advice for anything.

I could never tell him how exactly I felt about his marriage to the perfect woman for him, or that I have always looked up to him for guidance and support, and that I truly did treasure all those years in which we shared the same room, and had ample opportunities to explore our similar interests. Even though I wasn’t able to tell him about the extent of his influence on me, I think I managed to convey a somewhat less eloquent but equally effective message in the midst of the best man speech at his wedding. As I told him and Fiona, I was extremely proud of their accomplishments, and I hope they can live a wonderfully loving life together as man and wife.

IV. My Sister

After the best man speech where I almost made the entire room cry with a nervous quiver that sounded like I was becoming overly emotional, dinner resumed. I returned to my table with the entire wedding party – mostly a table of my brother’s best friends from high school, and Fiona’s best friends from college. My sister Betsy sat across the table from me as one of the bridesmaids for Fiona. Although I had been too busy to really interact with her throughout the day, she had always been there. That is not to say that she is a quiet girl. In fact, my sister grew up among a family of boys[6] and since there were rarely any similar aged girls for her to play with, she ventured around with her brothers and cousins. However, since she was the only girl in my family, my mother showered her with complete attention in hopes of creating an artistically fulfilling life for her only daughter. As a result, she was enrolled in various different activities to further that endeavor: ballet, piano, and a Chinese instrument known as the Dulcimer. To my sister’s credit, she lasted a number of years with each activity, which ultimately ended in her quitting all of them in utter disdain.

From her teenage years on, though, she tried to shed the restrictive parenting that my parents have tried to impose on her. She resented the fact that my mother tried to pigeon-hole her into the notion of being a perfect daughter - exemplified primarily by a framed portrait of my sister when she was six years old, which still hangs on the wall of my house today. My parents tried to battle this growing sense of freedom exhibited by my sister, and in the end, realized that Betsy was not someone that they could control, but merely influence. Through it all, she has tried to discover her own identity by figuring out how to best rebel against the very conflict-free environment that my parents worked hard to provide.

Whereas Mike is the paragon of stability because of the constant pressure and expectations placed on him, Betsy exhibits almost the opposite of that. The roads have been paved for her, and the doors opened – and perhaps the existing opportunities available to her made it much more difficult to settle on any one particular path. She is a strong proponent of following her own passions and I do not question her motives, knowing full well that she can readily take care of herself. Such a free-flowing personality contributed to her inability to decide on her academic studies, leading to a number of different college changes before ultimately settling on pharmacy school.

Regardless, Betsy and I have always had a somewhat close relationship, given our proximity in age (1 year 4 months). Given this proximity, our relationships with people inevitably intertwined, as we often associated with the same friends growing up. In fact, many of my friends who know my family gravitated towards Betsy and developed great relationships with her because of her amiable and generally refreshing personality. As we continue to grow older, the same phenomenon persists.

Unlike my relationship with my brother, I have always been able to open up to Betsy about my personal life. In return, she usually offers meaningful advice, despite the fact that she thinks people in law school are boring and lack some requisite social skills. She truly understands my thought process and personality best, which is essential in allowing her to dispense meaningful advice, or simply to be an outlet to speak to. Even though we do not talk often given our busy schedules, it is always reassuring to know that like my mother, Betsy always places family first above all else. Therefore, she will invariably be there when I need her most.

***

As the night was winding down, and people were exceptionally friendly after a night of open bar, a group of family members were noticeably missing from the crowd. I looked around the room towards the end of the night and it appeared that none of my family members who had flown in from Vietnam for the first time were present. Almost all of them had come to the United States for the first time solely to attend my brother’s wedding and even though they were invited to the western wedding with open arms, they politely declined. My extended family chose instead to attend the Chinese banquet the next night because they sensed discomfort in having to attend such a formal gathering.

