"You realize I have no idea what you're saying, right?” my friend said from across the table in English seconds after I asked, in broken Vietnamese, for a plate of fruit.
Her response sent a familiar shot to my heart. The pain was a reminder that I spoke child-like Vietnamese, that I grew up in a home caged in by language barriers. I was not Vietnamese-Vietnamese, but Vietnamese-American.
I looked down at my palms and tried to remember why I was sitting at a dining table in the heart of Saigon.
This was not my first time in the country, but it was my first time visiting as a tourist with a group of friends. All of us were Vietnamese— a mix of Vietnamese who were born and raised there, who had fled, or who were descendents.
Prior to group activities, I went alone to the War Remnants Museum. I read descriptions of historical events and news articles with the critical eye of a double agent, well aware of the power of narrative to shape our understanding of history. I stared somberly at photographs of agent orange victims and searched for my mother’s village on maps where bombs were dropped by American B-52s.
The following day I met up with my group of friends at Cộng Cà Phê, a popular coffee chain serving coconut smoothies and classic Vietnamese coffee made by baristas wearing military green in a bunker-eque wartime setting. The contrast was like stepping into a Disneyland version of Vietnam, where economic progress meant finding your niche, even if that niche was war.
Despite ongoing inequalities, Vietnam as a country was moving forward, whether I had an opinion or not. My friends and I spent our holiday visiting artfully designed stores selling well made gifts. We rode the brand new metro from Thảo Điền to Bến Thành and ate at Michelin rated restaurants. Those of us who could speak Vietnamese stumbled our way through menus, and the fluent dual citizens helped those eating by picture. With my hands full of shopping bags and my karaoke songs sung in English, I felt like a tourist.
This experience was in stark contrast to my first visit to Vietnam in 2013, to a country barely touched by iPhones, where the people called me việt kiều. Now they call me người tây, and I suspect one day they'll call me người lạ.
As a Vietnamese-American in a scattered diaspora, I am often faced with the possibility that I could one day be nobody, not even Vietnamese.
Vietnam is my homeland, but it is not my home. Home is bike lanes and bookshelves. It's Yemeni coffee in the Dimond District, bánh mì on International Blvd, taquerias in Fruitvale. It's the sound of fire crackers erupting in Chinatown and protests down Market Street. Home is the Bay Area.
And yet, I came home from Vietnam to an America whose mainstream media said people like me—a US citizen, born, raised, and educated here—did not belong. I came home to news of an Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency whose budget is larger than that of the Italian military. I came home to stories of warrantless home invasions of US citizens and the labeling of peaceful protesters as domestic terrorists.
During this divisive time in our country, who gets to decide who is an American? Who gets to shape culture?
Mainstream, corporate, for profit media is not a machine that runs by itself. It is made up of people. There are people behind companies, as there are people behind foundations and non-profits. It is people who make decisions and people who create the culture that both reflects and shapes a country.
If the purpose of corporate media is to generate profit, then it is a necessity for public media to insist—not ask—for people to listen to media not made for profit, to listen to reason and nuance, to research and debate, to lived experience of the poor. Public media offers a full look at our society, the beautiful and the unbearable. We tell stories to generate understanding. We tell the story of America in all its complexity, not as a fantasy, but as a place we live and create. Without public media and a plurality of voices, we leave the story of America—of our communities and ourselves—to the same powerful few who curate and edit the culture around us.
Author Viet Thanh Nguyen urges for narrative plentitude and for people to “write without apology, write without translation.” I am no longer waiting for permission to speak up. If I don’t use my voice, it will be usurped in an environment where culture is exploited for profit, where monoliths are created to harden a parochial public.
America is the only place I’ve ever lived and it is the only home I know. Instead of hoping for a better country, I am participating, I am building. I am joining a chorus for democracy.
American historian Heather Cox Richardson recently said of the terror of ICE, “This is about “shock and awe.” It’s a performance meant to demonstrate power. But in reality, the federal apparatus isn’t that powerful compared with 340 million Americans who don’t want to live in a police state.”
We are all part of society and culture. Our problems are human problems. Let us seek human solutions. Let us tell human stories. Let us protect human lives.
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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.
