Vustory.docx
ix Vu’s Story I Am an American In this chapter, we read the story of Vu, a refugee who left Vietnam at the age of 7 years on a boat, without his parents, and arrived in the United States at the age of 9 years, after spending 2 years as a child refugee in the Philippines. Vu was placed with a foster family who later adopted him. In this story, we read about his journey out of Vietnam and onto American soil. As you read, notice how he writes of his forced migration, his refugee status in the Philippines, and his struggles with second language acquisition in school. Even though he became fluent in English quite rapidly, he struggled with his written proficiency in English for a long time. Pay attention to how he describes his process of acculturation, his socialization into his new American family, and his perception of himself as a successful survivor of the tragic journey. Notice also what he thinks would have happened to him had he remained in Vietnam. Vu’s Story In 1987 in Vietnam, my world was centered in the small town of Nha Trang. Life was easy, uncomplicated, and pleasant for me. I was a little boy with few worries. I had no awareness of the turmoil my family suffered at the hands of the communists when my father fought with the Americans against the communists during the Vietnam War. With peace also came the communist rule. Daily life, as well as education, was determined by this government, but I knew no different. We were awakened each day by loudspeakers, which were placed strategically throughout the city and were used to broadcast governmental issues and concerns and even state-approved music. I spent my days in school or skipping school to play on the beach with friends. Education in Vietnam was quite different from what I experienced in the United States. For example, although reading was taught, it was in the context of learning communist dogma and recitations. Math was also a rote subject. Reading for pleasure was not something that children were exposed to, nor something that adults demonstrated. This early learning shaped my school and adult preferences for reading. When I was 7 years old, one of my sisters took me out of elementary school early one day and brought me home. My parents asked me if I wanted to go to America. This was quite a surprise to me. I had heard stories of America, and it was described to me as the land of extraordinary things, such as wealth, an abundance of goods, and most of all, opportunities. As a child with limited knowledge of the world, I thought it was a fantasyland. I said yes knowing nothing about the situation that I was getting into. This little incident changed my life forever. That same night, my father put me on the back of his motorcycle, and we rode to meet a bus. My father put me on the bus, saying that he would be back to meet me later. I trusted him and proceeded onto the bus. Hours later, the bus arrived at a beach around midnight. I could hear people telling one another to be quiet and not to make sudden moves. Within minutes, we all started to quickly get out of the bus one by one. As my feet met the sandy beach, I did not know where to go or what to do, and all I could see was people running toward the high waves. At this point, I was wandering aimlessly and frantically up and down the beach, not knowing where to go and searching for my father. Eventually a couple of men grabbed hold of my arms and started to carry me toward the water. As we reached the water, I could see a large boat that was a few hundred yards out. I looked around for my father, but he was nowhere to be found in the darkness of night. The men placed me into a basket because I could not swim and pushed me out toward the awaiting boat. When we reached the boat, people were swarming in and around the boat, trying to get in, and someone pulled me up. After I was safely on the boat, I searched for a place to keep warm and felt fortunate to find the engine room just below the steering deck, where I stayed for the rest of the night. The next morning when I woke up and saw people walking around on the deck, I looked to the horizon, and land was nowhere in sight. This is when I knew I was on my way to an unknown destination. I felt so lonely and scared, wondering what was going to happen. I became more anxious because I did not have my father to comfort me. I searched everywhere on the boat for my father. From a child’s perspective, I believed he must be somewhere on the boat. I tried to find the people who had helped me earlier, but I could not find them either. I looked everywhere on the boat, from the engine room to the steering room to the bow of the ship, but I did not find my father or the people who had helped me. By now, I was hysterical. I did not know anyone, and I had never been alone before. After 2 days, I was exhausted from the endless searching for my father. I could hear people whispering that he had probably been captured by the communists. He had never lied to me before, but finally it became evident to me that my father did not get on the boat. I kept wandering around the boat taking in what I could. The expressions on most faces began to alleviate my fears. Some people were excited for the opportunity of a lifetime, and some were sad, not knowing what experience awaited them. For 7 days and 7 nights there were continuous problems: We encountered tremendous thunderstorms, hunger, quarrels, and sudden deaths. I can remember one storm that hit us so hard