Raised between two worlds
Chapter 1: Familiarity
My name is Khang, and I was born in Vietnam. I moved to America at the age of 9, although a piece of me stayed behind. That piece of me wanted to stay. Back then, I couldn't make sense of what that meant. I was scared because of how different everything was. The people, food, culture, values; none of it connected with me. It felt like I was sitting in a car, going way past the speed limit and I was struggling to make sense of the objects that blurred past. Now, seven years later, I'm trying to go back on that road, to collect my thoughts that dropped during all those years. I always wanted to write or at least leave behind my experience as an outsider; part of it is because writing this could help anyone that is in a similar sitituation, and part of it is me trying to put back all the fragments that I couldn't process back then.
Familarity is a powerful yet subtle feeling. It provides comfortability and ease to the mind. Life in Vietnam flowed in a single river that divides into smaller rivers if you had the strength to swim into other paths. Especially as a kid, life was a routine. It was a familiar routine that gave me comfort. School started at 6:30 A.M. and ended at 4:30 P.M. It was still dark when my dad would wake me up, and every morning felt the same. I remember my eyes still half closed as my dad tried his best to get me ready; it was like I was a puppet as he moved my arms and legs around the room. Then he would rush me downstairs to eat, as my mom woke up an hour earlier to make breakfast. I ate quickly, and my dad would take me to school on his motorcycle. As soon as I step outside, I could feel the morning dew settling on my skin. I could smell the damp trees, which was immediately taken over with the smell of Vietnam's famous street food. Street vendors would get up and roll their cart before the city wakes to start cooking whatever they were offering. The use of old-school techniques, charcoal, and wood to cook the food ties it all together, providing a nostalgic feeling of a mother's cooking. They would then waft the smell of the food, gently inviting but tugging at the hungry palate of early morning risers. The food seems to wake up the city, as it comes to live with the sounds of horns, chatter, and roaring engines. The sun comes out to greet another day, as mothers shop for food and fathers rush to work. Everything and everyone was linked together, as everyone lived separate lives. This atmosphere cradled my heart in such a way that I did not want to leave. It was all so familiar and calming. I would still be half asleep, so I would put my head on my dad's back. With my eyes closed, the loud sound and smell of the streets put me back to sleep, even just for a few moments. This made me happy.
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