I am a Vietnamese-american. My dad is full viet, whereas my mom is half viet half austrailian. Growing up I didn’t really care about my background and heritage. I felt as if it had nothing to do with the person I am. I wasn’t so much ashamed as I was proud. It basically was nothing to me. I figured my actions were solely based upon my personality and nothing more (surely not my culture.) A couple summers ago, my parents decided to take my older sister and me on a vacation to Vietnam to visit my dad’s side of the family. I hated the idea at first. I dreaded leaving behind my friends for a whole summer and going to a strange place and meeting family members, who, to be honest, I didn’t really care about. The airport was noisy and crowded; the plane ride was long and uncomfortable; the weather was humid and sticky. I hated everything. When my grandpa picked me and my family up from the airport, I remember sitting in the car with my arms crossed, staring outside the window, and thinking of all the other places in the world I’d rather be than there. Due to traffic, the car ride seemed forever. When we finally reached the house, I saw about 20 unfamiliar family members standing outside, awaiting our arrival. Everyone was so excited to see us. They all greeted us with smiles, grabbed our bags, pinched mine and my sister’s cheeks, and rushed us inside to feed upon the feast already prepared for the special occasion. The rest of the vacation was pretty much that. The adults would talk about how much my sister and I had grown and whatnot. My sister loved the attention, but I felt out of place. I was counting the days, hours, and minutes, until we were able to leave and I can get back to my friends.
One day of my stay in Vietnam, my dad had gone out with my grandpa and uncles to go fishing, while my mom went with my aunts into town to do some shopping. My sister and I were left at home with my grandma. The rest of the family was supposed to be out all day, so she and my sister were in the kitchen making lunch for the three of us. I, however, was in the living room watching a Vietnamese comedy, not really understanding the humor. My grandma called for me to go eat with them and I did. I pretty much stared at my plate the entire time; I hadn’t much to say to her. My grandma asked about my life in America, about school, friends, boys. She was trying to make the effort in getting to know me, but I thought it was pointless. After lunch, I went back to my movie, sitting on the opposite end of the room with my grandma and sister. The humor in the movie was so dry; it was so hard to understand. I stopped focusing on it and started eavesdropping on my grandma. She was telling my sister some old Vietnamese folk stories. I was so intrigued I turned off the movie and scooted closer to them. She even told several fairytales about mythical creatures and I loved every minute of it. I couldn’t believe such fabulous imagination, everything felt so real, yet magical at the same time. My grandma had explained to me that those stories were the same ones her grandma used to tell to her. She continued to tell me about how important stories in the Vietnamese culture were. Ancestors would pass down life lessons to the young ones and they would pass those down to their kids. Everything in the culture had a purpose and a reason. She carried on telling me about other aspects of the customs that I hadn’t really heard of and clarified any questions I had on the traditions. The respect I had for my ethnicity had increased magnificently. I learned a lot from the grandma that day and continue to learn more each day through books and my elders. I know now that my culture is a very important part of me and it’s an aspect that I should have high admirations and appreciations for. The choices I make everyday should prove to everyone that I am a proud Vietnamese-american.
This writing experience went fine for me. At first it was hard to organize my thoughts, but once I started typing, I couldn’t stop. I might have fictionalized a couple aspects, such as the activities that the rest of my family did when my sister and I were at home with my grandma. I don’t remember what they did that day, but I knew those were some of the things they did during the stay. I had a hard time, however, deciding on a topic (it was between the birth of my younger sister and my trip to Vietnam.) I tried to use descriptive language as much as I can to show my true feelings and emotions in writing.
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