Growing up in Canada, I’ve always identified myself as Vietnamese. I’ve prided myself to having this unique heritage, to being so close to my own culture, to being so close to my own roots.
Though, as time passed, I started seeing myself as Canadian rather than Vietnamese. When people asked me where I was from, I would be proud to say I was Canadian. People would generally be surprised and I relished in it. I challenged the stereotype and educated them about diversity.
All my life, I juggled between two identities: the one I was born into, and the one I was raised in. I would have some Vietnamese habits and values, as well as have a Canadian education and mindset. For the most part, it had served me well. I was able to think critically while easily relating to others. I can call on other people’s bullshit while still having sympathy for the less fortunate.
However, having two identities did create conflict. I was always judged first and foremost by my appearance. I was always asked where I was from, if I spoke the language of my ancestors and if I have ever been to the “motherland”. I would endure countless slurs about my race, be stared at and degraded for the way I looked. I was always very self-conscious about my every action: am I following the stereotype? Am I being a good Asian? Should I hang out with a group of Asians? What if I just have Caucasian friends, would I fit in better?... The list goes on. Even if I were there with my closest friends, having a great time, that little voice always found its way in my head, distracting me from the present moment. “You’ll never be like the others. Your slanted eyes will always be the first thing people notice. You’re just another typical Asian”.
And then there was family. My parents were refugees from the Vietnam War. They came to Canada as modest individuals looking for a better life. They raised my brothers and I the best they could, though it was anything but a peaceful upbringing. We had contradicting ideals and values: they wanted me to learn how to be a proper housewife, I wanted to go out and have fun with my friends. They wanted me to be this quiet, delicate, shy girl; I wanted to be this loud, independent tomboy.
Thankfully, I grew to understand my parents, and them me. We grew to respect each other’s wishes and did our best to support them.
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Nevertheless, with time, I knew I had to take it one step further. I needed to visit the land of my parents. I knew from the get-go that it would be a very emotional process. I was dreading it, but I knew it had to be done.
My parents were from the Southern part of Vietnam, so I decided to go to Saigon/Ho Chi Minh City (HCMC).
Based on my brother’s experience,I knew it would be tough: I would be looked down upon and people would try to scam me. Why? Because I’m what they call a Việt Kiều, a Vietnamese from overseas.
To say the least, my experience in HCMC wasn’t the best.
Personally, I like being in touch with nature, seeing mountains, going hiking and strolling around the city. HCMC was not the place for that. However, if you’re the type to party and try different types of food all around town, this city would be a great fit for you.
Though, what really hit me was the attitude. I did not feel welcomed at all, especially when I said my parents were from Vietnam and I, Canada. People tried to take advantage of me, scam me and disrespect me.
I was not welcomed. I may speak the language, I may look the part, but everything else about me is Canadian, not Vietnamese. It was hard for me to come to that conclusion, mainly because being Vietnamese played such a crucial part of my identity.
When I was shunned by the very people I was supposed to connect to, I realized then that I would never be one of them. I felt emptiness. I felt confusion. I felt frustration. Why? Why was I so foolish to think that I could be one of them? Language and looks do not make a culture. Did I get it all wrong? How could I even think part of me was Vietnamese? I toyed with those thoughts by myself and wondered where exactly I belong.
Thankfully, I booked a last minute flight to another place in Vietnam, outside the city. I needed to get out. I was on vacation, I had to make the best of it. And maybe, just maybe, I would give Vietnam another chance.
And I’m so glad I did. Da Lat, a small town a few hours up north of HCMC, salvaged Vietnam for me. It was everything I hoped and imagined: people were nicer, I was not shunned when I spoke Vietnamese, and the people genuinely seemed happy and content with what they had. They were humble, generous and kind; they embodied the values my parents taught me while growing up. I was relieved. I was welcomed. I was happy.
Unfortunately, I was only there for a little over a day and had to pack up to move to my next destination. Nevertheless, I am extremely grateful I was able to see Vietnam in a different light. I was able to find some familiarity and hold on to something worthwhile. It gave me hope.
In all, my trip to Vietnam was a heavy experience, but I’m glad I did it. It opened up a whole bunch of “maybe”s in my head.
Maybe this country isn’t as bad as I thought it to be.
Maybe I can actually relate to the people here.
Maybe my identity is more complex than I thought.
Maybe I haven’t quite figured myself out yet.
Maybe part of me is actually Vietnamese...
Answering those Maybe’s will require time and definitely another trip back.
Till then,
Keep it sassy
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| Elephant Waterfalls, Da Lat |
PS: A traveler suggested me this book: Catfish and Mandala. The author is a Việt Kiều and explains his own experiences while travelling there. Apparently, they are quite similar to mine. Let me know what you guys think.