that parts of the ship fell off. The refugees were asked to help repair the ship. During another storm, we were sent down to the hold of the ship, where we had to stay for more than 2 days. Due to the violent shaking and rolling of the ship, people were sick and terrified, crying and praying. On the third day, I vividly remember an old man opening up the door to the deck and the sun shining. All of us were so happy just to be alive. After climbing out of the hold and walking around the boat, I talked to some people and began to gain a better understanding. I had begun to accept the situation and was not quite so hysterical; everything started to come together for me. People explained what we were doing, where we were going, and when we might get there. Hunger was not on my mind during my expedition across the South China Sea. When it was time to eat, we were rationed steamed rice, fried fish, and one cup of fresh water. Most of the time I could not eat, so I gave my food away to others. To some, the meal portions were not enough, so they fought for what they could get to satisfy their thirst and hunger. One incident that still haunts me is the death of a little baby. I remember this very clearly because I was standing next to the family when they dropped their dead child into the ocean. The entire family stood in a circle silently crying. I thought to myself, if something would ever happen to me, would I be thrown into the ocean and never heard of again? How would my parents know how I died? Who would tell my parents since no one on this ship knows me? Death was expected on this journey, and it happened daily. However, this was not the way I had experienced death in Vietnam. There were rituals, prayers, and tributes to the deceased. In this instance, death happened, and the person was disposed of. On the seventh day when land came into sight, we encountered a ship, which turned out to be a pirate ship, and we were told we were going the wrong way. The pirates wanted us to follow them around an island. Our captain started to follow, but fortunately, a fishing boat came along. The fishing boat captain told us not to follow the pirate ship but to follow his boat. If the fishing boat had not come by, we probably would have been killed by the pirates, as had so many before us, I later learned. The fishing boat led us to land, but we did not know where we were. We later learned we were in the Philippines. Once on land, the native people helped us by giving us food, water, clothes, and a place to stay. We could not understand their native Filipino language, so we could not answer their questions, but eventually we found a bilingual refugee with us who could translate. The next morning there was a U.S. navy ship next to ours. I had no idea what this all meant, but the adults appeared overjoyed to be greeted by an American ship. We were taken on board the ship and were brought to Manila in the Philippines. We stayed in Manila for 2 nights at a refugee center, and then we were transferred to the primary refugee camp in Palawan, where I remained for 2 years. Living in a refugee camp was rigid and different from the home that I knew. After arriving at the camp, I was photographed and interviewed. My refugee status had to be validated. Later, I was placed with a couple who claimed to know my father, but I found out later they did not, so I moved out. I knew of my father’s status because the night of the escape my father had given me documents to take along with me. I had kept these documents in case I would need to use them. In this instance, the documentation proved my father’s service to the United States. As a child with my father’s documentation, many were eager to embrace and care for me, hoping to increase their chances of being granted refugee status or being released from the camp more quickly. People without documentation to qualify them as political refugees often spent many years in Palawan only to be returned to Vietnam. Two years in a refugee camp was devastating for me. I missed my parents, my two younger brothers, and my three older sisters. I wondered why I was the chosen one to leave. Was I unloved? Was I bad? I revisited all the naughty things I had done; all the times I was punished; all the times I skipped school to play; all the times I disobeyed my parents, grandparents, or sisters; and all the times my brothers and I fought. I found out later in my adult life that my parents had wanted me to have a better life. In the camp, I did not receive the love and care that I would have received from a normal family, and the majority of the time I was roaming throughout the camp. I was alone, sometimes living in the unaccompanied children’s dorm with many other children. I was 7 years old when I left Vietnam. Being 7 years old without the presence of parents’ guidance is disconcerting to a child, but I was fortunate to be placed in the care of a kind family, where I had many friends, until the day I left for America. The new family made sure that I attended school in the camp and brought me to church. School was not my favorite activity; learning English was a goal, but I seemed to learn only to name items, not to speak conversational English. Soon after arriving in America, I found out that the family I lived with in the camp had used me to obtain extra food rations, and they ultimately claimed that they should accompany me to America to care for me, but this ploy ultimately failed them. In 1989, because of my