On April 30, 1975 war tanks stormed the streets of Saigon, then the capital of South Vietnam, effectively ending the Vietnam War (or the American War, depending on whose story is being told). Hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese, Chinese, and Southeast Asian refugees fled the region in a rush to save their lives and that of loved ones.
The majority of these refugees, including my family, arrived in the United States. My parents rebuilt their lives without speaking of the past. They adamantly ushered their children into the future— one of cheeseburgers, shopping malls, and television.
In the early aughts, I was a bright eyed American teenager in the Bay Area bursting with potential yet completely oblivious to my roots. My identity at the time was shaped by mainstream popular media. I accepted the narratives of advertisements, television, and gossip magazines. I idolized people who generated profit for companies and exploited mental illness, all proliferated by fear-based media. My teenage dream was to marry someone on the cast of Jackass, my then definition of ‘cool’. Within myself I heard the voices of other people, but not my own. I did not question the culture around me or how and why I was one of a few Vietnamese families living in a majority white suburban neighborhood in California.
Everything I knew about the Vietnam War and Vietnamese history or culture came from my high school textbook, blockbuster movies, and that one Christmas episode of Hey Arnold!. I vaguely pieced together phrases like ‘domino effect’, ‘evils of communism’, and ‘hippies’. My parents, illiterate and overworked, did not talk about Vietnamese history because they themselves did not know it well. They existed in America as they did in Vietnam: surviving as best they could. Without access to high quality news and information, I lived in narrative scarcity. I did not know myself, nor my connection to the rest of the world. That is, until the day I discovered public media.
While working at one of many summer jobs to support myself through art school in San Francisco, a coworker turned on the radio. I expected commercial-driven programming. What I received instead was a door into a lifetime of curiosity and learning.
Initially drawn in by the voice of Terry Gross, I began tuning into public media in the morning, evenings, and late into the night as I built my art career. I spent hours listening to the radio, captivated by complex narratives from all over the world. I learned about the Armenian Genocide, Chinese Exclusion Act, Yugoslav Wars, and at the time the ongoing war in Afghanistan. I heard voices of the incarcerated, disadvantaged, and oppressed. I listened to interviews with politicians, historians, writers, scholars, activists, artists and— slowly, but surely— the Vietnamese diaspora. With time, my understanding of the Vietnam War transformed from a chapter in a text book to a multi-layered story told from the perspective of veterans, survivors of reeducation camps, brothel workers, rural farmers, Black soldiers, the French-Vietnamese, “dust children" (bụi đời), modern Vietnamese-Americans, undocumented Vietnamese, and more.
I tuned in to public media to find myself. In the process I found others.
Most importantly, public media informed my identity during a critical time of financial insecurity. Not everyone has the choices we think they have. In my 20s, I was a budding artist desperate to prove that refugees deserve to tell our own stories. I was my parent’s worst fear: broke and hungry - trying to pursue an artistic career. I could not afford books, news subscriptions, memberships, or anything else with a paywall. Observed from a distance, one could assume I had access to information simply by geography—the Bay Area is home to over 70 colleges and 60.1% of the region’s population holds a higher degree. However, with limited resources comes limited choices. Forced to pick between a book or breakfast, I often chose the latter. Luckily, turning the dial on my alarm clock radio cost nothing.
Similar to public libraries, public media is committed to providing free and accessible high quality news and information to the public, contributing positively to a healthy society and thriving democracy. The goal of these institutions is not to funnel a singular message into the minds of the masses, it is to develop a society equipped with the critical skills and empathy necessary to move forward towards peace and progress. People deserve to hear their own voices–in all its complexity–without financial burden or fear of use as fodder for profit-driven industry. Narrative plentitude can cultivate understanding, which plants seeds of healing that break harmful cycles of exploitation and abuse.
As the world shifts from traditional terrestrial radio to digital, on-demand, and other platforms, places like KALW Public Media—a community-rooted public radio station in San Francisco— aim to deliver impact with purpose. We leverage audio, live events, community building, and hyper-local awareness to support platforms that reach beyond zip codes. We hope to find other people bursting with potential but unsure of who they are. We hope to empower people to find —and use— their voice in a beautiful solo and within a chorus of many.
50 years ago, the Vietnam War ended it, but stories and scars are still being discovered. As the Vietnamese diaspora enters a creative renaissance, public media stations are sharing interviews with voices from the diaspora. I hope you listen.
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This piece was brought to you by KALW Speaks, a monthly series of essays from KALW staff and contributors, exploring the ideas that drive our work. Each of these essays reflect our commitment to innovation and invites you into a deeper conversation about the future of public media.
Learn more: From A Whisper To A Roar.