My entire extended family stayed at my parents’ house – which managed to accommodate all eight of them – for a few weeks before and after the wedding. In fact, I was forced to give up my room and instead, slept on the couch at my brother’s new place. These were the same people that I had met only twice before – first, on a family trip to Vietnam five years prior to the wedding, and second, on an Asia backpacking trip that I had made a few months before the wedding. Even though I barely knew any of these relatives and only in the capacity as family, they played an intricate role in my parents’ history and development, which in return, shaped my own experiences. Needless to say, I was excited to come home the day prior to my brother’s western wedding to see the entire extended family cooking an authentic Vietnamese cuisine at home. Traditionally – as they have done as young children with their own parents - all the women in my extended family congregated, conversed, and laughed hardily as they caught up on years of stories and experiences from one another.

V. Vietnam

Growing up, there was always this other side about my parents that was a cloud of mystery to my siblings and me. As far as I knew, they came to America as boat refugees from Vietnam. Through it all, their experiences shaped their worldviews and their ethics. I never understood fully the extent of their sacrifices or the extents of their struggles. For the most part, I shrugged off their stories because my parents had a tendency to teach us morals through the use of sympathy stories from Vietnam. If I did not finish my food, the line was always, “In Vietnam, after you’re done with your bowl of noodles, poor kids will come and drink your soup! You don’t know how good you have it!” If we were irresponsible with our belongings, the rhetoric would most often involve, “We had to brave the shark and pirate invested waters coming out of Vietnam. We struggled on the refugee island! You should be thankful for what you have!” Of course, anytime this language was brought up, I was put into place because truly, I was appreciative of what my parents have taught my siblings and me about ethics and humility.

My parents always spoke of the possibly of our entire family returning to Vietnam to meet the extended family. When I was 19, that trip finally occurred. When we arrived, the reception at the airport was overwhelmingly warm and joyful because unbeknownst to me at the time, my parents have largely communicated with their family back in Vietnam via letters and pictures and occasionally, the telephone. As such, everyone at the airport who came to greet us knew my siblings and me by name, face, and story. Conversely, none of my siblings or me ever paid attention to the names of my remaining extended family in Vietnam, which was particularly embarrassing when they greeted us at the airport.[7]

Throughout our time in Vietnam, my family and I were essentially shuttled back and forth between friends, family, and restaurants in a tight schedule – so much so that most of the trip felt surreal. Through it all, my schedule was subject to the bidding of someone else. It seemed like that because we were from America, everyone wanted to see the family, as if we were some kind of celebrities from a distant land.

In spite of the hectic schedule, I felt that the most significant experience to take away from this Vietnam trip was the substantiation of all the family stories that I have heard growing up, in addition to many new ones that came to light. The Vietnam experience also reinforced many of the rhetoric that my parents used throughout my entire life. I ate at the small outdoor street-side restaurants, where children supposedly would come to drink the soup afterwards. I tried to ride a moped on the same street where my family’s house was located -- the same house that my father grew up in -- which was occupied by both my uncles and their respective families. I even had the opportunity to visit a small town a few hours away from Ho Chi Minh City, where my parents dated prior to the war.

More importantly, though, I saw all the faces of the people whom my parents left behind when they were forced from their homeland. Growing up, I only heard in passing stories of my aunts, uncles, and cousins. To meet them face to face was a different story, as I was able to see first hand my parents’ relationship with them, and how they have influenced my parents in their youth. Even though they have lived separate lives for most of their lives, my parents still managed to exemplify a very friendly and familiar relationship with everyone in Vietnam, as if they never left.

Moreover, meeting all these people for the first time gave me a personal glimpse into the other side of how people lived outside of the first world. Things that were common place in Vietnamese culture – like sleeping on the floor or taking cold showers using a bucket – seemed extremely foreign to someone who has been accustomed to first world amenities. Even though my extended family lives relatively well compared to many in Vietnam, it was still a drastic difference. Moreover, poverty hit closer to home when I discovered that my uncle on my mother’s side seemingly lost his good sense throughout the years. He wandered the streets most days selling lottery tickets. My two teenage cousins at the time – his daughters – are illiterate and their economic opportunities are presumably severely limited. Their economic standing in particular that made me truly value the opportunities that have been presented to me because of my parents’ decision to leave Vietnam some two decades earlier.

