Two more hours and it will be the first Thanksgiving I spend in Vietnam with Ian. Saigon's weather has cooled down significantly for the last five days, yet in the absence of the commercialization that often associates with the Holidays in the US, I have not felt that it's Thanksgiving Day until this afternoon, when some of my American colleagues gather in the Career Centre to discuss their plan for tomorrow night.
Nineteen years and two days ago, I first landed my feet on the US land one day after Thanksgiving Day, feeling sick and lonely in a country that differs from language, weather, food, to all other cultural aspects. The dreams that I had those days were 1) I woke up and spoke English fluently, 2) I could quickly finish high school, college, work and save enough money to visit Vietnam, and 3) I could act as confidently and friendly as Anna, the only white girl who spoke to me in the History class. Nineteen years later, all of those dreams came true, and I am sitting here, in a nice, comfortable apartment in Vietnam, craving Wienerschitzel's Chili Dog and McDonald's Kid Cone. How contradictory yet only when I live and work in Vietnam that I discover how deeply I miss America, how Americanized I have become over the years, and how patriotic I have grown toward my adopted country. The country that not only allows me to become a strong woman, but also enables me to transform into an independent and educated Vietnamese American woman, one who defines herself in both nationality: Vietnamese and American. I am not a complete, whole person otherwise.
Friends and strangers often question me why I refer to myself as Vietnamese American when I did not arrive in the US until fourteen years old, an age that would categorize myself into the one and a half generation of the Viet immigration population. I simply answer, 'Because I cannot be either or. ' I am both, and that is the beauty of it. Yes, I eat rice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Yes, I speak Vietnamese at home, celebrate Lunar New Year, and bow when meet elder people. Also yes, I speak my mind when I'd like to, and I expect others to respect me disregard my gender, race, or nationality. And also yes, I think my brothers should know how to do house chores as well as I should learn how to change my own car's oil, assemble my own IKEA's furniture, and refill the 20-liter water container.
My brother in law, a lovely Caucasian American gentleman, once laughed and irritated at the same time when I used the term 'foreigner' to refer to him. It was probably ridiculous to him that I was living in America and yet called a native American a foreigner. It was difficult for me to articulate to my brother in law at the moment why I said what I said. Because I did not (dare to) see myself as an American, I thought of all non-Vietnamese as foreigners. It had nothing to do with 'I hate America, or I don't want to be Americanized, or American is only my temporary place to live.' No, it was simply because I did not think I could refer to myself as American after arriving in the US for only several years, not to mention did not even master the English language.
Now, at age 33, I no longer use the third person pronoun when refer to the Americans. I truly believe in the Constitution that holds this beautiful country together. I strongly believe that I among the five percentage of other Americans who live and work abroad are our country's quiet diplomats. In the Thanksgiving Day, once I again I appreciate the opportunity that God has granted me - being able to integrate the best of the two rich cultures: Vietnamese and American.
Saigon, Vietnam, 11:13 pm, November 25, 2009
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