“Ew, what’s that smell?” they mockingly laughed.

Dear past me,

It feels like a lifetime ago, but I’m sure you vividly remember this common haughty phrase from your peers during lunch—sneer remarks directed at the foreignness of your Vietnamese cuisine. Unable to continue bearing the brunt of their “jokes, you forced a laugh as if you agreed with their remarks, hurriedly scooted farther down onto a vacant bench, and quietly drowned in self-pity. 

When that sweet bell echoed through campus at 2:40 PM, you eagerly awaited Dad’s car to pick you up. But you and I both know this eagerness was short-lived, even at home.

The weight of the day hung heavy on your shoulders. The little solace you found at home was quickly overshadowed by feelings of emasculation and a growing gripe with your heritage.

Even though she tirelessly labored and suffered her own fair share of humiliation at work, remember that day when Mom cooked for you a bowl of Hoành Thánh? Garnished with freshly diced onions, each delicate dumpling evenly floated, neither completely sinking nor lopsidedly rising, on the savory broth because of Mom’s mastery of the perfect 2:1 ratio of pork to dough. 

It was an art.

An art that you, overcome by internalized racism, trashed. After Mom left, you quietly poured the broth down the drain, the aromatic liquid swirling away through the pipes like a forgotten memory. The dumplings followed as Mom’s skillfully pleated forms were thrown into the trashbag, desecrating the love and effort Mom had zealously put into them. You stood on the kitchen square. The gravity of your actions finally took hold, as you wrestled with shame and guilt.

Years later, I realized that you weren’t just discarding food; you were rejecting an essential piece of your identity, a connection to your roots scarcely holding on by a few chunks of meat parceled up in dough. The destruction of the dumplings was just a vehicle to express our self-loathing. This was more than a meal—it was a lifeline to our heritage, embodying the essence of our Vietnamese culture grounded in acts of service and expressions of love.

And I’m sorry that you—we—were forced to feel differently because of what society had to say.

Now with the clarity of time, I witness the beauty in that bowl of Hoành Thánh. I understand its precise design as a source of immense cultural pride and skill. I have learned to embrace the richness of our Vietnamese heritage, to savor and understand the complex tapestry of flavors and stories that come with it. With every bite of chả giò and every slurp of phở gà, I have learned to honor not only my culture but also Mom’s incredible resilience.

Chris, carry this understanding with you. Cherish our culture, traditions, and memories. Rock that side part with pride. Also, Mom and Dad are getting older. Take care of them.

Love,

Your Future Self