Happy Anniversary, Fulbright Decision!

Exactly a year ago today, I was told that I had 26 hours to decide whether or not I was going to pack up my life to live and work for a year in Vietnam. Twenty six hours and no later.

The moment stood out to me so much because when I received the phone call, I was on the CalTrain to San Francisco, getting ready for my first big performance in front of an audience of over 1,000 people at the San Francisco Castro Theatre. (Shoutout to NAPAWF APAVM womyn!) I also remembered that moment so clearly because that was the moment that my career path had split into two – same goal, but different journeys. One path had already been clear: I was to interview for a small school that was more aligned with my vision of community education, and to continue pushing myself in my personal goals. I had achieved my fastest half-marathon and full-marathon times that school year, developed meaningful relationships with the people around me, and felt I had achieved self-love for the first time in my life.

Now another path appeared: I was to return to my parents’ – my homeland to challenge myself and grow mentally and emotionally; I was given the opportunity improve my skills in teaching English Language Learners, to learn about Vietnamese culture, and to build relationships with the family that I never got to know beyond one-week vacations to Vietnam.

I knew both roads were related to education and would eventually lead me back to the same career goal, but both alluded to different year-long journeys. Thanks to my dad’s cautious upbringing, I had never chosen a risky path growing up. I also always had a supportive community each time I moved someplace new. If I chose Fulbright Vietnam, I would have had to start a new community, despite the fact that my family was going to be somewhere in the country. (I hadn’t known I would be placed in Hue, yet.) If I stuck to the path I had already planned for myself, I would become more deeply rooted in my school district’s community, and further build the personal relationships that fed my soul the love it needed each and every day.

But after talking to my housemate Andre, I knew what I really wanted. But I still had to sleep on it. I performed my heart out that night, the thumping of my chest amplified by the combination of stage-high and the decision looming over the evening. After the adrenaline died out and fatigue crept in, I let my mind rest on the decision, and called the advisor. “Yes, I’d love to take the position.”

After I ended the call, tears welled up in my eyes. I would have to leave everything and everyone who made me who I was for at least 10 months. I took a risk for the better good of my future, hoping that I would come back a more resolved and informed person, as well as more culturally competent with added tools to better communication with families from immigrant backgrounds. I knew the realization of the benefits would soon outweigh the sadness, and that America would see a better me by the end of my term.

Almost 10 months later, I not only achieved that I set out to do, but I achieved more than I could have ever imagined. I’ve fostered learning that had Vietnamese students defy the stereotype that they couldn’t express themselves creatively or critically in English. I’ve learned how to use Vietnamese in the classroom to enhance English language learning. I’ve provided balanced viewpoints about American culture in lectures and have provided opportunities for students to learn by drawing comparisons between what they know of Vietnamese culture and what they learn in class. I’ve engaged students in critical discussions about American government and policy-making while having them role-play the process within the different branches. I’ve learned from first-time-teaching mistakes and adjusted instruction accordingly. I’ve implemented a feedback system that allows me to check in on students’ understanding and investment at the end of each lesson. I have met my professional goals, and I have also established and met new goals I made along the way.

Almost 10 months later, I’ve also established two homes: Vietnam and America. In Vietnam, I’ve made good friends in each region I’ve lived in, especially Hue. I’ve developed meaningful relationships with relatives, friends – Vietnamese and ex-pats alike – and students. I’ve hung out with the same family members who witnessed my parents’ growth and saw myself in their stories. I’ve become part of another family, as I notice when I accidentally call Di Ngoc “mom” and intentionally call Khoai, Su, and No my brother and sisters. I’ve fed my need to run by training and beasting  through a half-marathon in Phu Quoc with friends in the hot hot heat.

As for my connections in America, I’ve strengthened bonds with close friends I saw often at home, as well as reconnected with friends I rarely saw but still held close to my heart. I’ve utilized video chatting way more than I ever would. I’ve grown to understand each of my family members through communicating with them and the people grew up loving them, as well as our context in terms of where we’re rooted and where we resettled.

In one week, my work in Hue will end, and I will be on my way to waving “hen gap lai” to friends and family all along the country. I will have to leave everything and everyone who made me who I am within the past 10 months, but at the very least, I know I will be leaving as a better version of myself, and I owe it all to the people who have supported me throughout my time here, as well as the people who have helped me along the way.

Com Chay: Food for Thought and Soul

“You will never truly understand because you weren’t born here.”

