người Mỹ

Viet: người Mỹ
Meaning: American person
Pronunciation: Blend the n and g in the back of the throat, then add (as the British would say) "oi!" in the gradually falling tone. Second word is "Me" as a sharp rising tone.

When I go into an Asian restaurant, I pretend that everyone there thinks I'm Asian.  It probably harkens back to the middle school desires to "blend in."  Inevitably, there are moments during my brush with the staff at these places of Asian cuisine when I might as well be wearing a sign that says, "I am a stupid white American that doesn't understand your language or your culture!"  At least, that's how I feel at these moments.

When Thai and I went to New York City, we ate in a delicious restaurant in Chinatown.  We had soup and duck (pre-vegetarianism for me) and amazing rice!  However, when our order was brought to our table, there was a very significant difference in the utensils we received.  Thai was blessed with chopsticks, while I was handed a fork.  That was the first time I sensed the giant sign across my chest: Stupid. White. American.  I was a bit embarrassed, which he did not understand.  I tried to explain; How would he feel if he went into a steakhouse, and the server brought chopsticks for him?  Of course, he said that would be hilarious.  He is quite impossible sometimes.

We often go out to Vietnamese restaurants with Thai's family.  The waitress will chatter in Vietnamese to Thai's sister, Thai will then sputter out his rehearsed pronunciation of the Viet dishes, and then the waitress will look at me.  She'll size me up and ask, in English, "And what would you like?"  I'll mumble, "Spring rolls and a side of rice, please," and she'll be on her way.  My self-illusion that I am Viet is shattered!  Now, occasionally, I will throw in some Viet words that I know.  Cảm ơn.  Thank you.  But I always mix up whether it's pronounced "come" or "cam," and thus I usually just end up with a confused glance and pitying nod.  Can I skip ahead to the language lessons about food?

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!