father’s military record, I was able to document my status as a political refugee, and I was accepted as an immigrant through the Unaccompanied Minors Program for resettlement to the United States. Everyone at the camp was so happy and excited for me. It felt like I won the lottery! On May 23, 1989, I arrived in the United States to be greeted by my foster family, the Tylers. I have lived with them continuously for 14 years, which is longer than the time I spent with my biological family in Vietnam. Our emotional ties are permanent, and my foster family has become the family I lost. Throughout my school years, kids asked me if I was adopted, and most of the time I said yes, knowing deep down I wanted the Tylers to be my permanent family. I always used the Tylers’ last name, but when I asked my social worker if I could make their name my permanent last name, he told me that I could not be adopted because my family still loved me and wanted to be reunited with me. I did not understand this. I asked my foster family, and they said that social services would not allow adoption because of the Geneva Accord. I did not understand that either. I wanted a family. My foster mother said that if they tried to adopt me, I would be placed in another home. That frightened me. How many families could I lose? How long would I have to wait to be accepted into a family? How many times could I take the chance on loving? I was very happy and secure with my foster family. I had many friends and was doing well in school. Living in a suburban town provided me with many advantageous educational opportunities and experiences but no contact with other Vietnamese children. My facility with my native language was quickly diminishing. After 6 months in the United States, I was fully conversant in my new language. It was becoming difficult to read the letters from my parents in Vietnam. Eventually, my foster parents had to find someone who could translate the letters for me. For about a year, I had a Vietnamese social worker who visited me monthly. He reminded me of my culture and the need to remain in contact with my family and practice my language. I had been placed in an English-speaking home. How was I to practice speaking Vietnamese? Often I would end up crying because of what he would tell me—how lucky I was, how my family was suffering. I learned that my father had been caught trying to escape and had been put in prison—his second time in a “reeducation” camp. Letters from my mother would tell of her struggles to support my brothers and sisters. When he was caught, the communists took my family home away from them, and my family had no home. My mother would beg me to send her money. When my foster family learned of this, they wired money to them through Canada, but the requests for money never stopped. At times my parents’ advice to me regarding my newly adopted land was contradictory. For example, in one letter I was told to learn English quickly so I could do well, but other letters admonished me to not forget my language, culture, and family. My parents did not speak or write English, so many letters were translated into English prior to being mailed. Many other letters were written in Vietnamese, which I could read only until my second year in the United States. One letter is particularly poignant. It was written, in English, to my foster family from my father in his jail cell where he was held after the escape attempt. He wrote, “My wife has secretly sent your letter into my prison ward, and my roommate help me to translate this letter. . . . We are ineffable in words, please accept all our boundless gratitude. I cease my pen with our best wishes to you.” Still other letters state that I am now the Tylers’ son, and they are grateful for my new family’s love and care. When I was 10 years old, my mother wrote that I should quit school and get a job, so I could send money home like other “good” Vietnamese sons who live in America. Eventually, my social worker had to write to explain how important education was in the United States, that children my age could not work, and that to be able to help them I needed a good education. I was very worried about my dad in the prison because I remembered stories my family had told about his previous imprisonment, which resulted after he stole food for us. When I entered third grade, I wanted to become as Americanized as possible. Spending time with all my new American friends facilitated assimilation into my new culture. Adjusting to my new culture was not difficult for me because of my easygoing personality; making friends and being accepted was almost effortless for me. I had already decided to acquire the new culture as quickly as possible. I know I did not identify myself as Vietnamese, although I am sure my classmates and teachers saw me as foreign. Nevertheless, I do not ever remember experiencing any prejudice. I was invited to all my friends’ parties and dated American girls in high school. Most of my friends were American-born, but I denied that I avoided friendships with other Asian students. When my foster parents asked me about my choice of friends, I explained that there were no other Asian students who played athletics, and I identified with athletes. The nature of my Vietnamese education differed from a traditional American education. I attended 3 years of school in Vietnam. School was in session for only half a day, and I frequently skipped school to play with friends, with no