Dreaming through Rain or Shine: An Annotated Bibliography
Introduction:
I knew from the moment I understood the premises of this project that it would be a thrilling ride.
I feel that ever since we, as students, realize that pursuing education is virtually the only pathway to secure a successful future, we are blinded by its notions to achieve the most we can in the present. We care about the upcoming tests for midterm week, about the deadlines for projects and essays, and most of all, the numeric letter grades that pop up in our student portal at the end of the semester. For me, this project is a refreshing breather from the endless, countless, never-ending stream of “stuff” that needs to be prepared for classes the next day.
This Roots & Routes project allows me to talk about things that are meaningful to me, touching sensitive subjects for many first-generation immigrant children like myself as we trace back our family’s struggles and realize how hard our families, especially our parents, have worked in order for us to be where we are today. As a Vietnamese girl born and raised in France before moving to the United States, I carry a heavy load of history from my family’s multiple immigration processes. I want to delve into my parent’s difficult pasts as they experience these processes, which will allow me to analyze how these events have influenced their personalities and who they are today. Their experiences — the memories, the love, the pain, the hate, the fear, and the kindness — have formed their beautiful souls. They have consequently passed the morals and ideals they have learned to me through their influence as my parents. The pieces of their hearts that they have given me have melded together with my own personality, essentially shaping my whole life.
Although their journeys were filled with hardships, they endured everything through thick and thin with the ultimate hopes that I would be able to live the American Dream after our permanent and final relocation to Georgia. Their lives allow me to have the opportunity to become successful through ability and determination, an incredible chance in itself. And so, I want to record stories about both my parents’ history, exploring as well as analyzing their roots and personalities. I will embellish these narratives with my own perspective through small weather reports that foretell the event’s trajectory: bright and sunny days signifying positive endings while rainy and colder days depicting sadder and more chaotic events. This gauge of emotions personalizes the events and shows how it means the world to me.
Because truthfully, my parents are just as much my world as I am theirs.
What’s in a name?
Tamil
Encyclopædia Britannica, inc,. July 20, 1998.
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To the left of the black and white checkered tiles of the small corridor lies our living room, complete with an altar that designates our religion and honors our ancestors as well. I remember craning up my little neck to see the monochromatic portraits of my grandparents on my dad’s side and noticing even then how my great-great grandfather looked physically very different from the family that I was used to.
The family I knew had golden-tinted skin tone, with big and beautiful dark brown eyes and jet-black hair. They spoke to me in Vietnamese and, when the occasion called for it, French. Since we were then currently living in the suburbs of Paris, communicating in French was completely normal. What I noticed even during my early childhood was that my mom’s last name plastered on our mail had the surname of “Nguyen,” (an extremely common last name in Vietnamese culture) while the surname I wrote down for my name was “Cassim.” I remember questioning my dad at some point about our last name, cleverly deducing that he would have some answers since we had the identical last name. I remember him vaguely explaining that its origin came from Muslim roots, tracing back to my great-great grandfather who was racially and ethnically different from me.
“Tamil, people originally of southern India and speaking Tamil, one of the principal languages of the Dravidian family. Numbering about 57,000,000 in the late 20th century (including about 3,200,000 speakers in northern and eastern Sri Lanka)” (Britannica 2017).
1895: Monsieur Cassim, as my dad calls him, spoke Tamil as his native tongue and practiced Islam. I found out from the Britannica entry that the Tamil people originated from India and were known for their “sea travel and commerce” lives, paralleling Monsieur Cassim’s journey first to British-ruled Singapore and later to North Vietnam. Monsieur Cassim was a merchant and store-owner in the textiles industry, emigrating to the nearby countries by boat to further available trading opportunities. This reason to emigrate was quite a common one, ultimately a factor in causing the Tamil diaspora of the 20th century. The Britannica entry states that many emigrant Tamil from the diaspora reside in the Malay Peninsula and in Indochina, fittingly confirming and encompassing both Singapore and Vietnam as Monsieur Cassim’s destinations.
Since I only have tidbits of information on my father’s Tamil roots, I decided to try and find evidence that would confirm the bits and pieces of knowledge that are in my possession. Confirming the validity of Monsieur Cassim’s journey across the seas was my first proof.
Education and Colonial Transition in Singapore and Hong Kong: Comparisons and contrasts, Comparative Education, 33:2, 303–312
Jason Tan, Taylor & Francis, Ltd., 1997.
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My paternal family’s Muslim-rooted names that they possess along with their Vietnamese nicknames thus becomes the most prominent evidence of their Tamil influence. Although Monsieur Cassim’s descendants may not practice the religion of Islam anymore, the Muslim names have survived generations.
I thought that the survival of the Muslim name “Cassim” could have been been caused by Monsieur Cassim’s strong affiliation with his Tamil culture that connected him with Islam. The stronger the connection he had with the Tamil, the stronger his devotion was to his religion. After he emigrated to Singapore, I am certain he found himself welcome within a Tamil community.
The large influx of Tamil Indians into Singapore left a strong mark on the country in the future — the Tamil language was later recognized as one of country’s official languages along with English, Malay, and Mandarin. Through Jason Tan’s article that compares and contrasts similarities between education and colonial transitions in Singapore and Hong Kong, I learned about how the Tamil people kept their traditional values as decades passed and governorship changed.The immigrant Tamil people were able preserve their cultures through their British colonization. Since the British had little to no involvement in Singapore’s education system in the decades before World War II, they allowed regional communities to take care of its internal matters.
I believe that Britain’s direct dissociation with education allowed these regional communities to preserve of traditional Tamil values through their own ways of teaching or lack thereof. Afterwards, with the passing of the State of Singapore Act in 1958, the Singapore government (PAP) gained independence from British rule and thus took charge of the education system. They revamped the system to unify the four pertinent groups that formed Singapore, updating textbooks to include the history of each respective immigrant branch:
“The English language was to be retained as an important economic language and lingua franca. At the same time, the study of Chinese, Malay or Tamil, now termed mother tongues, was deemed crucial to the preservation of `traditional values’” (Tan 306)
Perhaps it was due to this perseverance of culture in Singapore that immigrants were able to keep much of their identity. In this manner, Monsieur Cassim kept his surname that identified him with Muslim roots, steadfastly holding on to his native language and religion.