The preceding quote sounds like something that would have turned me off from a conversation if told to me a couple months back. But it instead led to a deeper conversation about the war, the resettlement, where I am today, and where I’ll be in the future.

It began with an appetite that craved Hue vegan food. Steven and Jenelle usually rave about the new 40-cent vegan rice-dish restaurant by our school, so I set out to stop by after the usual student rush-hour (after 1PM, which is considered a late lunch by Hue standards).

I arrived at an empty restaurant and was welcomed with two fans that the manager turned on as I came in. I ordered in broken Vietnamese, flustered from the heat and the oil from my bike chain that smeared across my fingers, and headed straight to the sink to wash my hands. Given that the manager had not yet made my acquaintance, he sat across from me and spoke in Viet-lish (English mixed with Vietnamese) about a girl from Holland who now teaches in Vietnam. He seemed to have so much admiration for her, to the point that it seemed that no one could hold a flame to this person who made such a strong impression on this local Hue man. Great, I thought, another foreigner who gets more love that Vietnamese-Americans.

Once he noticed that I responded and asked questions in a variety of Vietnamese sentences, he went on to speak in fluent Vietnamese about the differences in Vietnamese and American culture. But unlike the usual over-generalizations (i.e. Americans never eat rice and eat only hamburgers; Americans don’t value commitment and marriage), he seemed to have a more balanced perspective. He asked if I was shocked about the fact that womyn liked to hold hands with each other, and that it was strange for a man and a womyn to hold hands. I told him that it wasn’t a familiar sight, but I understood that was normal in Vietnamese culture. Any question he asked, I tried to balance the conversation about culture using “it depends,” or “some people may be, yes.”

At this point, I was getting a bit antsy because 1) I had run low on bigger vocabulary, 2) my patience to use context clues was worn down by the heat, and 3) I tend to dislike unscheduled, long conversations when I have incomplete lesson plans hanging over my head. Then he mentioned it. The year 1975. I forgot how we came to the subject, but one minute, I had my 20,000 bill out, ready to get the check, then the next, I rolled it back into my palm as he retied his wad of change in a tan rubber band. “Where were you that year?” I asked him.

The gates opened. The conversation I had waited to have with a local beyond my relatives, but never did because I never got close enough to ask anyone about a topic I didn’t know how to mention. Similar to my approach, he remained very diplomatic, mentioning the many sides, yet overall stating that no matter who you were, you struggled – North, South, Central, refugee, uninterrupted citizen – every mother cried from a loss of a husband or child, and every one fought – either in war, or to stay alive.

He thanked me for my work in Vietnam, and then he said:

“You will never truly understand because you weren’t born here. You can ask your parents about Vietnam. And yet, even though your parents were born here, they are only able to understand from the portion of their lives that they lived here. You must seek the truth from the people who have been here since birth.”

And there it was. I was an outsider again. But this time, I was okay with it. I finally understood that 9+ months in this country couldn’t make up for the 25 years I lived outside of it. Being Vietnamese-American gave me a different set of problems that I can’t seek solutions within either country that has granted me this identity in isolation. All I could do is seek understanding in others, and only then, I can find answers for myself.

When asking me whether I’d like to raise a family in America or Vietnam, I told him that since I was born in America and was familiar with the lifestyle, I would have an easier time in America. He quickly noted that my parents probably thought that at one point as well before they left Vietnam, but instead dived right into America and found ways to adapt. (This is omitting, of course, my current trajectory involving choice rather than refuge.) Either way, he wanted me to understand that I was only an outsider for now. He said, 

“People are distant from you because they believe you’re only there to help them. They become closer when they believe you’re there because you love them.”

When he said that, I smiled. Indeed, this is the type of impression I hope I leave or have left with those I work with – from my previous 5^th grade students to my current university-level students. Before having that conversation, I believed that the next two weeks will busy busy busy as I do all I can to wrap up a month’s worth before my grant ends at the end of this month. Now, after this chance conversation, I believe that the next two weeks is the last of the quality time that I will have with five amazing groups of students who I have only had the opportunity to know since February. Instead of trying to instill that I am there to help them with functional language skills, I want to leave them with fun yet practical ways to engage in the English language and the idea that they can empower themselves to learn beyond my time in Hue. In the end, I don’t want to be known as their teacher who just happened to be Vietnamese American. I want to be the teacher who inspired them to learn because she planned and executed lessons with consideration of their needs as English as a Foreign Language learners. The one who came to Vietnam to teach because she wanted to learn more about her que huong through daily interactions with people and observance of the culture. The one who cared for her students and found ways to support or build relationships with them in and outside the classroom.