Besides seeing my aunts and uncles, my siblings and I spent much of our free time with our cousins. We associated primarily with my father’s side of the family, where we developed an instantaneous rapport. The same could not be said about my mother’s side of the family, even though we stayed at their home during the duration of the trip. They were ecstatic to get acquainted with us and therefore, took my brother, sister, and me around all the social establishments around Ho Chi Minh City. As we travelled to different parts of the city via moped together, our connection became immediately clear as we learned about their social endeavors, and in return, we shared stories about our American lives. Truly, at that moment in time, I was never more appreciative of my bilingual upbringing. Otherwise, so much of our shared experiences would have been lost in translation, and I would have never felt the same connection that I had with my cousins. They are in essence a mirror into our potential lives had my parents never made the fateful journey to America.

In addition to getting more familiar with my extended family abroad, the trip was also significant because the experience portrayed my parents in a very different light as more parts of their lives became evident to me. For as long as I could remember, my parents have done nothing but work arduously in order to provide my family with the livelihood that they thought we deserved. In Vietnam, however, that burden seemingly dissipated momentarily. In Vietnam, where the language and the culture were foreign to me, my parents operated as if they never left. For example, the primary mode of transportation in Ho Chi Minh City comes in the form of either a bicycle or a moped. I was absolutely shocked to see the ease in which my father operated one of the mopeds – with my mother clutched closely behind them. My parents laughed and drove around effortlessly, a true throwback to their youth, which was unfortunately interrupted by warfare and chaos.

In addition to getting their lives in Vietnam, stories of my parents’ eventual departure from this land also came to light. I fondly remember one instance when I was sitting at the beach with my aunt – the wife of my father’s oldest brother. At that time, she engaged my family and me with new stories that I never thought I would hear in depth.[8] All my life, I have only heard vague stories of this daring escape from Vietnam by my parents. They have for the most part been reluctant to share some of the details for whatever reason outside of the general stories. But my aunt was extremely candid with her experiences with my extended family, and she was intricately involved in all the events that led to my parents’ arduous voyage to America.

For someone who has lived a life of relative shelter, I could not even begin to fathom the extent of the emotions during such a turbulent time. And yet, understanding this part of my parents’ past and in the context of their homeland allowed me to get a clearer picture of my parents as people who have endured so much just to get to their current lives. More than that, the recognition of my parents’ struggles made me better understand the reasons why they have been so adamant about pushing my siblings and me to excel in our endeavors. In a sense, their ambitions were placed on hold because their lives were disrupted by warfare. When they came to this country, they lacked many of the necessary skills or time to assimilate into the mainstream in this country because of their limited education and lack of marketable skills. As a result, they worked primarily within the immigrant community – ultimately achieving relative success and were able to grant my siblings and me privileges because through their upward mobility. We, in turn, were expected to perform to the highest level in school and in our careers as a means of validating their struggles and sacrifices.

This trip truly placed my life in a more colorful context. No longer was I simply a Chinese American kid growing up in a white America. Rather, I discovered the connection I had with a country that I never knew about, and the people that I only saw in photographs on occasion. Vietnam symbolized the depth and distance in which my family has traveled in order to arrive at our current state, my life began to make more sense. For the first time after that trip, I felt like my family had come full circle in terms of reconciliation with the past. The experience and family from Vietnam validated my existence in the greater global context – connecting both my family’s history in Vietnam, and our current lives in America.