1914: Once in Vietnam, Monsieur Cassim met and married my great-great grandmother, Pham thi Bong. They later gave birth to Ahmed Cassim, my paternal grandfather, in the town of Dao Yeu located in North Vietnam. Named with a Muslim name, Ahmed and his parents communicated with each other both in Tamil and in Vietnamese. Monsieur Cassim taught and spoke to Ahmed in Tamil, expressing his wish for Ahmed to carry even a small part of this culture through the next generations. Since the family’s current location was under French colonization at the time, Ahmed Cassim was fortunately born with a legal French citizenship. Unbeknownst to the family, his citizenship will become crucial for their future due to the upcoming wars.
As Ahmed Cassim marries my paternal grandmother and starts his own family, he preserves the Tamil culture by naming some of his children with Muslim-rooted first names. My father and his seven siblings, bearing Muslim and later European first names along with Vietnamese nicknames, are born and set to face the troubled times ahead.
The Vietnamese Boat People, 1954 and 1975–1992
Vo, Nghia, M. McFarland & Co., 2006.
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There I sat, around a fancy circular dining table in the middle of the ornately furnished dining room. The dining table where I was was actually located to the right of the room, making room for a set of comfortable resting chairs and a small glass table to fill up the left side. My eyes wandered and rested on that small table, where I saw the circular wooden board game that my aunt, Tatie Saban, owned — this was the glass set of Solitaire, not the card game version, but the one with translucent marbles that sparkled their vibrant hues in the sunlight. My eyes snapped back into focus as Tatie Saban and her husband, Tonton Roger, brought out fresh seasoned salad as the first course of the meal.
“Merci et Bon Appetit, Tatie Saban!”
I said my thanks, directing it to the adults around me, and dug into the food.
Tatie Saban, my French uncle Tonton Roger, and my cousins Clotilde and Myriom are the some of the loving family in France that would readily invite us over for dinner if we chose to visit. I’ve always called my aunt Tatie “Saban” because my dad calls her so, without realizing that this was her Vietnamese nickname and not her legal Muslim-rooted name, “Alima.”
When Tatie Saban married Tonton Roger, she also married the French culture altogether — Clotilde and Myriom only speak French since Vietnamese was never spoken to them, and they have both completely assimilated into French culture, taking advantage of the opportunities made possible through their parents’ hardships. My cousins and I are benefit in France today from what Tatie Saban and my father experienced in Vietnam, and it is only because our parents have overcome these incredible roadblocks that we are so fortunate to live peacefully today.
1951: Born a few years before Tatie Saban, my father becomes Ahmed Cassim’s third youngest child in a family of eight. The entire family will unfortunately experience the blunt of the Vietnam War.
After French conquering and colonization of Vietnam in the late 19th century, the Vietnamese people were getting tired and rebellious against French exploitation and brutalization of labor. A French colonial officer General Gallieni quoted that,
“A country is not conquered and pacified by crushing its people through terror. After overcoming their initial fear, the masses grow increasingly rebellious, their accumulated bitterness steadily rising in reaction to the brutal use of force” — General Gallieni (Vo 11)
He referred to the initial smothered rebellions of the Vietnamese people led by activists such as the Viet Nam Quoc Dan Dang (VNQDD). These small rebellions later turned into large-scale ones and were led by nationalist parties such as the Dai Viet, the stronger VNQDD, and the Viet Minh communist party, with the ultimate goal to overturn the French government. After these Vietnamese nationalist parties realized that France was not all-mighty after its defeat by the Germans following WWII, they jumped into action for independence. This later resulted in the split of North Vietnam ruled by the communists as the Democratic Republic of Vietnam led by Ho Chi Minh, and South Vietnam later ruled by the actual democratic government called the Republic of Vietnam with Ngo Dinh Diem (confusing, I know). Through the Geneva Accords of 1954, the first Vietnam War between the North Vietnamese and French came to a conclusion, and the separation between the North and South became official.
Meanwhile, my father and his family were living in North Vietnam. They naturally held fear toward the communists, just like others who had constantly lived under communist rule. They feared of the brutality of war, feared the unfair land reform campaigns, and feared hunger due to famine. The anxiety and despair led many North Vietnamese citizens to wish for escape to the South, where they could live better lives under the democratic government.
“They were were all aware of the atrocious behavior of communists for having lived under their rule.” (Vo 29)
The pieces of the puzzle clicked when I understood that one of the best places to escape from North to South Vietnam was the city-port of Hai Phong, my father’s birthplace. Here, civilians could board ships if they had been lucky enough to survive communists attempts to impede resettlement processes in the forms of violence and oppression. For example, communists were able to block important roads that cut off pathways and access to freedom. Along with escape by sea, civilians could also flee by air via French military planes, which left at increments of 10 minutes night and day, delivering evacuees to Southern cities. My dad recounted that his resettlement from Hai Phong to southern Saigon was aboard a French military plane, a privilege granted due to Ahmed Cassim’s crucial French citizenship. The stories my dad told me were validated as truth by these historical facts, leaving me triumphant with concrete proof.
1956: An unprecedented stroke of luck came a mere 2 years after my dad’s resettlement in Saigon, after the birth of the rest of his siblings. This fortune came again due to Ahmed Cassim’s handy dandy French citizenship — being born under French colonization authorities gave Ahmed official papers that were speedily used to secure a legal trip to Europe and safely bypass restrictive forces. His family were able to board a paquebot, a steamship, out of Saigon and headed towards Marseilles, France.
What a miracle.
