Tre Em Viet Nam

In February 2010, I ran my first marathon and raised over $2600 for ASHA. Many of my friends and family helped me raise this money for educational programs in India, encouraging me from my training to crossing the finish line.

I am now training for TWO MARATHONS. In December, I will run the Dallas White Rock Marathon. In February, I will run the Austin Marathon for the 2nd time.

Training for a marathon is VERY hard. It's a day-to-day struggle that entends for months on end. And it is nothing compared to actually running the race. When I crossed the finish line in February, I broke down in tears because I was so happy the hardest thing I had ever done was over. Now I've got TWO more difficult times on my horizon, and I can think of no better way to honor these times than raising money to help the Children of Vietnam. And this is why:

My fiance's mom escaped from Vietnam after the war. Her 8 year journey found her in prison several times, in a refugee camp in Thailand, and finally in a scary new home called America where few spoke Vietnamese. My 26.2 mile struggles are nothing compared to her life. And Vietnam, her beautiful homeland, still has its own struggles. 29% of the Vietnamese population lives below the internaitonal poverty line (compare this to less than 2% in the US). For every 100,000 people, there are only 53 physicians. And there is a 40% school dropout rate for children ages 12-20 who come from poor families.

I can never truly understand the Viet struggle, but I can help change the Viet future for the children that still live there. And so can you! Click here to donate: http://www.firstgiving.com/marathonvietnam

My goal is to raise $5000 for Children of Vietnam by February 20th, 2011, when I run the Austin Marathon. Please donate any amount you can -- I'll be watching the total rise as I train! It is so encouraging!

I've decided to become Vietnamese.

What makes a person Vietnamese?

My fiance's mother was born in southern Vietnam.  She would still be there, most likely, if the war had not come.
But it did, and so she began a death-defying cycle: attempt escape, get caught, go to prison.  She has told me that she did not want her children to be raised in a Communist country, the place where she rode her bike to school past piles of dead bodies loaded in carts.  The place where she was told what she could do and where she could go.  

And thus, for the eighth time, she crawled into a tiny boat and prayed that this time they would not get caught.  I cannot even imagine the relief she must have felt when she placed her feet on land again.
Thailand.  Freedom.  Waiting. 

She waited for years for a chance to migrate to the USA. It finally came, and here in the States she has remained. She is a survivor. She is a pillar of strength. And no one would deny, she is Vietnamese.

So is it being born in Vietnam that makes one Vietnamese?  

My fiance was born in a Thai refugee camp, a location so sacred to his mother that she named him "Thai."  I think that was her small way of saying, "Thank you," to the country that had embraced her in her time of need.
Thai, however, remembers nothing of Asia, nothing of Dallas, nothing of California.  All he recollects is the ghettos of Houston, Texas.  

And yet, I still always say he was raised in "Vietnam."  His mother could only speak Vietnamese, and so he only spoke Vietnamese, until American children hammered English into his brain.  For the first eighteen years of his life, he ate phở bò and rice with nước mắm while surrounded by incense and jade statues of buddhas.  He watched his mom's Chinese soap operas dubbed in Vietnamese and listened to her Viet music and radio stations.  

He may worship Texas barbecue and obsess over American football, but he is not just any Texan or any American.  He is Vietnamese-American.

And then there's me.  Let's measure me by these Vietnamese standards, shall we?

Born in Vietnam? 

Far from it.  In the fourth grade, we had to do a project where we drew out our family tree with the birthplace of each relation written next to their name.  The letters "USA" were scribbled next to every single one of mine, reaching back for generations.

Olive skin and dark almond eyes? 

When Thai told me he'd never been sunburned, I couldn't conceive of that concept.  My complexion is pink and freckled; my eyes are wide and green.  My hair is dark, but it's a mass of curls that would frizz and fry in jungle heat.

Speaks Vietnamese?

At the level of a 2 year old.

Eats Vietnamese?

Restaurants and a rice cooker.

Celebrates Vietnamese culture?

I gamble on Lunar New Year, does that count?

I am not Vietnamese by any average measurement.  But I'm in love with a Vietnamese-American with a Vietnamese mother.  She doesn't care that I'm white or that I butcher her language when I speak it.  He doesn't care that I have green eyes and pale skin or that I can't cook phở.  
But I care; I want to embrace as much Vietnamese culture as my little spoiled American self can handle.  And I will document this delightfully terrifying journey here.

If you've made it this far in my explanation, cám ơn!