VI. Coming Full Circle

After a day filled with relentless wedding-related activities, we continued the extravaganza for one more day. The Chinese banquet the next night, unlike the night prior, was completely populated with friends and family – the overwhelming majority of which were of Chinese and Vietnamese descent. Interestingly enough, for the first time in a very long time, I saw many of the people whom have encountered throughout my childhood – many of them my parents’ friends. Like my parents, most of these friends also came to the United States in much the same manner my parents did. In fact, for some, my parents met them while on the refugee island awaiting sponsorship from foreign countries. They encountered the same obstacles and conquered their individual hardships and for the most part, many of them made a life for themselves in America despite overwhelming odds; some were more successful than others.

But that night, the focus was not on them, nor was the night focused on my brother and his new wife. For all that Mike and Fiona knew, the recognition of their marriage occurred the night before. In actuality, the night of the Chinese banquet belonged to my parents. For the better part of the night, they barely sat in their seats – choosing instead to spend their time addressing their friends, smiling, chatting, toasting. To them – at least according to my eyes – the banquet was the ultimate affirmation of the years of struggle that have resulted in the solidification of their success in America. Watching my parents navigate the room seamlessly, taking picture after picture with friends and family, I knew that they were proud of not only their eldest son’s wedding, but also of their accomplishment as parents in paving a secure path for the next generation.

Moreover, the Chinese banquet was also a demonstration to my family who had come from Vietnam for this purpose alone, that my parents’ sacrifice and journey to America was not in vain. The extensive preparation that went into organizing all of my family members from Vietnam and Australia to come to America underscored the significance of the wedding and what it represented. For one momentous night, my parents managed to invite and link together the people who have been part of their lives first in Vietnam, and then throughout their time in America. For one night, they brought together the past, present, and future, despite the geographical and cultural differences. I observed intently – realizing that the room that night embodied every phase of my parents’ life throughout their past – which interestingly enough, came together at a time when they were celebrating my brother’s future, and our future as an extended family.

Epilogue

One might wonder why I chose to write a narrative about my family set against the backdrop of my brother’s wedding as a reflection of my identity. The wedding and all its decadence symbolized the fact that even though my family has endured some hardships, in the end, we persevered. I use the wedding background not simply as a setting to introduce the people in my family who have shaped my life, but also to illustrate the difference between my life growing up, and my life in the present and the future. Throughout my life, my family has endured a great deal of struggle and transition – on par with many immigrant families who arrived to this country with little of anything. My parents granted my siblings and me privileges that were largely unavailable to them through hard work and immense sacrifice. From my point of view, the wedding and its decadence symbolized the economic, personal, and spiritual validation of my parents struggle in that they were able to provide a strong backdrop for success. In essence, the life that I knew as an adolescent has been cautiously replaced with expectations of better things to come in the future – skepticism replaced with hope.

From a broader cultural standpoint, the wedding backdrop has greater implications because it reflects the biculturalism in my family; on the one hand, I was very much brought up in a family that adhered to Chinese values and customs. Yet, on the other hand, the dominant majority culture in America increasingly takes precedent in my life, as well as in my siblings’ lives. My brother and his wife decided that in order for them to rectify their competing cultural customs and values, two mutually exclusive weddings were necessary because as I mentioned earlier, the notion of the Chinese wedding was simply too ‘corny’ and did not conform to their traditional western-perceptions of decadence and class. I use the backdrop of the wedding to illustrate the constant struggle to maintain a bicultural identity in the face of overwhelming majority cultural values that come to dominate my family’s existence. I write not only to remind myself not to succumb to the societal pressure to conform strictly to the greater American norm, but also to realize that my bicultural existence needs to be embraced collectively and wholeheartedly. This hybrid identity is a source of strength and pride - truly tangible qualities that I can call my own.

