Tung

I lived in America, with Americans. I had earned my American citizenship. I had an American daughter. Each night at the restaurant, I cooked for mostly Americans. American restaurant reviewers wrote that my food was good, some of the best in Miami. I felt good about what I had achieved in America and about myself as an American. But I never forgot where I came from and I missed a lot about my real home.

I didn’t talk to Vietnamese people very often. But each time I did, my identity as an American faded into the background. I listened for their accent. If I heard the polished tones of someone who was educated and from a wealthier background, I suddenly became a Vietnamese peasant again. I felt like the child whose parents lived in a hut made of rice-paddy stalks instead of a brick house. I felt like I should be subservient. I felt like I needed to have more in my hand to stand up to them.