The author, a second-generation Vietnamese-American born in California’s Orange Country nineteen years after the end of the Vietnam War, learned about the personal histories of her family, and of the war through her parents who had witnessed the conflict firsthand. The author, now a student in the United States, has confronted issues of identity—personal, cultural, and historical—of straddling both worlds, of her motherland that her family departed from, and the adopted American homeland, and has discovered great resiliency in her life of diaspora.
My father often jokes about his immigration to the United States following the Vietnam War. He jokes about the innumerable stories that all sound the same—of the throngs of people who clambered onto rickety boats in the dead of night, escaping the only life they’ve ever known. As a naïve child and second-generation Vietnamese-American, I questioned why he was so insistent that I learn about it. Growing up, when he would intersperse his mentions of the war with a joke or two, I didn’t think much about it. I thought that these jokes signified that the war hadn’t had much of an impact on him. Surely, because my grandfather was a high-ranking South Vietnamese Navy official and they were able to leave by a C-130 aircraft rather than by boat, their escape was not as high-stakes as that of other immigrants. After sitting down and asking him to tell me about the war in its entirety, I realized I was sorely mistaken. I realized the impact this generational history has had on me, and how it has shaped me to be who I am today. Though I did not experience the terrors of warfare and the ensuing trauma, my father’s war stories have left me with deep-rooted gratitude for the life he’s been able to provide for me, a newfound appreciation for my Vietnamese heritage and the rich history that comes with it, and a reminder that we do not always know all the struggles that someone has experienced in their lifetime. My mother, Catherine Vu Vo-Ta, faced enormous challenges when she arrived in the United States, trials that she overcame. My parents have worked through hardship and sacrifice to provide the luxuries in life that we have today. My dad, Huan Vo-Ta, and my mother. epitomize the American Dream; however, his life was not always as wonderful as it is now.
Celebrating Tet (Lunar New Year) in February 1971 in Saigon: My father Huan Vo-Ta at three years old (left front), my grandfather Sum Vo (left rear), U.S. Navy Commander Joseph Fenick (middle in white), and my grandmother Giahuan (right).
Whereas I was born in the cushy, affluent area of Orange County, California during a time of relative peace and tranquility, my father came into the world in a time of calamity. A few months before his birth, the Viet Cong had launched the Tet Offensive. My dad was born in the midst of all this. His life was marked by the Vietnam War. My dad recalled to me what it was like to be alive during such a time: practicing hiding in a sand bunker inside his home, and seeing gruesome pictures of bloody schoolchildren on the news at age four, are just a few markers of the war that still haunt my father to this day.
Departure from the Vietnamese Homeland
A few years later, at the age of seven, my father’s whole family decided it was time to leave. They gathered in their living room and were tasked with the difficult decision of deciding who would stay behind to watch over my father’s grandfather and who would flee first. With my grandfather’s status in the military, staying behind meant risking his capture and potential torture through the communist reeducation camps. The choice was suddenly clear: my dad’s family would leave first. After the choice was made, my dad recalled fleeing from Vietnam. Bleary-eyed and still half asleep (as their escape was in the dead of night on April 24, 1975), my dad and his family gathered in the airport as bombs crashed all around and the impending threat of the advancing North Vietnamese forces loomed. My dad and his family made it onto the plane and moved onward—towards a new life in America. My dad and his family uprooted themselves from everything they had ever known and started from scratch.
At Camp Pendleton refugee camp in California in April 1975: My aunt My Trang (left), my father Huan at seven years old (front), my grandfather Sum Vo (rear), aunt My Ngoc (second from right), and my grandmother Giahuan (right).
As I hear these stories, I think of the struggles that seem to be so drastic in my life: a bad test grade, or a poor night’s sleep. As I hear these stories about my father, I am reminded of the sacrifices he’s made and feel a renewed sense of gratitude for his bravery as a child.