From an individual standpoint, I chose to write a family narrative because I want to maintain a strong connection to my roots. For the longest time, I held the belief that I was to try and become as ‘American’ as possible – often shying away from speaking of my bicultural experiences; instead, I chose to immerse myself in the majority culture in the face of overwhelming majority pressure by covering my Chinese heritage. I did so throughout college, as I struggled to maintain my identity in the absence of my family who contributed so much to character development for so long. After college graduation, I became gradually more comfortable with my own sense of self – feeling more confident about displaying my individual upbringing when the circumstances call for it.[9]

In law school, I spend hours reading about legal doctrine in the absence of cultural analysis – paving the path in which my individual cultural identity becomes less important in the face of overwhelming adherence to strict legal analysis. When people see me, they perceive a well-adjusted, well spoken, and confident individual who is pursuing a law degree. What lies beneath this surface is a history that straddled two continents, and was bore as a result of much individual struggle and adaptation. As I progress further into my legal education and ultimately a career in law, where a vast majority of practitioners may not necessarily share my experiences or my world views, I hope to be able to draw from my past in order to maintain a grounded sense of self. I write therefore, as a reaffirmation of my individual cultural identity – which has taken many years to solidify, and will take many more to refine.

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[1] Robert S. Chang, Toward an Asian American Legal Scholarship: Critical Race Theory, Post-Structuralism, and Narrative Space, 81 Cal.L.Rev. 1241 (1993).

[2] In the most general of terms, the model minority myth is such that Asians work hard, save money, and achieve material success, while their children study equally hard and earn high marks in school. Jean Shin, The Asian American Closet, 11 Asian L.J. 1, 3 (2004) (quoting Frank Wu, Yellow (2002)).

[3] I should note that these conversations took place not in English, but in Cantonese Chinese. From a very young age, my world view was shaped not by my parent’s teachings or education, but rather through television. My parents were constantly busy with work and as a result, television became a default parent. Unlike many children in America who spent much of their time in front of such quality programming as Sesame Street or Saturday Morning Cartoons (I still watched Saturday Morning Cartoons), much of my television viewing experience revolved around Hong Kong cinema. When VHS tapes were at the height of their popularity and copyright rules were not yet strictly enforced, a family friend made a decent living pirating all the newest television series from Hong Kong for our viewing pleasure.

In fact, it seemed like for the first 12 years of my life, I spent much of my time watching and imitating medieval Chinese characters which fought for the ideals of good and evil. I watched numerous modern day dramas involving convoluted story lines, and colorful characters. Sometimes, I watched the same series over and over again – where I could almost recite the next line, or predict the next scene. In short, my early years of imagination were influenced predominantly by Chinese culture and Chinese cinema.

At the same time, my parents strictly enforced a no English rule in the household. On the one hand, my parents’ rationale for this rule was for us to preserve the ethnic culture of our ancestors. On the other hand, it was because my parents could not necessarily communicate with us in English, and as a result, implemented this rule.

The combination of Chinese cinema and my parents enforcing cultural ideals in the household, contributed strongly to the maintenance of my cultural identity growing up. The hours that I devoted to getting personally engaged with all the characters in each series, served to reinforce many of the cultural ideals that my parents instilled upon my siblings and me as first generation Chinese Americans. Regardless of whether or not that contributed to positive development, my siblings and I were able to hone and retain the Cantonese language. I am incredibly grateful not only for my parents speaking to all of us in Chinese (not because they really had a choice), but also for the seeming never-ending supply of Chinese drama stacked away in our closet.

[4] The wedding ceremony was held at the Boston Chinese Catholic Church in the heart of Chinatown – a few steps from the small Chinese fast food restaurant that my aunt currently runs. When my parents decided that Tennessee could not fulfill their needs, they decided to settle in Boston’s Chinatown at my aunt’s encouragement because she was already firmly established.

After my parents arrived in Boston, they worked a variety of odd jobs to get their lives started in this strange new land. My father – like many of the new refugees with limited education – started working at various Chinese restaurants in the Boston area. My mother, on the other hand, worked as a seamstress in what I could only describe as a borderline unregulated sweatshop. Such experiences were extremely typical to recent immigrants who lacked many language skills to assimilate into the mainstream. As such, many worked in these conditions as their sole means of sustenance. The hours were long, and the work was often monotonous and taxing. Yet, it was honest and provided a strong footing for my parents.