The Evolutionary Biology of Altruism
Christopher Bergland, Sussex Publishers, Dec 25, 2012.
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“Wait… that’s your dad?! You two look nothing like each other!”
I smile at the commentary and wait for my dad to settle into the house, taking off his shoes and raincoat, dropping the grocery bags in the kitchen, and removing his lanyard before bringing my friends to him for an introduction. In his French-accented English, my dad always manages to make my friends laugh as he asks them their names, age, and future plans. After the greetings, he will asks if anyone is hungry or thirsty — however, he never really listens to our replies, ultimately making crêpes and bringing out drinks for everyone anyways.
Even now as college students, my dad still unfailingly makes these delicious fluffy crêpes for my friends as we play card games and socialize during our Movie Nights. We’ll be completely immersed in our games when he will randomly pull out a “new friend,” one he hasn’t met before, and drag the poor soul to the kitchen. He will demonstrate his flipping techniques on the thin pancake for the guest, and the lucky friend will return with a strawberry-and-cream-filled prize. My friend will then recount their experience back to me, mentioning my dad’s jovial and friendly personality.
I love my dad’s social demeanor, how he has the ability to make everyone laugh — even if it is sometimes by embarrassing a friend (imagine being asked about your relationship status by him).
I love the moments when he makes everyone happy, including me.
I would wish for his definite stay in Georgia with my mom and me, but since we never had that privilege after moving to the United States, I am already happy with the joy he brings when he is here. Due to his medical condition of chronic psoriasis, my dad requires periodic stays in France for his medical treatments.The disease doesn’t threaten his life, but it is unfortunately incurable. Although that has left me with slightly broken middle and high school years, with the pain of separation, and with a skewed matriarchal view on family life, I learned to deal with it and understand that everything was for the best.
On the other hand, no matter where he is, my dad is a Parisian through and through. Even in Georgia, you’ll see him with his pseudo beret, cargo pants, and waterproof coat walking to the Target shopping center where we live. He walks everywhere, because he likes it and also because he missed the chance to learn how to drive. When in the U.S, he will spend the day relaxing through watching Netflix, catching up with the French news on the computer, and cooking for my mom and me as we come home from work and school respectively. Through high school, I could count on him for a delicious cheesy pasta and potatoes au gratin meal as I came home for dinner after my after-school activities.
I think that his personality, encompassing all the things he’s able to do and all the things he can’t do, are powerful results of all the experiences he has undergone. My dad has one of the most lenient and “go with the flow” personalities I have ever met. He truly doesn’t care what others think of him and just goes along with the opposing force, all the while sticking to his ideals and morals. He knows that people’s criticisms are simply superficial and do not deserve retaliation, preferring to mediate instead and go on with life.
He has undergone too many horrendous experiences — having absolutely nothing when finally arriving in France as refugees from communist regime, having to work in the farms at an early age to feed the family, having to live in barely suitable conditions to climb out of poverty — to consider these simple problems as fatiguing. He fought with determination to obtain his Educator’s degree, able to become a teacher and thus teaching children so they could use the knowledge for their future. His past has enabled him to absolutely treasure education, as it makes seemingly unattainable pathways reachable, and treasure the opportunities that are available now: the new means of communication, the new technology, and even the improved eco-friendly means of recycling and water conservation.
However, I feel that he tries to treasure everything a little too much. Sometimes, I wish he’d enjoy living in the present more rather than letting his past affect so much of his every day life. I completely understand his need for not wasting materials, objects and resources, as this would be an insult to his hard past and to the people and countries that are less fortunate than us; however, there comes a limit to reusing old towels and used toothbrushes to clean windows. His personality is sometimes unable to cope in the modern world, not comprehending the need to dress well for a nice dinner with family or the need of romantic displays for my mom. I understand, as he has never experienced these luxuries in his life to cause him to have this certain mindset, but it still hurts. The terrible chronic disease is also the cause of much of the small misfortune in my life, always taking my dad away, taking his happiness and replacing it with itching and pain. I blame the emotional and tense side of my dad on the skin disease, as I’m sure it takes away self-confidence and also chips away at his positive disposition.
And with all of that emotional baggage, I want emphasize my dad is someone whom I utterly respect. I respect his altruistic tendencies of doing the right thing to help those in need. He is truly humble to a fault. My dad is the type of person to stop by and make conversation with a homeless man, leaving behind a little bit of cash and a smile. One of the things that stood out to me the most was when he gave back $80.00 at Walgreens due to the cashier’s mistake — the employee hit one too many zeros for $8.00 in change, and without even thinking about the money, the only thing in my dad’s head was realization that the young employee may be in trouble later with the manager for making such an error.
This altruism is a vital part of my dad’s personality. I started wondering why it exists so prominently through my dad and questioning if there was any relation between his altruism and his past experiences.
The psychological journal entry I found talks about how altruism exists in the form of a counter to Darwin’s theory of “survival of the fittest,” a counter that encompasses the importance of cooperation in order to survive. Christopher Bergland explains that “we must cooperate in order to survive, and we are altruistic to others because we need them for our survival.”
“ Scientists confirm that we must cooperate to survive” (Bergland 2012)
The slightly pessimistic take on the idea could mean that there is no apparent “goodwill” in the world and that every act of kindness toward others is expected to be returned. The idea could mean that we are only nice to others because we need them to repay us back someday for us to survive.
However, I believe that this quote supports the fact that cooperation and kindness toward others is a necessity without the need of an ulterior motive. It benefits others and possibly triggers the other party to return the favor — humans’ actions benefit each other, leading to an advantageous outcome for everybody. Humans need each other for survival, and so keeping each other alive and caring about each other’s well-being ultimately leads to everybody’s survival.
