Honestly, I have never thought of myself as a writer. Nor have I ever really dreamed of becoming one. Growing up, I went through all the cliches of a young amateur, like writing stories about boys I thought I loved or constructing sad poems about how people just don't understand. Because I always thought writing fictional letters to a diary felt silly, I always looked to expressing myself through fictional constructs. I thought by reversing genders and using pseudonyms, the messages I hid through my characters were like confessions tucked away in a secret journal. So yes, I wrote a lot. But they were never meant to be masterpieces, they were just things I went through.
It wasn't until I got into college when my chemistry professor, who happened to also be my advisor, insisted I reconsider my academic focus from anything science to anything literature. It probably wasn't the best advice I received from a mentor, considering she had only jumped to assumptions rather than offer me constructive advice to achieve my personal goals. But compromised. I kept taking English classes, and I found I really was good at it. I was good at expressing my thoughts, and I was good relating to others' thoughts. My achievements in these classes go far beyond this simple breakdown, but it should be said because it describes an important thought to me: everyone has a story. And it means something to share one.
Beyond all the superfluous "problems" I thought I had endured growing up, one thing has remained to be truly defining: I have always struggled with my identity. Of course, we all go through the question of who we are, from the day we were born until the day we part this earth. But more specifically, I've always wondered what it meant to be Vietnamese, while being born and raised in America. This story isn't a rare one, but each person who shares a similar one to me has a story unique to his or herself. Personally, I cared a lot about fitting in, and for me, that meant something different in a Caucasian dominated community in Virginia. But as our community developed through the new millennium, the demographics of our county continued to become more diverse. I found myself at a tug-of-war between who I wanted to be, and who I could be. I became hurt, confused, and restricted. I kept it inside. I kept it personal. This was the story I had always wanted to write about.
Even in the past four short years after moving to California, my experiences broadened. I believe they have helped me become a better, more dynamic person. I wasn't defined by my race. Instead, I grew with the comfort of understanding my parents' culture and what came with being a child of that heritage. The phrase "Mother tongue" expanded with new meaning. I slowly became less angry and less defensive about describing who I was as a person against society. Instead, I felt included, loved, and appreciated in a community that was so familiar with a culture I hesitated to embrace as a child. Without putting it into words, I had already began to feel like all the things I wanted to write about were listened to even without speaking them. So, lately, I've just been living on as it all comes together.
My life isn't perfect here. I also still visit back home when I can. No matter where I am, from time to time, I'm still reminded of the difficulties one will face when language is lost in translation, or when unfamiliar culture becomes misconstrued into racial stereotypes and constraints. There are things my friends say that get me riled up. There will always be decisions made by people I know where I can't help but point out the influences on their choices from living in a prejudiced society. But I hope I can continue reminding myself that important thought: everyone has their story. And stories can translated and appreciated. We're each living pieces of an infinitely shared collective. No holding it all in. We have to continue connecting ourselves together.
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