consequences. Lessons in Vietnam consisted of memorization and teacher lectures. Students learned by observation, not by experimentation or participation. The Ministry of Education controlled a national curriculum, which was funded by the government. Students in Vietnam were expected to be orderly, attentive, and quiet; everyone worked on memorizing the same thing at the same time, but not in cooperative groups. The students were fearful of not knowing answers and did not like to be singled out. The teacher was the ultimate authority, but there were no conferences or home–school communication. If the teacher called on the parent, it usually meant that the child had done some terrible wrong. Although I was required to attend school in the Philippines, I did so erratically. I remember that the classes consisted of trying to learn names for things in English. School in America was something I enjoyed. It was so different from what I remembered in Vietnam and in Palawan. The teachers were nice, laughing and joking with the students. It was clear to me that they liked me. My day-to-day needs did not include my primary language. I did not feel a need to have a cultural connection to my native language. At the beginning of third grade, I was fluent enough to fit in to the expected routines of the class. My foster mother says I adjusted well and had many friends and I appeared to meet classroom expectations. I could read, via decoding, most of the class texts. This was confusing to some of my teachers, who indicated they equated reading with the ability to pronounce the words—which I could do—rather than construct meaning—which I could not do. My elementary school offered a newspaper club after school, and I became a contributing member. I saw myself as being able to participate in all activities offered. I used literacy in many ways, even writing memos to myself, especially when I had done something wrong. When writing, I made errors of syntax, grammar, capitalization, and punctuation, and I still do today. Although I was a fluent conversationalist fairly soon after arriving in America, my foster mother believed I needed to master the language of the classroom; she raised the issue of programmatic adaptations to accommodate my emerging language. She was met with surprise and was told that I certainly spoke with no accent. There was never any possibility of a language maintenance program in my school district. The only service to second language learners was an English as a second language (ESL) pullout program, which I attended in third, fourth, and fifth grade. After a short time, I, uncharacteristically, complained to my foster mother that I was bored. I told her, “I know ‘this is a book,’ ‘this is a pencil,’ and ‘this is a chair.’” The program consisted, primarily, of learning the name for items (something I did routinely all day) and reciting simple conversational sentences with a goal of oral language proficiency. My foster mother was employed in my school district as an administrator, so she intervened with my ESL tutor, and my program was changed to fit my needs. My foster mother’s influence on the nature of the support I was receiving resulted in my ESL teacher’s work to address specifically the vocabulary that I was expected to use in class, such as spelling words and words from content areas. Because I was a strong visual learner, I was always able to successfully memorize the correct spelling of weekly words. Thus my teachers were confounded when I could not successfully use the words in fill-in-the-blank worksheets. As academic demands became greater, I appeared to struggle more. By fifth grade, increased classroom emphasis was placed on worksheets to be completed independently. None of the assignments improved my English or added to my fount of knowledge. Teachers were concerned because I worked so hard and yet did not successfully complete all assignments independently. They suggested testing, which resulted in a CORE evaluation in 1991. I was found to have no special needs; recommendations were to continue with the same support that I had been receiving for 2 years. During middle school, I continued to struggle with multiple meanings of words, idioms, and the nuances of the language. In eighth grade English, almost 2 full months of classroom instruction were spent in preparation for “Word Master,” a national competition that tests students’ knowledge of words. This preparation involved memorizing lists of words and their definitions. Class time was spent matching words with definitions and figuring out analogies. I could never get more than one or two correct on the weekly test, and my grade was severely affected. What I needed was to be reading good literature, generating ideas and theories, and participating in discussions. In high school, some English courses offered opportunities to read challenging literature and demanded written responses and essays. At home, I frequently spoke enthusiastically of subjects I was studying. The instruction and assessment that occurred in the classes where I had the most success required active participation, daily writing response to readings, performances/interpretations of readings, and work in cooperative groups. All my grades were “B” and higher. Again, school was another place where I had to unlearn a cultural lesson. American students would enthusiastically call out answers and actively question the teacher. I was expected to know when I needed help and to