I am 110% positive my dad’s altruism is done with complete goodwill, where he shows that altruism to others just because he is able to. However, I can see how Bergland’s explanation may have played a role during his during childhood and adolescence. Due to the harsh conditions of his upbringing, perhaps one of the most peaceful way to survive was through kindness — perhaps kindness to a neighbor one day may provide a necessary connection in a later time of need. My dad’s kindness and humbleness may have very well resulted from the need for cooperation from everyone that could afford to cooperate, but I also believe that he always had and always will have the moral to selflessly help others, without the notion of receiving anything in return.
The Inviting Call of Wandering Souls: Memoir of an ARVN Liaison Officer to United States Forces in Vietnam Who Was Imprisoned in Communist Re-education Camps and Then Escaped
Lu, Van Thanh, McFarland, 1997.
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“Hi my name is Marion, I’m Francis’s granddaughter and here to play piano for you!”
My short announcement was immediately well received by the seniors in the big dining hall. They looked up from what they were doing to give me encouraging words and words of gratitude toward my grandfather and to both my parents standing beside him. My grandfather was such an authoritative figure despite his small frame, tremendously respected by everyone and loved dearly by my parents. My maternal grandfather Francis Nguyen, or Ong Ngoai as I called him, was also very active in the beautiful senior center nearby — he helped organize events for the other seniors and even participated in the Senior Olympics that were held annually. He also loved bringing me to perform for the seniors during lunchtime, and I certainly enjoyed seeing the smiles of the sweet grandmothers and grandfathers that were in the crowd.
The Ong Ngoai I loved was incredible and seemed to always know things. He was physically extremely able-bodied, doing strenuous yoga poses, and was mentally exceptionally sharp. You could literally ask him to translate Latin texts from the Bible and he could do it for you in Vietnamese, French, and English… without any mistakes. Because of his intellectual abilities, it was no surprise to me then when I found out he used to work for the Republican government in South Vietnam as a senator, a high ranked position. He was the type of person I knew must have had an incredible past, yet what shocked me was the dark experiences that he buried under his knowing smiles and sociable demeanor.
Lu Van Tranh’s book, The Inviting Call of Wandering Souls, portrays an autobiography that parallels my grandfather’s journey, one that includes painful capture by the North Vietnamese communists and horrendous service at re-education camps due to past affiliation and service with the South Republican government. Tranh writes his autobiography in the form of a first person narrative — he takes the reader on a journey beginning with his first hand experience of the Tet Offensive of 1968, which pitted the North Vietnamese communist forces against the defending South Vietnamese ones, and ending with freedom by sea from Vietnam. Tranh was initially a teacher with high proficiency in English, but was later then drafted twice into the South Vietnamese Army — first as warrant officer and the second time as a liasion officer to the U.S. units thanks to his English abilities. Although his aid to the South Vietnamese Army did contribute to his imprisonment, the communist forces specifically held him because his English ability and certificate deemed him as
“a dangerous oppenent to the [new communist] regime” (Tranh 47).
My grandfather was persecuted because he was viewed exactly the same way — although his service to the South Vietnamese government as a senator had ended a decade ago in 1966, a close acquaintance had snitched on his past position to communist officers that were invading South Vietnam, alarming their dangerous interest. My grandfather was then taken away and forced to serve from 1976 to 1981 in re-education camps, paralleling Tranh’s imprisonment from the same starting year of 1976 to 1979.
Their experiences in re-education camps would have mirrored each other’s, being forced to overwork doing manual labor while being undernourished. The communists’ goal was to make these former officers, teachers, doctors, and engineers brainwashed of their old ideas, instilling in them the greatness of the new regime instead.
“Pointing at us, he said that we were victims of an outmoded regime supported by the aggressive American imperialists whose main goal was to dominate the whole globe… All of us present, he added, should be shot to death at once as a result of our past activities in working for the puppet government, a political arm of the U.S imperialists, because we directly contributed to the impediment of an earlier victory for the entire people of Vietnam. However, the main goal of the revolution was to grant leniency to those who showed their faith in communism. To deserve this offer, we should try to do manual work, to learn the value of labor so that we could easily side with the farmers, the workers of our future country” (Tranh 60).
After the years of harsh service, just like how Tranh was finally able to escape Vietnam, my grandfather was able to provide a gateway for him and his family over to the U.S after his imprisonment.
Joint U.S. — Vietnamese Announcement of Humanitarian Resettlement Program
U.S. Department of State, USA.gov, 2005.
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I was incredibly lucky to find the exact category, program, and clause that allowed most of my mom’s family to legally emigrate just based on the tiny bits of information I knew from their journey to the U.S in 1991. I initially only had information regarding how the event received sponsorship by the U.S government in attempts to help solve the humanitarian resettlement issues due to the communist regime. I also knew that my mom’s family only qualified for the program due to my grandfather’s past service as an re-education camp prisoner. I am so thrilled to have actually managed to find the exact decrees that made their trip possible.
This website contains the 2001–2009 Archive for the U.S. Department of State:
The HO category — Former Re-Education Center Detainees:
a) Vietnamese applicants who spent three or more years in a re-education center as a result of their close association with U.S. agencies or organizations to implement United States Government programs and/or policies prior to April 30, 1975;
and its clause for
Eligible Immediate Family Members:
An approved applicant’s spouse and unmarried children under the age of 21 at the time of application may be included under Humanitarian Resettlement.
These two categories allowed my grandfather, my grandma, my mom, my two uncles, and my aunt eligible to to legally emigrate. Only the eldest uncle, whom I have never met and who still currently lives in Vietnam, was unable to resettle with the rest of the family since he was already married by that time.
Resettling: 1, 2, 3 ?
The Chinese/Vietnamese Diaspora: Revisiting the Boat People
Chan, Yuk Wah, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon; New York: Routledge, 2011.
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The smell of nail polish welcomed me as I stepped inside the small yet classy salon. At this point, I was so used to the acetone odor that I felt quite at home at the Professional Nail & Spa. I eyed the sparkly new nail polish display and the comfortable maroon waiting chairs as I walked up to the reception desk, where I cheerily greeted the receptionist and continued onward to locate my mom.
