'Nam

People always ask me, “What are you?”

And I’ll answer, “I’m a cybernetic organism: living tissue over a metal endoskeleton. Sent from the future with a prime directive to seek and destroy people asking curiously vague, short-winded questions.”

Unfazed, the person talking to me will say, “No... I mean, what ARE you?...”

“...?”

“...You know... Chinese? Japanese? Filipino?”

Of course, I’ll reply that I’m an American, just like him or her. Born and raised in Ames, Iowa. Out in the middle of cornfields. I’ll repeat: In fucking, Iowa. I’ll reply that I’m probably more American than he or she is, no matter how white his/her skin or blue his/her eyes.

This person will be let down by my answer so I’ll make sure to add, “...But if you take all of the best things about the Chinese, Japense, and Filipinos, and put it all together, you’ll get the thing that my parents are: Vietnamese.”

My parents came over to the U.S. from Vietnam some thirty years ago, back when their names were still Hai and Tram. When my dad first arrived to the U.S., in his haste to become more American he ate hotdogs and watched football every Sunday and decided that with a name like “Hai”, he would never be able to compete with all the Johns and Joes out there in the job market. So he gave himself a new, improved, totally American-sounding name: Paul. He named himself after his favorite Beatle. And as for my mom, Tram, she called herself Tracy.

And when my sister and I were born, they named us Mai Linh and Hieu, respectively, but the rest of the world knows us as Lynn and Pete.

Thirty long years have passed since my parents first stepped on U.S. soil and began thinking about how to fit in more, and to me it’s just astonishing how they adapted and found success in such a strange new land. What’s even more admirable is that although my parents tried so hard to be American all these years, there’s still a considerable amount of Vietnamese left in them. They love their steaks bloody and drenched in A1 sauce just like any other proper American, but if you look closely enough, you can tell that my parents subconsciously wish they could just drop those silly knives and forks in favor of some good ol’ chopsticks. Their roots, they definitely have not forgotten.

Now, thirty years after my parents left their native land, they are coming back. And they’re taking the kids, too.

You heard me right. I’m going to the motherland for the next couple of weeks. Vietnam. And when I return, what I expect to come back with is a greater understanding of my heritage, a deeper connection with Vietnamese people in general, verification that I indeed am the Greatest Asian in the History of the Universe, and a tan.

I know, I know. The biggest dilemma for all of us is whether or not in Vietnam I’ll be able to get on a computer to blog about my Vietnamese adventures. Let’s hope those Southeast Asian internet cafes are really what they’re all cracked up to be. If not, you will all just have to wait to hear from me in two weeks. Either way, have a merry Christmas merry X-mas happy holiday, everyone!