By the time my younger sister and I were born, our residence was still confined to a one bedroom government assisted apartment in the projects adjacent to Chinatown – the same one that my parents had lived in while they worked at the menial positions. We had one bunk bed and another bed for my parents. My older brother and I would sleep head to toe on the top bunk, and my sister had the lower bunk to herself. My siblings and I went to the local bilingual elementary school two blocks from our apartment building – supervised not by our parents because they were working, but often by old Chinese ladies in the neighborhood whom my parents hired as babysitters.

The school comprised primarily of children of recent immigrants – the majority of whom looked like me. My teachers spoke to me in both Cantonese Chinese as well as English. I never thought much about the school, or my classmates, since many of us were essentially from very similar backgrounds. Thereafter, my parents managed to save enough money to buy a house and move to a nearby suburb.

Regardless, Chinatown always holds a special place in my heart. We maintained a special relationship with Chinatown regardless of our departure from the neighborhood. In fact, Chinatown serves as a gateway and provides a sense of community and comfort for all those Chinese immigrants who came to this country for one way or another. Moving out of the Chinatown projects symbolized economic sufficiency and was a much sought-after goal. I guess my family was lucky in that regard.

Nevertheless, for as long as we were in the new suburb, my family made it a point to return to Chinatown, and not just for business. For example, my parents enrolled my siblings and me into Chinese school – a seeming right of passage for most American-born Chinese. Thus, as time progressed, I developed an increasing duality between two cultures. As I continued on with my suburban education, I became more acculturated with the majority culture – shifting further away from the traditional Chinese family upbringing. At the same time, my connection to Chinatown created a constant struggle between who I was, and ultimately, who I was becoming.

[5] For a better part of my adolescence, my cousin Clinton lived with my family when we moved into the suburbs. His mother could not take care of him in the same way that my parents could. Moreover, his father was serving time in prison because of his involvement in narcotics. As such, my parents became his legal guardian during his childhood. The three of us – Mike, Clinton, and me – shared a room for almost the entirety of my suburban childhood.

When I was 13 years old, my aunt and uncle immigrated to America from Australia with their family. For the first year, my cousins stayed with my family and attended the public high school while my aunt and uncle got settled into America. Caroline, my older cousin, shared a room with my sister. My other cousin Raymond, on the other hand, ended up moving into our room for that particular year. He was two years older than my brother, and despite the age differences, we got a long extremely well. Although crowded in our four person room, I distinctly remember that experience with fondness and nostalgia.

[6] Another point of clarification is necessary at this moment. When my parents originally came to this country, they were accompanied by my then four year old cousin Hogiee, who endured the same arduous journey with them to come to America. His parents wanted to give him the opportunity to start a life in America. My parents took him in and raised him as their own son. He is nine years my elder and had a significant role in raising my siblings and me. Hogiee struggled in adapting to the American standard of education (as many refugee children do when they attempt the acculturation process), even though he was the most creative and intelligent out of our group. His father was a former intelligence officer for the South Vietnamese army during the Vietnam War. He never did excel at formal schooling, and opted to join the National Guard when he turned 18 – ultimately flourishing as a computer technician. Despite his perpetual influence on my life, I left him out of this narrative consciously because he is not an immediate family member.

At the same time, my cousin Clinton also lived with my family for a better part of ten years. Hogiee, Clinton, and Raymond, in addition to my brother and me, constituted the boys that made up Betsy’s childhood. We all lived under the same roof for a period of time and shared many of our childhood experiences together. We developed great rapport among us and their presence contributed significantly perhaps, to shaping Betsy’s worldview, in addition to my own.