After my mom and her family moved to America, ultimately settling in Georgia, my two uncles started two separate nail businesses. My mom was able to receive employment in one family business as a valued employee and a co-manager of sorts. While her work in the nail industry was taxing and required long hours of service, it efficiently provided enough to pay for our expenses with her daily tip pay and monthly payroll. Like many other Vietnamese immigrants who enter the nail salon industry, creating the Vietnamese nail salon stereotype, my mom immediately sought employment after our immigration to Georgia. Working in the nail salon allowed her to receive immediate gains at minimal costs — since the nail technician certificate did not require extremely difficult knowledge and academic potential, it was relatively simple for most immigrants to pass the exam, find employment, and make a steady wage right then and there.
Even right now, my mom is still working every single day save for Mondays, from 10am to 8pm, in order to provide for our family. What makes me so grateful is how much she has given up in order for me to be successful in America.
“Many refugees lacked much prior English language experience or the kinds of educational and occupational skills that would help them in their new lives. Even those who had such skills, faced hurdles as well, and usually ended up working in jobs well below their capacity. ” (Chan 26)
Chan’s statement from his book The Chinese/Vietnamese Diaspora: Revisiting the Boat People perfectly describes my mom’s experiences. Her occupational skills and abilities are in reality much higher than the working job she currently holds.
Back in Vietnam, my mom worked in the textiles industry after graduating from her Vietnamese high school, sewing shirts and other clothes with my grandmother. She took English classes in her spare time on a whim, having no idea that this skill would later prove to be formidably useful. After the family’s initial immigration to California as a result of the U.S-resettlement program, my mom will use her English abilities as best as she can in order to adapt to the new culture.
1991–1997: Through these 7 years in California, my mom was able to enroll in Mt. San Antonio Community College and become an honors graduate with an associates degree in Computer Information System (1996). I am so fortunate and proud that my mom, unlike many immigrants, decided to pursue education then. As mentioned before, many immigrants tended to immediately enter the workforce, desiring profits to stabilize their financial situations rather than spending their time in school. However, my mom planned for the long-run even then, predicting that having a degree would later allow her to apply to more skillful and higher-wage positions while looking for employment.
1998–2006: Her hard worked paid off very well.
In her 2nd resettlement, my mom ultimately made the sacrifice to live in France after marrying my dad. The couple had initially met in Vietnam before her first move to the U.S, and had kept in contact since then. Just to follow my dad to the place he was the most comfortable, to his home where he had established his life, my mom was willing to resettle once again in a whole new environment.
She had taken French classes at her college in California, but I am still awed by her flawless transition into French culture. My incredible mom found stable employment at an office-desk at DTC, a scanning company in France. She worked with data and graphs as an invoicing specialist in the accounting department, working on international orders to purchase different electronic parts for the company’s scanning systems. I remember her telling me how she had to use her phenomenal English to order and communicate with her clients from different countries in the world.
“My mother thinks differently than I do because we grew up in two different environments. I would not say that I identify with my mother’s experiences, but rather understand her struggles I have never gone through what she went through, but I can understand her struggle and for that I appreciate her sacrifice.” (Chau 141) — Michael, a second generation Chinese-Vietnamese American.
I think that this quote from the small perspective section of Chan’s book gives a strong insight on how I feel toward my mom’s experiences. Although I will never identify with her struggles she experienced in Vietnam, having to take care of her 4 other siblings and with her father being imprisoned for 7 years, I understand how difficult her life must have been. She studied so hard to achieve success for her future, already thinking of how she would take care of her family, and for that I am eternally grateful.
After I was born in Paris in 1998, we lived in a rural area called Noisy-Le-Grand, located in the outskirts of the big city. Although my parents both worked at the time, they always made sure the other was available to keep me company, take care of me, and shower me with love.
2006 — current: After coming to the decision that there would be better opportunities in America, my mom chose to immigrate to Gwinnett County in Georgia, USA, her third and final resettlement.
As soon as she came to Georgia, she busied herself in finding employment to support our family, especially since we knew my dad would retire soon. Her brother’s nail salon seemed like the ideal choice since the store’s location was close to my uncles’ houses and economically profitable. She decided to learn the trade and apply.
A full 11 years later since my immigration to the United States, and my mom still works the tedious hours in order to earn a living for us. My dearest wish is for her to finally have the chance to relax and enjoy her life once I am financially stable enough to provide for her.
Catholic Facts and General Knowledge
Bible, Catholic Online, 2017.
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Who is your hero?” The question blatantly stared up at me as I tried to fill out the scholarship application. The lengthy form had additional short-answer questions along with the main 1-page essays, and I wanted to answer all of them using ideas that strongly established my personality. After running through all the potential candidates inside my mind, I knew that only one person truly deserved the title of “hero” — — my mom.
My mom is my hero.
She is a hero for inspiring me to be kinder and more selfless every single day. I am always in awe of how she unfailingly sees the positive aspects in a person, able to find “the silver lining in every cloud.” I think my mom embodies the emotion of “love”: not only does she have a mother’s love for family, which envelops me up in a tight protective hug, but she also has a love that extends itself to everyone in her life. The love she feels for me — which is the love a parent feels for her child — is the strongest form of love she can express; however, what’s incredible is that she is able to spread this radiant feeling toward everybody, without discrimination. She is always the first to help anyone in need, always the first to offer our guests the best hospitality possible, and always the first to show that she cares about the people around her.
I began to make the connection of her morals to our Catholic faith. My mom’s side of the family, my grandfather especially, have practiced Catholicism since their beginning days in South Vietnam. While growing up, my mom and her siblings went to church every Sunday in their best attire, attended Sunday school, and sang in the church’s choir. Religion was the one thing the family held on tightly even as they were placed a new culture in America. They were raised on Catholic beliefs morals just like I was, and I cannot find a better way to connect my mom’s beautiful personality to the divine teachings I am all too familiar with.
