There is this one experience that always disorients my Vietnamese-American identity whenever I reminisce about my high school days. One of my Vietnamese friends invited me to go with her to this weekly gathering organized by the local Buddhist Youth Organization. To her, this was just a part of her routine—something that she has done for most of her life. For me, I was inflicted with the most intense culture shock.
The morning began with a Vietnamese class where we were taught writing—I scribbled down some nonsense and turned in my worksheet with shame. Come noon, an elderly Vietnamese man led a group Buddhist prayer—I awkwardly mumbled through it all. The afternoon concluded with recess—I clung to my friend like a lost child.
This is all to say, that we grew up in two different households. We were both Vietnamese, attended the same school, and lived in the same part of the city. While she immersed herself in the Vietnamese community, I was at home, my eyes glued to the TV, watching anime with my sister!
My senior thesis is about this intersection of culture that I am in: Vietnamese, Japanese, and American.