The next challenge my dad faced was the drastic change in his quality of life. Back in Vietnam, my grandfather’s high Naval rank provided my dad’s family with an affluent lifestyle. He lived in a secluded, gated neighborhood amongst other high-ranking community members. He had maids and was chauffeured to school. His life drastically changed when he came to America. Seemingly overnight, he went from living in a cushy neighborhood to being reliant on sponsorship and the aid of good Samaritans to survive. From living comfortably to being motivated by survival every day. When I was a kid, I was playing with my toys, going to school, and had no cares in the world. When my dad was a kid, he was fleeing from the country he had been born and raised in. Never once in my life had I experienced a situation as drastic as that of my dad’s family: deciding who to leave behind in a war-torn country, having them potentially risk their lives, and having to leave life as I’d ever know it behind. My dad was just a kid when he came to the United States, around the age I started kindergarten. Yet he was resilient and brave enough to leave his country. Day in and day out, I strive to have just an ounce of the resiliency that he has: resiliency to forge onward despite the challenges that may come my way, and the resiliency to make a brighter future for myself and my loved ones.
Finding a New Cultural Identity
Growing up, I struggled to come to terms with my cultural identity. It was difficult at times for me to conceptualize being Vietnamese-American and finding the balance between two distinctly different cultures. I grew up questioning why my school friends were so different from me, why their grandmothers didn’t live with them, why they didn’t have to attend weekly, boring Vietnamese language class, and why they only knew one language. When my dad would speak to me in Vietnamese on the phone while I was around others, I would bashfully respond in English, occasionally whispering some Vietnamese under my breath in hopes others wouldn’t overhear my conversation. I am ashamed of myself for being so embarrassed of my culture, but most importantly, I am ashamed of myself for hiding who I am. I often thought my cultural struggles were unique to me. After all, my parents were born in Vietnam, so at least they had direct roots to the mother country. It was to my surprise when my parents told me that they had faced identity struggles, too.
My mother’s story is a bit different than that of my father’s. My maternal grandfather was offered a job at the Asian Development Bank in the Philippines, so my grandparents made the life-changing decision to uproot their family from Vietnam. In the summer of 1971, my mother’s family left their beloved Vietnam for a new life in a neighboring Southeast Asian country.
My mother was a bit more fortunate than my father in regard to their immigration stories: she never had to experience the horrors of warfare, and her family was able to maintain a cushy lifestyle—her father’s role in the ADB granted his family diplomatic status, and they were fortunate enough to have had maids/helpers, drivers, and gardeners to help them maintain their opulent home. Despite being born in Vietnam, my mother considers Manila home, as this is where she grew up and this was the culture she assimilated into. In this regard, my mother developed a unique cultural identity—a blend of blood identity and assimilated Filipina culture.
After years of living comfortably in the Philippines, my mother moved to the United States in 1986, where she attended Tufts University. Life changed yet again for my mother, as she had to experience life away from her parents and her home for the first time ever. Long gone were the days of being able to have home-cooked Vietnamese meals and be part of the tight-knit Vietnamese community that existed in the Philippines. Now, as a young woman tasked with making her own life choices and away from the keen eye of her family, it was now up to my mother to maintain her ties to her home and culture on her own. Luckily, my mother had the support of her brother at Tufts, and together, they were able to make a physical and cultural home for themselves overseas.
A childhood picture: My younger brother Alexander (left), my father (center), and myself (right).
To stay rooted to their Vietnamese culture, they got involved in the Vietnamese and more general Asian communities and clubs on campus, along the way befriending other Vietnam transplants with unique experiences of their own. As a collective, they were able to stay rooted in their Vietnamese heritage, and despite being away from home and their loved ones my mother was able to gain a deeper appreciation for her Vietnamese upbringing. Despite the challenges that could have emerged for my mother in figuring out her identity after having grown up in three vastly-different cultures, she didn’t force herself to pick only one cultural identity to align with. Rather, she embraced all of her identities, and she proudly shares her honorary Filipina and Vietnamese-American identity. My mother has taught me to embrace and be proud of all the components of my life that make me who I am today, not to force myself to shove myself into one label.
In a recent family photo, Carina pictured with her father, mother, and younger brother in November 2021 at Newport Beach, California.