“I always loved you unconditionally and have taught you to love others unconditionally” is a phrase my mother has often repeated to me.
I realized how closely it correlated with a huge Catholic teaching:
“ You shall love the Lord your God with your whole heart, and with your whole soul, and with your whole mind, and with your whole strength; you shall love your neighbor as yourself.”
Much like Gods love for us and the love we have for Him, my mom loves others like she would her own family.
Although my mom is soft spoken, she commands an incredibly powerful presence. My mom bore the burdens to virtually single-handedly raise me after we moved to Georgia, taking on both the roles of a caring mother as well as the working backbone of our family ever since my dad retired from his teaching position and is not constantly with us. My mom embodies the wisdom, the love, and the servitude that is so prominently taught in the Church through Jesus’s life as he traveled to different places, creating miracles for mankind. My mom’s morals model those of Jesus, and are evident as she carries on even mundane tasks in everyday life. Whether it is the peck on the cheek and forehead as I come home from college on the weekends, whether it is the insane amount of food neatly packaged for my friends and me to bring back to college, or whether it is the pat on my head and the stroke of my hair as I fall asleep, I will undeniably state I am truly blessed to have a mom like her.
“We learn to know, love, and serve God from Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who teaches us through the Catholic Church.”
With the mindset of always wanting to give and serve rather than to be served, my mom has the patience to deal with my antics, the kindness to reprimand me in order to ensure only successes for my sake, and the love to always be there for me unconditionally no matter what the future holds ahead.
Growing up American: How Vietnamese children adapt to life in the United States.
Zhou, Min, and Carl Bankston, Russell Sage Foundation, 1998.
73 °F | °C
Precipitation: 1%
I stared at the soft, rounded bread that fitted snugly in the wrapping. There was a big contrast between the wrapping’s translucent areas, where I was able to see white bread, and the opaque parts of the wrapping which purple and very user-friendly. The purple area had big and bold letters print that said: “SMUCKER’S UNCRUSTABLES.”
Was this the “P.B.J.” the other kids were talking about?
Retrospectively speaking, I find it really funny that I had no idea what peanut butter jelly sandwiches were. I actually had no clue what “peanut butter” was, and was really confused as to why you would grind poor individual peanuts together until they reached a liquefied state.
I soon found out that adapting to a new culture not only meant learning the obvious, like its language, but also meant knowing certain traditional food and customs— peanut butter and peace signs for example — in order to truly assimilate with its people. This was the one part of my life that I could identify with my mom’s: the resettlement and adaptation necessary after moving to a different country. With no prior knowledge of English, I experienced first-hand the confusion that ensues when you have absolutely no understanding of the language (except for “hello” and a couple other words I remembered from Dora the Explorer, who taught English in France).
Throughout my first school year in Georgia as a 3rd grader, listening to English threw my brain into a war where it battled to understand the syllables it heard — I fought and fought until I could make sense of these words. I had an amazing ESOL (English to Speakers of Other Languages) teacher guide me through the process, but I also acknowledge that my own motivation to understand my new world propelled me to take initiative.
“As the sociologist Herbert Gans (1992) suggested, it is likely to involve one of two scenarios: the child either succeeds in school and moves ahead, or falls behind the modest, often low status of the parents’ generation. Gans has labeled the latter scenario “second-generation decline.” Children growing up in house-holds headed by poor, low-skilled immigrants face uncertain prospects for moving ahead through school success. The parents, of course, have few of the economic resources that can help children do well in school.” (Zhou 3)
I have my own motivation, determined personality, and wonderful mom to thank as I climbed my way to success in school. The “second-generation decline” concept that Gans suggests was the exact thing that I tried with all my might not to fall into. Although it is true that we did not have many economic resources yet, I was able to do well academically through my mom’s encouragement and her short English-tutoring sessions if she had the time to spare. My curious personality also initially played a huge role — I wanted to know what others were saying so I could communicate and play with them, and as a consequence, I read many, many picture books on my own in order to have better grasp of the English language. Another factor of my success in America can be accounted by the fact that my parents immigrated to the U.S with a purpose of giving me better educational opportunities. Instead of being unexpectedly thrown into a new country as a refugee and/or without choice, I was fortunate enough that my family anticipated and prepared for my life in the States.
My uncles who had initially moved to the U.S in 1991 had established families in Georgia, and for the first couple years, these generous families aided us when they could.
“Family socioeconomic status shapes the immediate social conditions for adaptation, because it determines the type of neighborhood in which children live, the quality of school they attend, and the group of peers with whom they associate. Immigrant children from middle-class backgrounds benefit from financially secure families, good schools, safe neighborhoods, and supportive formal and informal organizations, which ensure better life chances for them.” (Zhou 7)
In my elementary school years, we actually lived together with one of my uncles who had been living in the U.S since the Vietnamese immigration. At this uncle’s house, I assimilated more into American culture through my two cousins who around my age. I was fortunate to understand the basics of English quickly and establish friendships at school that could help me with subjects I didn’t understand — reading and history for example.
My entire academic career up until college was, in its entity, an incredibly lucky ride. Minus some family drama which caused us to move into our current home, I had supportive family that only wished me well, strong networks of friends to depend on when I didn’t understand homework assignments or needed help on projects, and the chance to attend one of the nation’s best high schools — the Gwinnett School of Math, Science, and Technology (GSMST).
I believe I only had full control of the English culture once I entered high school. I had mastered the language in perhaps my late middle school years, but there were still several popular cultural factors (current TV shows, pop singers and idols) that I had little to no knowledge of. I had previously struggled with feeling lost and “out of the loop” as I heard my friends talk about these things around me, and so I was only truly satisfied with myself after I mastered this kind of cultural knowledge.
And finally, although I tried very hard to assimilate myself into American culture, I knew that a vital part of my personality would always favor my original Asian and French culture. There was no helping my love for Vietnamese food nor changing the morals I was brought up on and in which I believed in.