It may be a bit late in the semester to declare such goals, but at least I know I can press the refresh button this week and make it known that I expect better for and from myself.

(Thank you quan chay manager for clarifying my mindset.)

Getting in Touch with the Inner Fish

*Disclaimer: I understand the different ideologies that Vietnamese and overseas-Vietnamese have, and I want to clarify that the excerpt of my mother’s journey is told through my mother’s perspective from an earlier time period. Our current beliefs are not reflected in this piece, nor can I speak for any individuals or organizations I mention here.

When I was six years old, my mother started taking my sister and me to Carson Park to swim. The public swimming pool at this park offered lessons twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and my mom was determined to have us learn how to swim. I remember when I first registered, I had to be a certain age to join the “polliwog” group, which was designed for older beginners.

“She’s seven,” my mother said at the registration desk.

“Six and a half!” I argued for no particular reason other than the truth.

So six-and-a-half year old me was permitted into the polliwog group, and I continued learning and advancing groups until I reached the “fish” level, which was two levels away from the highest group. At this point, I was nine and started to lose faith in my ability as my vision weakened more and more. Without 20/20 vision underwater and above the surface, I didn’t want to continue my lessons. And that was that.

Only recently did I come to reflect on why my mother wanted Thao and I take up swimming. I remember every Tuesday and Thursday, she would be the only parent who sat outside of the gated pool to watch us learn how to swim. Other parents simply dropped off their kids and returned to pick them up 1.5 hours later. Whenever I beat the other kids in a kickboard or free-style race, I would run up to my mom with the biggest smile on my face, and her smile mirrored mine. But when I asked if she wanted to do Friday community swims with us, she simply shook her head and told us that she didn’t want to, but she said she would drive us to the pool if we wanted to go.

One day, when I was old enough to understand her journey in context of the war, my mother explained that she almost drowned when she tried to flee Viet Nam. Her and her older brothers were on their second attempt to escape the country, and they were told to meet a group of escapees by a pier. Suddenly, gunshots disturbed the quiet night and people panicked and scurried to safety, unaware of their direction and of the source of the gunshots. In the process, my mother lost her brothers (I would not serve their story justice if I write about their fate here) and found herself at the edge of the pier, staring into the black abyss of the sea. She had two choices: stay and die via torture or regime change, or jump and hope that she would be saved.

While both choices presented a high chance of death, especially since she didn’t know how to swim, she chose to jump. After she jumped, she told me she felt the water fill her lungs as she sank slowly to the bottom of the sea. She lost consciousness, but several moments later, she regained consciousness on a fisherman’s boat. She never questioned how she got there. All she could do was thank God for providing her with the chance to live.

The kind of boat my mom was pulled onto

Because of that experience, my mother was scared to enter large bodies of water, especially those of indeterminate depth. I remember how my mom would hang out on pool steps or on the shore of the beach as my sister and I daringly splashed around in the deep end or in rolling waves. She was too traumatized to try to swim.

This was only true until five years ago. Toward my latter years of college, I received a phone call from my mother and asked her if there was anything new. “I’m learning how to swim!” she exclaimed excitedly.

The silence on my end of the line indicated my shock. She continued, “I realized I shouldn’t let my fear take over my life, and I recently started taking lessons at the community pool close to my work. Oh honey, I’ve been such a quick learner, and everyone loves me there!”

At that moment, I was so proud of my mom. And I still am. Five years later, she still swims every other day and even gives secret lessons to people who play around in the water and don’t have enough money to pay the community pool. Over 30 years after her traumatic incident, she not only overcame her fear, but she became a source of empowerment.

With occasional access to pools or the beach, I find myself thinking about my mom as I relearn how to free-style or even simply breathe while swimming. I think about her watching me on the sidelines, waiting for me to come over to talk about my victorious event. I also think about her swimming alongside, or lapping me as I catch my breath on the wall. Most importantly, I think about the fear she overcame when she jumped off that pier, and when she decided to overcome her anxiety about swimming.

Thao, one of my sources of inspiration, after taking on an Olympic distance triathlon. Still lookin' good.

