In Vietnamese culture, your community is your family. But my community didn’t look like my family or me—not in school, in pop culture, or even in the stacks of fashion magazines I kept in my room. But we had each other, and because we were always celebrating something, my grandparents’ house felt very much like a second home. These gatherings also came with frequent scrutiny from a committee of well-meaning relatives. An innocent “how are you?” quickly turned to sharp commentary from a chorus of critics:
“You look like you’ve gained weight.” Gulp.
“Do you have a boyfriend yet?” Oh, God.
And always, finally: “Why do you have so many freckles?”
In school, classmates would often ask, “Where are you from?” I’d respond with a toothy grin: “Take a guess!” I secretly loved when this happened—that I wasn’t immediately seen as Asian. I’m not sure if it was a mixture of my freckles, double eyelids, and fair skin that confused people. The answers were far-flung (French, Italian, even Mexican). But there were more reasonable guesses too (Thai, Korean, Chinese). Vietnamese, strangely, was not a common response.
I watched my mixed identity play out with every meal at home. My family embraced Vietnamese customs, eating on special occasions traditional foods like thịt kho (a comfort dish consisting of braised pork belly and eggs) and bánh xèo (a savory Vietnamese-style rice pancake filled with vegetables and meat). My parents spoke to me in Vietnamese, and I responded in English. Toggling between these two cultures felt natural and easy. To me, they were never in conflict; I never felt like I had to choose one or the other.
When I was a junior in high school, my father passed away from liver cancer. In an excruciating flash, our family of four became three. A few months later, my mother, overcome with her own private grief, took on a series of projects to keep herself occupied. A kitchen renovation. Planting roses and hydrangeas in the backyard garden. My father was always the gardener, and these new blooms felt like reminders of him. Then it was my turn: My mother said I should get my freckles lasered off.
I don’t remember so much of a discussion. My mother presented it more as a favor to me. At the time, I remember feeling that this was just an expression of my mother’s desire to improve my life—a small sacrifice, one of many that she’d made for the promise of a better future. In a strange way, I think her booking the laser treatments was her way of saying, “I love you. Let me help you.” I understood this, of course, because I was similar. Like my mom, I kept my emotions bottled up. I didn’t tell my friends about my father’s passing until a year later. I didn’t want to burden anyone. And I didn’t want to disappoint my mother, so I went along with the treatments.
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