“Race and ethnicity may be related to school performance for cultural reasons, as well as for purely socioeconomic reasons. It is possible that Vietnamese cultural values, such as a tradition of respect for teachers, affect how young people respond to the American institution of public education.” (Zhou 8)
As much as I became comfortable with the American system of education, there were always major factors of my personality that influenced my actions that were outside of American norm. Vietnamese cultural values of respecting your elders followed me (and still follow me) everywhere — the crossed arms and bow of the head when greeting an elder transformed to just a slight down-tilt of the head when addressing a teacher at school. I find myself still stuck in this habit when greeting authoritative figures. When I reach out to shake hands with Dr. IV Bray, my high school principal, I find myself smiling and making eye contact, yet always slightly dipping my head. This habit may look a little strange from an outsider’s perspective, but I believe it has concretely shaped the respect and responsibility I feel from professional authoritative figures. Being aware of the hierarchy of respect and of proper behavior and etiquette in certain situations has helped me establish valuable connections in the past, and will hopefully introduce me to internships and employment in the future.
Tinh Yeu Cho Em (Vivo Per Lei)
Paris By Night №79, Disc. 2, 2005.
61 °F | °C
Precipitation: 14%
My ears immediately picked up French coming from the TV. I wandered over to the living room where my mom was eagerly listening to the Vietnamese variety show, Paris by Night (79, Disc 2). I was used to seeing her watch the show on our couch, and I would even sometimes sit down to watch a couple acts with her — I liked most of the comedic plays, called “khich,” but I rarely liked the musical acts because of their old-fashioned styles. However, this time, the French lyrics drew me in as I listened to the Vietnamese singer Khanh Ha belt out the powerful melodic lines.
The 12th act on the disc, called “Vivo Per Lei,” initially originated from Italian, containing both Italian and French lyrics. Its Vietnamese title translated to “Tinh Yeu Cho Em” in the show, which loosely translates to “Love for You” in English. In this Paris by Night rendition however, the song now had French and Vietnamese parts, sung and perfected by the singers in the program. I remember being impressed by Khanh Ha’s diction of the difficult French consonants and vowels.
I really enjoyed this musical act, perhaps because of a slight bias toward my beautiful native language, or perhaps just because I liked the melody and the ballad-feel of the piece. I remember thinking how cool it was that the Vietnamese singer was singing in well-enunciated French, and thinking how much I could relate to the two languages — it demonstrated my two cultures and my passion for music, blending my two cultures seamlessly in musical form and making me proud of my heritage. I realized how amazing it was for me to understand both languages simultaneously.
This song, among other things, is one of the memorable memories I have that depict my unfaltering connection with Vietnamese and French culture even as I continue my journey in America.
Children of Immigrants in America: Traditionalist views vs. “American view” ?
My Tiger Mom Prepared Me for the Ultimate Sin: Not Being the Perfect Daughter
Diana Tsui, New York Media LLC, 2016.
58 °F | °C
Precipitation: 14%
While researching on Asian parenting styles, I came across Diana Tsui’s personal article that portrayed her relationship with her parents. Growing up with Asian parents myself, many of the things she said were familiar to me — they were things I had heard of from my friends, or things I could even apply to my own life. Tsui alludes to Amy Chua’s Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mom, where the common asian-parenting style, called “tiger parenting” is described in a way I thought was accurate:
“This parenting style doesn’t prioritize building a child’s sense of self-esteem but on making sure the child meets solid metrics of success like conquering a difficult piano piece or getting straight A’s. Tiger kids aren’t praised for their achievements, and tiger parents never miss a chance to berate them for their academic “failures” (getting less than A’s). Showing proper respect for authority figures is held in high regard. In one pivotal scene from the book, Chua’s daughter Sophia disrespects her and Chua calls her “garbage.”” (Tsui)
Now obviously, my own parents are nowhere on earth near that extreme. Tsui’s and Chua’s unfortunate experiences faced the consequences of the extremity of tiger parenting, experiences I was blessed not go through. However, although my parents’ parenting was filled with so much more love and kindness than Tsui’s and Chua’s, it still applied the main points of “tiger parenting” to my life — just nowhere near the severity Tsui describes.
Rather than strictly enforcing a regimen like Tsui’s parents, my parents wanted for me to cooperate with them instead. Perhaps because I was naturally an obedient child raised with love and respect, I never questioned nor had major issues with the detailed schedule that my parents set in front of me. I would wake up early for Honors Orchestra at 6:00 AM, go to regular classes until 3:00 PM, finish my after-school activities organizing events like International Night, come home and do homework until it was time to eat dinner at around 7:00 PM, practice piano for two hours, and then finally finish up the rest of homework if there was any left. Rather than being forced by my parents, I worked with them to establish this schedule. I had a rebellious phase in middle and early high school that occurred because my parents were stricter than American parents on curfew and electronics, but I was content following their schedules after the phase passed. I saw the merit in the schedule and realized that everything my parents did was ultimately for my sake.
And I was happy with that.
“Tiger kids aren’t praised for their achievements, and tiger parents never miss a chance to berate them for their academic “failures” (getting less than A’s)” (Tsui)
Although my parents never explicitly told me that I needed to get the top grades of the class, it was something that I always assumed I should achieve, or come as close to it as I could. I always felt the need to “do my best,” where my “best” was assumed to be in the top quintile. Maybe it was because they never pushed their academic expectations on me to that extremity that I realized on my own that I needed to set these expectations on myself. The Asian community that I grew up in and my experience at the Governor’s Honors Program allowed me to meet so many incredibly intelligent and talented individuals that I always feel the need to become as successful as them.