ask for it. I was conditioned to not do that. I would never want to make myself known as being unable or unprepared. It took me a long time, with my foster parents’ and teachers’ help, to assert myself. Nevertheless, my foster mother had to first educate my teachers about my learning needs. Most of my high school courses were at the accelerated level. My teachers stated that I participated in class discussions and was well prepared for class. My homework was always completed on time. They said that I was pleasant and polite and did well in class, but often I performed poorly on exams. Many teachers stated that they were sure I knew much more than the exams exhibited. Teacher comments indicated that my test grades were negatively affecting my report card grade. My success on exams depended on the type of exam administered. Tests that were intended to measure vocabulary competence often consisted of matching items, sentence completions, and identification of antonyms and synonyms. The antonym/synonym items caused me great difficulty. Often the use of multiple choice or fill-in-the-blank tests is for ease of scoring. The discrepancy between success on authentic measures and failure on standardized tests reveals that I was able to construct my own meaning with the text and to express it effectively but that I still experienced difficulty when meaning was expected to be boiled down to specific one-word answers. My scores on standardized tests have never been very high and are not reflective of my true achievement or ability. I believed that to be successful in America I had to acculturate, forget my previous culture and become part of the new. I knew the only way to fit in was to be just like all my friends and thus spend less time thinking and talking about my past. I did not want to be associated with Vietnam or have anything to do with it. I wanted to be Americanized. I wanted to forget my Vietnamese language and culture—everything from Vietnam. I used my foster family’s last name on everything I wrote and began calling my foster parents “Mom” and “Dad.” My social worker scolded me for doing that and insisted on notifying my school about my real legal name, asking that my records reflect that name. I was required to show the social worker school papers and report cards to prove that I was not using my foster parents’ last name. At this time, I knew I was being rebellious against my culture, but I could not figure out why. Maybe because of what my biological parents had put me through—not being there when I needed them, sending me away because I felt they did not love me. Eventually, I found out that they did it because they wanted me to have a better life in America. Accepting the new culture quickly and concealing the old did not concern me, but it worried my foster parents. My foster mom sought me out and dragged me to the cultural events offered by the Unaccompanied Minors Program, but I never wanted to be there. I felt as though I did not fit in; I did not think I was like them. I did not want to listen to Vietnamese music or participate in other Vietnamese cultural celebrations in a nearby city. I did not want to be identified as a refugee, a foster child, a ward of the state, or anything other than an American. As years went by, I began to adapt to my new culture and excel in many things, including sports. My foster family exposed me to skiing, soccer, tennis, swimming, and many other sports, in which I experienced much success and awards. In 1989, I had never seen snow when my foster family took me to a ski mountain where they had a winter home to ski. Within a year, I joined the freestyle ski team, to which my foster brother and sister belonged, and I became a competitor in freestyle skiing, loving skiing, the cold, and the snow. Rushing down mountains, jumping and spinning through the air was a new and wonderful feeling. I qualified for the freestyle series each year from 1990 to 1997, and ultimately I was invited to compete in the junior nationals in Utah, where I was ranked third in the country in aerials. I was asked to participate in nationals that year. Sports provided me with a way to communicate with my peers. I was so successful, so early, that I gained immediate status and acceptance with the skiing community. During the years I competed, I won numerous meets and enjoyed a national ranking. Self-discovery or introspection showed me that I learned visually, and I achieved my goals easily. Playing sports also placed me in a circle of friends that I would not have had if I had not played sports. Being accepted into this group of athletes ultimately allowed me to forget my own cultural learning, which was in conflict with what I was experiencing. In Vietnam, I was taught not to seek the spotlight or to cause attention to focus on myself. Being considered a star athlete, either in high school sports or in skiing, was exciting yet conflicting. Before coming to America, I remember knowing about an athlete, Michael Jordan, thinking how special and lucky he was. Here I was getting awards. This was very difficult for me; I was not shy, but I did not like to be the center of attention. I did not like going to the podium to receive awards. Ultimately, I conformed to the American culture. My life has changed dramatically since that dark, frightening night in Vietnam. Had I stayed there my world would have been quite different. My education would have stopped when I was 12 years old; I would have had no