how i relate to being vietnamese

“do vietnamese people really eat dogs?” incredulous and greedy eyes asked me a few weeks back. I knew what they wanted to hear, so I gave it to them, “Yeah, they actually do. My dad used to have a pet dog, and one time he couldn’t find it and found out that a neighboring village had had a huuuge feast.”

“Ewwwww!” Laughter, disgustedness, all rolled into one.

I can’t possibly express how I feel about my ethnic identity in those moments. I feel like running away and throwing away my last name and starting up a new name like… Kim Lee or something so vague that nobody would know exactly what type of Asian I am.

For a large part of my life I didn’t know that I was Asian. I think I thought I was either mexican or white — those were mostly the kinds of kids who went to my old school. I had a couple asian friends, but those never worked out. I would think that I was white because I never really hung out with the fob kids, I chilled with the richer, smarter suburban raised white kids. I thought I was one of them.

That is, until the inevitable “Hey look I’m chinese!” as they pulled their eyes up from the corner to create a grostesque mask that looked more like an interpretation of retardation than an interpretation of being asian. “Hey Kim, look! I can be related to you now!”

“I’m not Chinese! I’m Vietnamese!”

Shrug, mumble watevers, and then it’s forgotten about as we move on to different and more important subjects like hopscotch and four square.

When I was in second grade, my parents started me in Vietnamese school. For the first time, I was totally immersed in the Vietnamese community. It was nice being around other kids like me. Kids who hated other vietnamese kids just as much as I did.

It’s a common stereotype to think that vietnamese people smell like fish. To think that they eat dog… and to think that they’re all poor, live in dirty household and work at the flea market haggling for “one dalla”.

Somehow, thoughout my younger years, I inherantly picked that up. I knew it and I hated it. I hated being vietnamese. I always wanted to be white. It seemed so much easier. I surrounded myself with white friends, and even when I became interested in Japanese stuff I still chilled with an all-white group.

It wasn’t until Freshman year in high school that I started to associate myself with Asian people again. For the second time, I met asian people who weren’t completely fobby and filling the stereotype of gross asian people. I made friends that were asian, and pretty soon I became backwards of the racist I was.

I was now less prepared to make friends with white people.

There was a certain new feeling of bonding. A certain, hey look. you’re asian, I’m asian. We’re both living in a predominantly white country and check it, we’re here together. We havea bond.

No matter how much I tried to deny it and denounce it. I had a minor case of the “AzN PriDe”s.

HOwever, these days, I still can’t comfortably identify myself with being vietnamese. I go for another route – Identifying myself as an american born asian. Why does it hurt sometimes when I say that I’m vietnamese?

I don’t know. Maybe its because of the ignorant people who automatically wonder if I’ve ever eaten dog meat.

But then, maybe it’s because I look too closely to the connotations behind words.

Maybe it’s because I’ve always wanted to be white.