As for my father, life abroad was not as pleasant as it was for my mother. Moving to America was one hurdle he overcame, but it was life after that that was an even bigger and more difficult adjustment. With the influx of Vietnamese refugees coming into America, there also came an influx of anti-Vietnamese sentiment. Many Americans were bitter, blaming these immigrants for the loss of their children who were killed overseas. These families were generally hateful and would go on to teach their children this same hateful behavior. My dad was at the receiving end of these sentiments. He recalled his backpack being taken by the elementary school bullies and thrown over the fence of a random house. He was taunted in school and blamed for the war, not to mention being subjected to endless, stereotypical Asian jokes. The taunting and the malicious behavior he faced caused my father to become incredibly introverted. My grandparents taught him to never do anything that might draw attention to himself, so he developed an introverted and meek personality.
On hearing this story, I was extremely saddened when I compared my life to his. Where I grew up, there was a strong Asian presence in my community. I never felt ostracized or belittled for being Asian-American, and I truly had no reason to be ashamed of myself. My dad wasn’t afforded that same luxury when he was my age. Later on, when my dad entered high school and took the SAT (Scholastic Aptitude Test), much like I did just a few years ago, he remembered feeling incredibly lost. He felt that learning about this useless information was pulling him away from his culture, almost as if the SAT was just another step towards full integration into America.
Learning about my father’s own internal struggles with his loss of culture showed me the universality of my experience of grappling with the customs of two vastly different cultures, and it reminded me that I’m not alone. He’s always taught me to be proud of where I come from and to not let others bring me down for being who I am, and these are tenets I value every day. There is an abundance of uniquely-rich history that comes with being Vietnamese, and when I think of my dad’s struggles and his stories of Vietnam, I now feel immense pride in being Vietnamese. No longer am I the meek middle-school girl who would run away from friends to speak in Vietnamese to her family. In fact, now I relish in teaching my friends Vietnamese and introducing them to the foods that are so pivotal to my culture. Most importantly, I am unabashedly proud of who I am. As my mother says, “It is a conscious choice to be proud of who you are, no matter where you are.”
It is easy to make assumptions about someone based on their appearance, but after hearing my dad’s story, I am reminded that we never fully know what someone has endured in their lifetime. When I look at my dad now, I don’t just see a middle-aged, Vietnamese man working to provide for his family. I see in him a young boy confused why he was being bullied every day. I see in him a teenager feeling stuck between two worlds. I see in him a man still grappling with the effects of a tumultuous war that left his family with no choice but to pick and choose who got to leave and who would stay behind and face an impending crisis. The hardships my dad has faced have led me to introspect and imagine what my life would be like if I was also escaping from Vietnam. I can’t help but to think of the abundance of instances today of immigrants seeking asylum in America—many of these asylum-seekers with their own families and having to start from scratch, much like my grandfather did. Above all I have retained from these war stories, I am reminded to never assume what someone has gone through just based on appearances. My dad’s life has never been easy, but you would never know the trials he’s faced all his life just by looking at him.
My parents’ stories about their upbringing, the Vietnam War, and life after have been pivotal in shaping me into who I am today. I wouldn’t be half the person I am without the sacrifices my father made all those years ago, or without his stories. I’ve become immensely comfortable and proud of the dual identity that comes with being Vietnamese-American. Whenever I’ve wondered if it’s worth it to forgo my culture and assimilate wholly into American society, I’m reminded of the complexity of my Vietnamese culture, of the history that has shaped my ancestors and that has, in turn, shaped me. To learn about history factually is one thing, but to hear about it from living and breathing people who have witnessed it firsthand makes it seem that much more personal. My identity today would not be possible without family stories. Family stories provide us with a sense of belonging and optimism; knowing that my family members were able to overcome difficult situations gives me and future generations hope that we, too, can persevere. With my own family in the future, I hope to share with them these family stories of resiliency and perseverance.
Carina Vo-Ta is a current undergraduate student studying Sociology at Tufts University. At Tufts, Carina is a copy editor for The Tufts Daily (the school newspaper) and The Palmier (a food-writing magazine), and she is involved in the Tufts Pre-Law Society. Carina is also involved in the Tufts’ Vietnamese Students Club, and she is a mentee in the Asian American Center’s Peer Leader Program. She hopes to attend law school down the line and go into immigration law. As a second-generation Vietnamese-American, Carina is particularly interested in exploring systemic inequalities and learning more about the immigrant experience. In high school, Carina served in her high school’s leadership team in the Associated Student Body and helped organize her high school’s Link Cru, a program that seeks to help incoming freshmen acclimate to the new experiences and challenges of high school.