opportunity for a meaningful future. Because I was the oldest son in the family, I would have had the responsibilities that are traditionally demanded of the eldest son. I would have been expected to support my parents and any remaining single siblings for the rest of my life. I would have remained living in my parents’ house. They would have expected me to give them financial help and, in addition, to help distant relatives in emergencies. After the death of my father, I would have taken over the role of head of the family. To my understanding, this is because I was the first-born son, and traditionally I would be the caretaker of the family. I remember that the family unit is the most important entity, to which one’s first loyalty is owed. Extended family members are accorded the same respect as immediate family members. Parents and all adults demand obedience. Children begin to learn of their responsibility toward their families at a young age. Many generations live together, and the young care for their elders. This was expected of me and culturally accepted in the Vietnamese tradition. I probably would have quit school by the age of 10 years and would have learned to repair bicycles and motorcycles as my father did. As a little child, I would sit while he worked on repairs and feel that watching him somehow enabled me to be good mechanically. Many times, I have been able to fix something that my foster mother was about to throw away. It is not a skill I learned in America. American parents are different from Vietnamese parents; they love their children differently. In Vietnam, the children are not the center of the family. A traditional Vietnamese family does not engage children in conversation as equals; children are primarily observers and learn by watching, listening, and imitating. Conformity, obedience, respect, patience, and composure are traits that are valued and expected to be developed. In America, family life revolves around children. In Vietnam, it was expected that parents use physical punishments for wrongdoing. I learned quickly that this is not accepted here. In addition, I had to learn to look adults in the eye when speaking to them. This is contrary to my cultural upbringing. Children in Vietnam show respect by keeping eyes downcast when speaking to an adult. I learned that American parents encourage their children to achieve, in school and in sports, and to set long-term educational and financial goals for themselves. This was unknown to me in Vietnam. Vietnamese parents never ask for children’s opinions or desires. In America, there are so many decisions to be made, such as what to eat, what to wear, where to go, what to play. Children are allowed to voice opinions even when not asked. American children are allowed to set their own bedtime, get monetary allowances, and spend their money as they wish. In Vietnam, I was told what to do and when to do it. If I did not agree or want to obey, I did not voice my objections; I simply did what I wanted and suffered the consequences. When I came to America, I did not know my birthday; birthdays were not celebrated in Vietnam. The year of birth is important. I know I was born in the Year of the Monkey. Not long after I arrived in America, my mother sent me a birth certificate that differed from the one I left Vietnam with. The new birth certificate indicated I was born in 1978 rather than 1980. Yet I know I was born in 1980 because it was the Year of the Monkey. I later learned that my mother wanted me to appear to be 2 years older, so I would be allowed to quit school and work more easily. This caused me years of trouble. I had to get waivers in sports to remain eligible. When I got my license at age 18—really age 16—I had to explain, with embarrassment, to my friends and on job, scholarship, and college applications why I was so old on my license. When I was legally adopted, the attorney corrected my birth certificate; however, I am still having repercussions from that. My passport is being held up because the dates on my citizenship certificate and birth certificate do not match. In America, we celebrate birthdays. My ninth birthday occurred 3 weeks after I arrived in the United States. I was astonished by the gifts and birthday cake. This was something I never expected and could really learn to like! Years later, in a letter from Vietnam, pictures were included of my family celebrating my sister’s birthday. Wow, that surprised me. How could they afford to do that? How did they come to do that? It never happened for me in Vietnam, and I wondered why. Showing emotion was another new experience for me. Although I would cry when I was hurt in Vietnam, I never remembered displaying sadness or anger or being encouraged to do so. My foster mother had to teach me “grouchy” and that it was “OK” to be out of sorts occasionally and to voice my feelings. I remember one instance when I first arrived to the Tylers’ and they took me shopping for new clothes. When my foster mother showed me something that I did not like, my response was “I no like.” I came with preconceived notions about how I should dress as an American child but was unsure of how to communicate those desires to them. My foster family encouraged me to be the most I can be. They pushed me and demanded I stretch myself to achieve, but they never made demands similar to those in my Vietnamese culture. With their encouragement, I participated in all that my school had to offer. At times, it seemed