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It’s a constant tug-of-war within me: being Vietnamese, but not really … and being American, but not really. Will I fit in—ever?
When you miss someone, you want to be with them. But no flights can take me to him.
Vietnamese is a funny language. Dì, chị, bà, and other honorifics all literally mean auntie sister, and grandma, yet we still address other people not related by blood with these words. Related or not, we’re connected by bonds stronger than familial ones.
How strange it is that something you hold so dear can mean nothing to another person.
For once, someone cared enough to ask for my name. In that moment, I wasn’t just a street food seller. I was Lan.
“Maybe it’s okay to not be anything. To not have to label yourself as anything. You can be both Vietnamese and American.”
When you’re so close to the answer, you almost don’t want to keep going because it’s safer to stay in the dark. Because maybe knowing is the scariest part.
Thương doesn’t just mean love, it’s a special kind of love, and the meaning floats between “sacrificial love” and “unconditional love.”
“Just remember, con, that at the end of the day, Mom and a lot of people just wanted hope. And that meant they had to leave home behind.”
When you like someone, I’ve realized, everything they do matters to you. Everything they do suddenly becomes intimate, and I find myself wishing to remember every word she says to me. Everything she does for me. All my thoughts point to Vivi.
“When you’re Vietnamese, you have tenacity in your blood. You have the will to survive. So no matter what, we will always be okay, because we’re Vietnamese.”
As Aunt Hiền leads me out of the room, I begin to understand that love contradicts. That when you have an overwhelming amount of love for someone, you can hurt them, too.