“Showing proper respect for authority figures is held in high regard.” (Tsui)
On the other hand, I will wholeheartedly agree with Tsui’s take on respect. Nothing will get more on my mom’s nerves if I disrespect her, whether that is glaring or retorting back with a snide comment. When I get irritated at her or disagree with her opinions, I personally find it very difficult to hold back the anger and frustration that bubbles up. The times I’ve let those emotions seep out are the times I regret the most, since it usually results in violent outbursts of things neither side truly means. Although it may be normal and fine in American households, as portrayed by the media and the Internet, it is certainly not acceptable in my household nor in many of my friend’s. Traditionally in Asian culture, it is considered rude and horrendous to talk back to your elders, especially your parents. You’re expected to do exactly as they say, never to raise your voice at them in an argument. In this sense, I understand Tsui’s dilemma on not being able to communicate and confront with her parents about the issues she was facing in her life because of them. She merely takes their words as law, never even allowed to question them or express her own opinions since they are the ones providing for you.
This quote from Tsui herself was frighteningly accurate:
Growing up the only child of immigrants (my mother is ethnic Chinese by way of Burma, my father is from Hong Kong), I received a potent message from the moment I started kindergarten: You’re lucky to have been born in America — don’t screw it up.
It is harshly worded, reflecting Tsui’s rocky relationship with her parents, yet holds a lot of truth. As immigrants, we are so lucky to have the opportunities to attend American school and universities. We are so lucky to have pathways of doors open up to us as long as we have the qualifications to unlock them. These qualifications are also ones not based on your race, your gender, or your bloodline, but instead based on your determination and ability.
This is why Asian immigrants like my friends and me understand the responsibilities we shoulder. Our parents have worked so hard for us to be here, how can we let their efforts go to waste?
Train to Busan.
Dir. Sang-ho Yeon. Perf. Gong Yoo, Kim Soo-Ahn, Seoul Station Film Series, 2016.
18 °F | °C
Precipitation: 200%
*Warning: Spoilers Ahead*
Tears streamed down my face at 50 mph, and I felt the mucus-filled coughs assemble themselves in my chest and demand to be let out. I was now at a point where my glasses were foggy and my vision blurry. I got up from the bed in search of the tissue box in the dark room, flailing about in the general direction of its location.
I always describe my personality as emotional. Although that has its positive aspects of being happy and empathetic toward others, it also has the downside aspect of crying at every single sad movie. Usually, I can keep the tears to a minimum, only letting them run down my face once in a while. However, this movie did not allow for nice streams of tears — it instead instigated huge floods. My body finally gave itself a flood warning, where I reached the point for my brain to question the reason for all these powerful emotions.
The thriller/horror movie follows the journey of a divorced businessman, Seok Woo, and his and his young daughter Kim Soo Ahn. With her father being too preoccupied with his work to take care of her, Soo Ahn makes a request for him to take her to the city of Busan where she is promised meet with her mother on her birthday. Although Seok Woo has difficulty taking time off work, he decides to do his best on this occasion since his many unfulfilled promises with Soo Ahn have negatively impacted their relationship. As they set out on bullet train headed for Busan, a zombie apocalypse breaks out throughout South Korea, infecting and killing the whole population. Turns out, one injured but infected passenger had also managed to board this train.
The story follows Seok Woo and Soo Ahn, stuck inside the moving vehicle that has both become a prison as well a their only hope of making out alive to a safe city. They band up with a few other surviving passengers, making their way cart by cart to evade the now zombie-infested space.
There are many thrilling action sequences throughout the movie, but its peak climax is toward the end, a scene dramatic yet beautiful:
After the death of 4–5 characters who had been surviving along with Seok Woo and Soo Ahn, Seok Woo himself gets bitten by a survivor-turned-zombie. He and his daughter, as well as one last surviving woman, were headed out toward safety on a last train cart…
Now infected, Seok Woo knew he would soon become bloodthirsty for the remaining humans, most importantly, his daughter.
And with the saddest music and one of the most moving cinematography I’ve ever seen, Seok Woo hangs off the railing at the end of the cart, having forced himself there to stay away from the woman and his daughter. He sees the scenery the train cart left behind as he faces the opposite direction of the cart’s forward momentum. Soo Ahn screams the entire time from the locked interior of the cart, and these screeches are slowly replaced by peaceful music as Seok Woo experiences flashbacks of loving memories of his daughter as a baby. When his eyes finally roll back and turn white as the infection takes over his brain, he lets go of the railing.
Retrospectively analyzing the situation, I think I cried so much because of how he gave up his own life to save his daughter’s. He sacrificed everything for her sake, and that fact alone really resonated with me. My parents themselves have sacrificed their whole lives for me, and seeing that reflected in this movie in such a surrealistic way broke my heart. They have both raised with everything they could possibly have, making sure I had the best opportunities available to their knowledge. From teaching me about giving rather than taking to serving rather than demanding, they have given me the morals that I have used as a framework for my life. They have shaped my life, sacrificing their own in the process, in order for me just to have a chance to be more comfortable and successful than them.
—
My father, with his medical condition, constantly returns to the U.S to take care of me. His life in France allows him to be independent — every location he wishes to travel to, every medical treatment he requires, is readily accessible. He has a sense of familiarity and comfort of “home” due to his childhood there and his mastery of the language and culture. Yet he travels back and forth to America to keep me company. His life is in France, but he gives that up to come to my side in Georgia.
My mom has endured a job position that is unfortunately stereotypically looked down upon, that treats her rudely with taxing hours and sometimes with unappreciative customers. She gets tired of always working, always needing to pay the bills, always having no time to herself. She will come home without eating a single meal the whole day, exhausted mentally and physically, and still have a smile on her face as I greet her. My mom deals with it all in order for my life to be a success.
I become so emotional when I think of all the sacrifices they have made for me, what they have given up for my sake, sacrificing themselves and always putting my happiness as their number one priority. They have changed their whole world to accommodate the best paths for my future, always keeping my interests in mind throughout every action. They have changed their whole world for me, because to them, I am the center of their world.
And as for me, they are my whole world.