[7] At this point, it may be appropriate to lay out my family tree in Vietnam. My father is number 7 out of nine children. His two oldest brothers -- number 1 and 3 – still reside in Vietnam with their respective families. Three of my aunts – numbers 8, 9, and 10 – reside in Australia. Two aunts and an uncle – numbers 2, 4, and 6 – are in the Northeast living near my parents. Number 2 is Clinton’s mother, and Number 4 had immigrated to America from Australia with her family. On my mother’s side, her older sister and older brother resided in Vietnam when I first went back to my parents’ country. He has since passed away.

[8] She shared with us the story of how my father and common law uncle came together and concocted an escape plan from a war-torn Vietnam some twenty five years ago at that time. Post-Vietnam War was a particularly turbulent time in the country, which yielded very little stability economically, politically, or socially. In the face of this backdrop, my then 20 year old father and his brother-in-law managed to charter and power a small boat that was to carry approximately 90 people away to another distant land. In the midst of the turmoil, there was a family scuffle, whereby my aunt (my father’s oldest sister) openly disapproved of my mother being on board of the boat. Such disdain led to my father refusing to cooperate with the operation until my mother was guaranteed safe passage on the boat.

This particular story exposed a great deal of the family history that has underscored some of the tension between members of my family and extended family for years. More than that, though, this story revealed to me the specific challenges that my parents faced when they fled Vietnam as refugees. In addition to the social turmoil abound, my parents also had to confront their own family during this time of hardship.

[9] One of the partners at the law firm that I worked at before law school was instrumental in illustrating my growing comfort about my bicultural upbringing. My parents rarely tuned into American pop culture as I was growing up. Yet, so much of my conversation with this partner revolved around pop culture sensations surrounding his childhood, which I had absolutely no knowledge about any of the references. He would joke constantly about my absence of knowledge about things like the Rat Pack and various musical groups from the late 1970’s. In a sense, the absence of my cultural knowledge is indicative of the fact that much of my childhood was spent engrossed in cultural entertainment from another country – thus leaving no room to appreciate the subtleties of American entertainers from before my time. I made sure he knew that part of my life every time he chose to point out my lack of knowledge pursuant to America’s cultural past.

Harvard Square

Harvard Square is a place that is near and dear to my heart. In high school, my closest friends and I would congregate where I am sitting now -- the outdoor patio at ABP -- to discuss the events surrounding our youthful lives. We talked about our aspirations, our concerns, and most importantly, we just enjoyed our time together as teenagers. Seven years after high school, I get the sense that our conversations would mostly be the same, only the focus would be different. Instead of discussing apprehensions about college, or even some remote romantic relationship we might have been involved in at the time, we would likely be talking about more pressing issues: careers, marriage, family, and financial woes - topics that were completely outside of our sphere of comprehension only a few years ago.

However, instead of having my friends here as we speak, I sit with three empty chairs facing me. No longer do we have the luxury of congregating whenever we so pleased. The topics that would fill our conversational play list, are also the same ones that are preventing us from getting together at the drop of a hat. We are at different stages in our lives; our social connections have expanded beyond the realm of our tight clique; and we live in different cities, in different regions of the country. In short, we're growing up.

This inevitable consequence of life also leads me to think much more about the future more so than ever before. Essentially, my life is at a standstill because of my three year commitment to live in Hartford for law school. That much is certain. Beyond that, however, is what yields a proverbial question mark: What do I want to do with my life, where do I want to do it, and who do I want to do it with? As I've mentioned countless times before, I miss home, and everyone and everything associated with it. Just today, I spent an hour at the Charles, encouraging my parents to take our English Bulldog for a pleasant stroll. This act on my part would have been unheard of a few years ago. However, I seem more inclined to spend time with my parents and do things with them I otherwise wouldn't - merely because of my infrequent appearance at family events. I guess leaving home for college and graduate school has made me feel more guilty for leaving my family behind.

