I am Vietnamese, I am American

I am Vietnamese, I am American

Durian fruit. When people ask me how I feel about my Vietnamese culture, the first thing that comes to mind is durian fruit. Unlike the strawberries or cherries found at Safeway, durian fruit at first glance does not even look edible. The entire fruit resembles a dirty old football, except that durian weighs nearly three pounds. One-inch spikes and a tough brown outer peel cover the fruit, giving it an intimidating look. Inside, yellow, kidney-shaped pieces line the peel like orange slices. As a child, I hated durian. I refused to even taste it. Later on, when I was older, my mother bribed me with two dollars to try the meaty flesh. I fell in love with the fruit instantly. Its heavenly aroma tantalized my olfactory senses. The fleshy kidney-shaped parts felt as smooth as butter inside my mouth.

Just like the durian, my Vietnamese culture repulsed me as a young child. I always felt that there was something shameful in being Vietnamese. Consequently, I did not allow myself to accept the beauty of my culture. I instead looked up to Americans. I wanted to be American. My feelings, however, changed when I entered high school. There, I met Vietnamese students who had extraordinary pride in their heritage. Observing them at a distance, I re-evaluated my opinions. I opened my life to Vietnamese culture and happily discovered myself embracing it. `

When I was seven years old, I wanted very much to be American. I wanted to be like Richie Cunningham from the sitcom “Happy Days,” which aired often in the early 1980s. I wanted his startlingly blue eyes, his confident smile, his red freckles, his red hair, and of course his strong “American” voice. I envied his tall, strong frame and ...

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...cabulary served as a constant reminder of my long-time neglect of my culture. I always regretted—and to this day, still regret—losing those valuable years.

Nowadays, in the new house that my parents strove so hard to get, I no longer have to drag a chair into the bathroom. It took twelve years, but I can now see my reflection perfectly well. There are big differences when I look, though; the mirror is no longer cracked, the face I see is no longer small. I look older and a little bit wiser (I owe this to the tough yet proper way I was raised). I still do not detect any blue eyes or red hair or red freckles, but that’s okay because Richie Cunningham, if he were real, would actually envy the way I have two cultures at my disposal. I have become a living microcosm of two worlds, a living testament to the harmony between my Vietnamese and American cultures.