almost impossible to learn a new language and customs and do what my American classmates were doing. There were times when I struggled to do schoolwork because of the language barrier and cultural differences. However, I was able to leave the differences behind and accomplish what needed to be done and move on. Nevertheless, academics, sports, clubs, and social activities have enriched my life. In sports, I played on the varsity level in football, soccer, track, and skiing. These opportunities would not typically happen to foster children. Most foster children leave the system at age 18 years, when the foster parents release them; most are never adopted. I was grateful to my foster family for providing me with a roof over my head, a ski home, a summer ski camp, participation in national competitions, and travel across the United States. I was also accepted to a private college with wonderful scholarships. These are things that I will remember and carry with me for the rest of my life. I became a citizen of the United States in 1997. What opportunities I have been given! I became a citizen of the United States, and all things seem possible. I have also tried to begin to give back some of the many kindnesses I have received. I volunteered in my town’s annual cleanup and at a nursing home. I worked throughout high school with a special education class of severely disabled students. By helping these students, I learned how fortunate I truly am. Things I thought were problems for me were simply difficulties I have been able to overcome with help. Those students will never have the same opportunities as I had because of their disabilities. I am proud to report that I graduated from a prestigious college and received a well-rounded education. Fifteen years ago, I never dreamed going to college was possible. No one in my Vietnamese family is educated. I have an American family—a mother, a father, a sister, and a brother—who love and believe in me. A significant event took place on April 18, 2003: My adoption into the Tyler family. I was of legal age, and I was able to choose to be adopted by my former foster family. This is what I have been waiting for since I arrived in America. I now have a forever family with a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, an uncle, and a grandmother, and they all care about me. I know I belong. I can honestly say I have closed a chapter of my early life and have started a new chapter. Furthermore, I am also engaged to marry my girlfriend from high school, who also has a wonderful family who embraced me. An evaluation of the significance of my experiences necessitates putting on many lenses. Through my child’s eyes, I used to only see what I lost—a family, a home, a limited education, Vietnamese culture, and my native language, a sense of self, government control, and security. In Vietnam, we were always hungry. Rice and fish were our daily foods, just as they were in the refugee camp. At the dinner table in Vietnam, we were expected to eat in silence and to drink water after the meal. In America, mealtime is a time for conversation, relating the day’s events, talking or arguing about events in the news, and planning for fun activities via scheduled play dates or sport events. I learned I could eat and drink as much as I wanted, but I did not like milk. If I were hungry between meals, I could eat then too. Often there was more food on my plate than I could eat. In Vietnam, there was never food remaining on a plate. I have never been hungry in America, and there are so many new, delicious foods to eat. Through a young adult’s eyes, I see what I have gained—family, home, security, freedom, education, a culture, and unlimited opportunities. Because I left Vietnam so young, over time my memory has dimmed about many daily experiences and personal interactions with my family. Surely much of which I learned from my culture in my first 7 years of life are part of me, but not on a conscious level. The culture I identify with is American. I am an American. I live as an American does. I celebrate occasions as an American does. On the boat and in the camp, I grieved openly. The picture of me as a new arrival clearly shows a depressed, distraught, young, thin child. Perhaps I rejected my Vietnamese family because anger replaced grief. Perhaps I identified with the family and country that gave me love and security. As I get older, and more mature, I am more comfortable acknowledging my ethnic background. It took me a long time to enjoy going to a Vietnamese restaurant, which I do now, frequently. There is not really a merging of my two worlds. Was I too young to have a strong imprint of my culture? The lessons I learned regarding respect for my elders, authority, and persons of education have served me well, but these are lessons American children are taught also. I do not consider myself a Vietnamese person but an American. I have also gained a new meaning of life, what my priorities are, and how I can achieve them. I believe that I have lost ties to my Vietnamese heritage, my language, my parents, my responsibilities as the eldest son, and my culture. Today, I try to look at what I have gained more so than what I have lost. What I have gained greatly outweighs, in my mind, what I have left behind. This includes obtaining a wonderful education and graduating from college. I feel I am prepared to adapt and fit in to American society.
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