At the same time, all this experience was necessary for me to appreciate the undeniable connection I have with home, as well as the sense of comfort I feel everytime I drive back and see the exit for 128. The worries and anxieties I have in Hartford -- such as gas prices, law school, loans, etc... -- all seemingly melt away when I'm home. Perhaps that is why I feel the great sense of urgency to return here after my time in Hartford because I know of no other place that would offer me this feeling.

On the other end of the spectrum is my innate desire to be more than simply where my home dictates. What that means is that I want to be someone in my career, that ultimately makes and difference and has a significant impact on people or organizations. As such, I am open to possibilities to go wherever affords me this opportunity to be the best lawyer I can be.

This brings me to additional anxieties that only Hartford is able to produce in my life. My first year is over, and I'm not terribly excited about the prospect of employment next summer, given my mediocre performance relative to my classmates. Grades remain the only blemish on my otherwise standout resume. As such, I'm worried that I may not be given that opportunity to prove myself to be an otherwise extremely capable, driven, and talented individual. My hope is to make the most out of my experience -- taking every opportunity to present myself in court, research pertinent issues, write compelling briefs, and maybe even get to know everyone on more than simply a work level.

Either way, I hope to return back to the Boston area, and to where it all began. I want to be able to sit and continue to chat with my best friends in Harvard Square, and observe in awe as our conversations continue to evolve with our ever evolving lives. I have faith that in the end, everything will work out, and that Harvard Square will be ready some years down the line -- holding constant and without change -- waiting for us to occupy this table once again.

Things Happen for a Reason

I believe that all things happen for a reason. At least, that's what I hope is the case. Otherwise, it seems like my time in Hartford would be a silly waste of time. Perhaps these reasons cannot be discovered through an initial observation at face level - perhaps we need to dig deeper to find a more specific reason. For example, on the surface, it appears that I'm in Hartford simply to get a legal education, so that one day, I would be able to return to Massachusetts -- my home -- to practice. Of course, all this is true, and is certainly in my plans.

However, there appears to be more. For one thing, Hartford enables me to get away from the comfort zone that is home. As much of an independent person as I've been all my life, I've always had that comfortable safety net to fall back on at home. In Hartford, I am truly making an individual life for myself, and the trials and tribulations are hopefully contributing to a more meaningful life experience.

Moreover, Hartford has allowed me to gain a more unique perspective in life - one that I might have missed had I been in MA for the summer. This unique perspective likely stems from having to live in Hartford while working at an unpaid internship. The fact that I have no income stream is seriously contributing to a rather different lifestyle - one that I have never been accustomed to. No longer am I able to simply go out with friends and spend a night on the town. On the one hand, going out is expensive, and living in Hartford with no paying job has made me extremely cognizant of my expenditures. On the other hand, I haven't quite found that one group of people in Hartford that I can consistently rely on for social purposes. As such, I don't have quite the pressures to go out and be social.

As a result, I have been living a relatively cheap life in a rather unremarkable city. I bike everywhere, thus saving on gas and deterioration on my car. Moreover, I spend a lot more time at the gym, which has provided an outlet for me to pursue an active lifestyle that I hope to continue for the long term. Hopefully, this shift to cognizant spending will carry into the future, which is what I think is the paramount reason why I am in Hartford. I'm learning to live a life free from extraneous desires for all that is luxurious. I don't need fancy clothes, a nice car, or even a decadent apartment. More than anything, living the life of a poor student on my own, has made me realize what is important in my life: people, people, and people. No matter where I am, it's the people around me who ultimately define me, and not necessarily what I can purchase with wealth. In the end, I hope to respect -- and have that respect reciprocated -- from people that are around me, and I want that respect to stem from what I do as opposed to what I have. Hopefully, I'll be able to remember this part of my life when I do in fact become successful (sooner rather than later!). Perhaps this realization is the true reason why I'm here in Hartford, the rising star of New England.