By Elizabeth Lucia Minh-Thu Strout
Growing up, English was my home language, but in the background, there was another:
Vietnamese. When my grandmother called my mom on the phone or a distant relative
came to visit, “hi” would turn into “chào” and a waterfall of tones would color each
sentence.
For the longest time, I didn’t understand these interactions in my family because I didn’t
speak Vietnamese. I went to Vietnamese school for two years during elementary school,
but I mostly learned how to write. The main word I remembered from my time there was
mẹ, or mother. I could recognize the language spoken as Vietnamese but only
understood a few words.
In my junior year of high school, I was struck by the thought of never being able to speak
Vietnamese with my grandparents, and it saddened me. Though I wasn’t expected to
know the language, I still felt a longing to learn it, and a sense that a part of me was
missing in the absence of my comprehension. I felt the best way to connect with this
yearning would be through learning Vietnamese, so I found a tutor online and began to
study.
I called my tutor Thầy, or teacher. As I’d hoped for, he was a no-nonsense instructor
who went straight into our lesson as soon as I met him. We didn’t start with words in the
beginning; he simply had me practice the different tones, telling me I needed to soften
my vocal chords to familiarize them with sounds uncommon among “foreigners,” i.e.,
me. Once I had a grip on those, we moved on to sentence repetition, basic conversation,
and seasonal vocabulary.
It was a slow process. I still had very little of the language to work with, but having had
almost nothing before, every bit of understanding I arrived at came as a thrill. I
remember the odd pride of understanding my grandma’s gossip on the phone for the
first time and how she jokingly called me “Watergate” after that. I could finally speak to
my mother in her native tongue, something I hadn’t been able to before. Although my
mom’s first language is Vietnamese, her English is better, so she relies on the guidance
of other speakers to bring out her fluency. Though it took some Google Translate to fill
in the gaps, I could make my meaning clear, which filled me with confidence. I was
grateful for the foundation Thầy helped me build. However insignificant to others, it was
a start for me.
I stopped taking weekly lessons around the time I started university in order to give
more time to school, but I’ve kept all my notes and enough Vietnamese to speak
comfortably with my family, if not yet the confidence to speak with others. I know
I’m half: no more, no less, and I’ve found peace with the strange array of perceptions
that come with that. For me, Vietnamese is less social and cultural than it is familial
and personal.
It’s the language my mother uses when she’s most pleased with me, my sister, or our
dog. It’s also the language she uses when she’s most frustrated with us (ối giời ơi!). It’s
the language my favorite musician, MIN, sings ballads in. It’s the language ever in my
ears, if not one I fully comprehend beyond its essence. To me, English is the language of
reality and Vietnamese is the language of my dreams. It’s something I’m always reaching
for without always finding myself rooted in it.
To this day, I’m not quite sure why I’m so drawn to the language and the land it is
native to. Like many Vietnamese refugees, the elders of my family have a negative view
of the country, given the war-torn state it was in when they fled. They find my interest
in the language amusing, but my hope of eventually visiting the land appalling. “It’s
communist now. People try to leave there. Why would you want to go there?” is the
reigning sentiment.
Naively or not, I’ve yet to shake my curiosity about the motherland. Even if I know I
might not “find myself” there other than through a reflection on how American I truly
am, I still want to go one day. It’s a wish I hold on to as dearly as my old dream to start
learning Vietnamese.
I hope this wish takes me along an interesting journey, and that someday I will
understand the roots of my longing. Until then, my language study on the side
continues, with Vietnamese humming as ever in the background, as music in my
earbuds and the melody of my mother’s voice.
Elizabeth Lucia Minh-Thu Strout (yes, real name) is a literature student from the Bay Area. Finding footing in a mishmash of cultural heritage is at the heart of her creative practice. Her work has been featured in the San Francisco Foghorn and Writing for a Real World.
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