Along with my mother, I think about my best friend Robert, who updates me about his number of laps around the public pool and laughs with me about our choice of swimming widths rather than lengths. I think about my sister, Thao, who is not only a twice-a-month marathoner, but is also a triathlete who is training for her half-Ironman in July, taking place during the hottest month of the year and in the hottest area in Northern California. I also think about the high incidences of drowning across Vietnam, especially among young children in rural provinces, and I think about the people and programs that dedicate themselves to educating and empowering the community by teaching them about swimming safety. Through their inspiration, I have become more motivated to get in touch with the inner fish, not only to empower myself, but also in hopes of spreading the inspiration that others have granted me.

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This post is dedicated the aforementioned individuals and programs, especially Hue Help’s swimming program. Please help educate young children on swimming safety by donating to their campaign.

Bilingual Education

Twelve years ago, the Bilingual Education Act was banned with the passage of No Child Left Behind, an educational policy that deemed it unfair to bilingual students that they given special treatment for their limited English skills. NCLB and different authorities in education across the States wanted to provide students the chance to equally participate in classrooms with their peers.

Three years ago, I was given the opportunity to teach N, a student who had just moved from Vietnam to the States and had minimal English language background. On the first day of my teaching career, I looked out into my class of 32 students who all had different learning needs, and glanced at N every now and then to see if she understood my explanation of class expectations. She looked at me with wide eyes, but she never wanted to displease me by showing anything other than obedience. As much as I did my best to cater to the majority of the class, I knew N deserved better. I knew she needed someone to teach her basic English skills, from the phonemes to phonetics, and I knew that I had to do more than what I was doing to ensure she was learning as much as she could everyday she came to school.

Thankfully, I had a Vietnamese colleague who taught 2nd grade, and she and I collaborated to ensure that N and her brother were able to learn English with her, while they would return to their main classrooms for other subjects. Mrs. C was able to teach the rest of her class in English and check in on N and her brother in Vietnamese, providing them more confidence to not only participate in her classroom, but also in their homeroom. I remember how the rest of the class would gasp in excitement and applaud N's work in class, and I especially remember the rare and shy smile that would emerge whenever she elicited such a reaction.

While I was less free and less skilled to engage in bilingual education when I taught in California, I have been provided the room (and lack of administrative oversight) to do so in my classes here in Hue. At the beginning of my grant, I was told by different teachers that it would be difficult to get the students to speak in English to each other, and that they would often speak in Vietnamese to one another. I initially found that frustrating, but once I realized that the students spoke to each other in Vietnamese to clarify meanings and directions, I became flexible and more intentional about the use of different languages in the classroom. For example, after introducing an activity, before expecting them to engage in it immediately, I will give them time to clarify things in Vietnamese before they begin. I also give them Vietnamese definitions for English words so they understand the full meaning rather than an English shade of meaning that they may not understand either.

Yesterday, I taught a lesson on the military-industrial complex -- an idea that took me a while to understand myself -- to my U.S. Government Administration class. Midway through the lesson, I realized that I was doing most of the talking, so I gave them some time to process and answer comprehension questions. When it came to analytical questions, I realized that they were too shy to discuss the answers in English, so I encouraged them to discuss in Vietnamese (90% I couldn't understand due to all the technical terms), but I asked them to report back in English. Once they were able to brainstorm and clarify different concepts with their partners in Vietnamese, they answered questions of their choice by writing and speaking in English, showing me that their seeming-inability to answer questions in the beginning was based only on the fact that they were not given the time to think in their primary language first.

While I am not a certified bilingual education teacher, I understand the importance of students being able to process information in their home language, especially in their home country. I know that there is no such thing as "lazy" or "dumb" students, because I understand that students may not be able to complete tasks due to lack of confidence, understanding, or even encouragement. Therefore, I have enjoyed and utilized the unstated freedoms I have in the classroom to cater to my students' needs as well as my ability to engage in my students' language (an upside of being "Viet-Kieu").

Sometimes, when I see the positive feedback in their journals (ex: "I feel happy that I understand today's lesson!") or see the smiles on my students' faces when they see my effort in catering to their language needs, I think about N and how much I wished I could have done the same for her. At the same time, I mentally shake my fist at the inflexibility of California public education, particularly at policy makers' misunderstanding of the diverse needs in a California classroom. However, as I am learning how to be a better educator from my students here, I am also taking notes on what I can do better for English language learning students at home. Public education as an entire entity may not be on its way to revolutionary change here or abroad, but I can always push myself to be a better educator by learning for and from my students.