A Bánh Mì for Two

by Trinity Nguyen

I feel like I’m not Vietnamese enough, but I’m not American enough, either. Unlike other students in the program, I can’t just pass as a foreigner, but I can’t blend in with the locals, either. 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.

“Maybe it’s okay to not be anything. To not have to label yourself as anything. You can be both Vietnamese and American.” It hadn’t occurred to me that I could be both before. That I shouldn’t force myself to fit into one definition of what it means to be Vietnamese, or what being an American looks like. It feels validating to know I shouldn’t—can’t—be put in a box, that it’s okay to float in this in-betweenness … to be everything at once. I don’t have to compromise my identity. I can be so many different things.