The Identity Crisis

Yesterday my mom announced with great gusto at dinner that she will volunteeringly drive Tai to Vietnamese school every weekend so he can study the native language when he turns five.  I groaned as the memories came flooding back. 

My parent's dedication to our heritage started when I was in Grade 4.  Every damn weekend I would get knots in my stomach as my parents literally dragged all 3 of us into the car kicking and screaming because we resented spending 4 hours of our "free time" learning the Vietnamese language.  When we moved from Vancouver to Richmond, the anxiety got worse because we had a full 45 minutes of commuting to stew in our anger.  I remembered the dreaded school, the awful smells of the Commercial Drive neighborhood and also skipping out on 50% of my classes to play at the playground or making daisy chains in the fields.  I was too young to coordinate a three-way "hooky" sessions with my siblings but near the end of my tenure I was savvy enough to spring them from their shackles as well.  Even after my slacker attendance record, I was always at the top of my classes as mastering the reading and writing portion came naturally.  It's my conversational Vietnamese that's embarrassing.

I think I finally stopped going sometime in Grade 8 or Grade 9.  I made a plea to my parents that the Saturday dedication was impacting my "real" school and I would prefer to allocate study time towards grades that would get me into University.  When they actually bought my pathetic argument (I never actually had to study anything until I was in University) I remembered having this huge weight lifted from my shoulders and simultaneously I can see the sadness in my Mom's eyes that the inevitable was going to happen.

This year I turn 33.  I speak "Vinglesh", half broken Vietnamese and half English.  Although I still have Grade 8 reading skills, I totally bastardize the language when I speak to my parents and family.  Growing up, I never saw the value of being multilingual.  As an adult, I regret not mastering what essentially is a core of my identity.

When my mom proudly announced her plan to Tai, I saw that glimmer that died so many years ago light up again in her eyes.  Tai is extremely excited to go to school - any school - so he fuelled her enthusiasm with, "Yay I will like to go to Vietnamese school!  Then I can see what all the Vietnamese people look like!"

You know that familiar scene when you watch a sitcom and the camera slowly pans over to the main character's face after they were thrown under the bus by their partner in crime?  Ya, well that was my look.  Half shocked, half confused and 100% embarrassed.  Being the supporting father that Chris is, he starts laughing so hard snorts had to be used to bring oxygen back into his lungs.

So for the record, I thought I was pretty diligent in teaching my halfie son that his "skin" color is half white (like Daddy's) and half yellow (like Mommy's).  We also work on difficult social constructs such as "blended families" (Linda is re-married) and why Grandpa Manson (Chris' dad) is not a part of his life.  Not easy concepts for a young man of all 4 years.

So apparently it is true.  Even after my diligent efforts to educate Tai of his unique ethnicity he proves that children do not see the world in categories.  The identity crisis will inevitably come later in life as society continues to label him as to what he is and what he's not in accordance to what I'm not sure.  But in the meantime, I will enjoy this brief moment of his innoncence because if anything, this is where true harmony lies.