I stand in the middle of the 2000 mile steel bridge. Breathless. I’ve been running—running all my life. Now here I am, stuck—unable to move. My energy to balance two different lives, cultures, and values has run out. My ability to recognize the importance in this constant strength no longer exists. What am I doing out here in the mist of San Francisco’s fog, the breathe of the bay’s culture, and the air that hundreds of diverse souls take in and out each day, when my heart belongs back home—my shelter, my protection, where only one heritage lives? My entire life has been a constant battle between my Vietnamese background, and the American dream. Now that I am approaching the end of my senior year, I am tired of running back and forth between these two worlds; I must find a way to seamlessly bridge these two spheres into one universe.
I like to think that I started to run before I could walk. As a matter fact, I’ve been running even before I was born. My mother fled to America in 1993, by boats, planes, and taxies; through rivers, above valleys, and over bridges. It was a constant run for her to America; it was journey that she felt was necessary in order to raise her children to their full potential. To her, the continuous running was worth the pain. What came with her to America were her strong Vietnamese accent, values, and strict traditions. She was ready to make peace with American ways, but by no means was she prepared or even willing to throw away her Vietnamese heritage. This trait, naturally rubbed off onto me.
After a year in America, my mother conceived me—into a protected Vietnamese household where I was sheltered from American principles and culture. However, I grew up, and eventually, I had to go to school where I made my first non-Vietnamese friend: an Indian girl with long thick hair that flowed so flawlessly over her boney shoulders. Black, white, and other Asian children surrounded me. I was afraid, naturally. As an ignorant six-year-old child, I realized that there was a huge world outside of the home sphere.
My mother already knew that by coming to America, I would grow up with American traits. For me, however, it was difficult speaking, interacting, and behaving according to American beliefs when I had been taught differently at home. Realizing this immense bridge between the two worlds, my mother tried to comfort me by encouraging me to go to school and learn—to learn the American ways not for her benefit but for my own. And as much as I cried and begged her to take me home, all she said to me was: “Di, di con” (Go, go child). So I went. I made friends and learned new things that I was never exposed to at home. I was exposed to traditions like Halloween where children would dress up in ridiculous costumes, and where taking candy from complete strangers was considered the social norm; I was exposed to food—American cheese for example—that had never stepped foot in my household before. I was learning, just as I was told, and I was beginning to love this newfound world.
But everyday after school, I would return home—where I could not share stories of school, seek guidance on homework for my mother spoke no English, or anything for that matter for when I was at home, I was in a different world. Home, where Vietnamese is the only language I can speak. Home is where stories of my Vietnamese heritage are revealed, classic Vietnamese dishes are made, and where praying is always accepted. Home is where I return—day after day.
As the years passed, I placed my mother’s words on my sleeves: “go, go child.” And so I went—I started off walking, but eventually I started to run. I grew extremely excited with this American life; I was developing a mindset for my own—my own views on life itself. At one point, I began to loathe home, where I was limited in speech, practice, and value. I began to resent my mother for never taking the time to learn English, to practice American traditions like Halloween and Christmas, or to appreciate politics the way I do. A bridge began to grow outside my window, and each morning waking up was another mile added onto the gap between my Vietnamese ethnicity and my American life. I would leave school in the morning and enter a realm where I knew I belonged, where I had control on what I said, how I acted, and who I interacted with. At the end of the day, I would run back home, where stories of ancestors, of whom I never met, no longer captivated me. Home ultimately grew into a prison—where not only was I protected, but where I was confined.
Now at eighteen years old, I realize that all this running back and forth, no matter how tiring it may be, makes my life meaningful. I’ve grown to appreciate, not resent, my mother for her loyalty and love towards her traditions. From her sacrifices alone, she ran to America and laid the foundation for the bridge linking American values and Vietnamese traits to form. I realize that I cannot change my mother, for she has already established her own mentality. I cannot force her to be an American, when her heart belongs in Vietnam. And although my mother has no clue to the world of politics, to the studies of Chemistry, or to why some Americans go out in their birthday suits on Bay to Breakers, I’ve realized that it is my job as a daughter to expose her to American ways instead of forcing them on her. I’ve come to understand the importance in my own culture and how praying on certain days is important, or how celebrating Tet connects me to my Vietnamese heritage.
I now recognize the importance in the bridge that links my two lives. Instead of merging them together, keeping them separate makes me who I am. In the end, all this running is worth the energy for I know that no matter how far or how long I may run, I will always return back home. For home, well…home is the only place where I can find love.