here’s the thing about immigrant narratives and why (white) people think they’re “sentimental”
it’s because it’s not just about the protagonist. in a lot of white American stories it’s all about the protagonist, the hero, and it’s JUST that person’s story. whenever parents or similar mentor figures come up they are often archetypal and one-sided, magically appearing to distribute advice and disappearing again. so rarely are their own stories included within the main narrative because they are not deemed important enough.
like step outside this Western centric mentality for one sec. so many Asian American narratives are real tearjerkers for the likes of myself because they include our parents’ stories that we know so, so well and have internalized. we’ve all heard it. they moved over here from China/Korea/Japan/Vietnam/India/whathaveyou to give us a better life, they sacrificed so much for us, they learned how to cook their own foods because nowhere here made it the way they liked it, and on and on. these stories are so much a part of our own, coming from an almost mythical Other place that we know to an extent and yet we don’t, that it’s almost impossible not to include in some way when writing our own stories.
in a lot of Western stories even when family backstory is included it is always framed around the narrator; the narrator eclipses most of it and understands that because of this, they must fulfill their destiny, or something along those lines. I would argue that in a lot of immigrant narrative we share the story space more equally with our family members and it’s really jarring to a lot of people who have grown up reading tales of Individualism and ME ME ME ME to be like “why did that writer include that whole chunk of his mom’s backstory when it’s extraneous to the immediate plot/you don’t need to go into such detail” oh but the writer does!
because we can never tell our own stories without including those we were brought up with!
disclaimer it’s late and I’m hella tired and rambling but that comment “oh this is way too sentimental” really cheezed me off okay why is it sentimental to talk about your parents we can’t all be drugged up rockstars who angst over sad girls and smoke cigarettes on Brooklyn rooftops while our parents play absolutely no role except to provide all that money that the narrator is constantly spending on booze and torn jeans
When I walked into my preschool on the first day of class, my name wasn’t Samantha. It was Hoang-Anh. The only English words I did know were, “stop,” “hello,” “please,” and “thank you.” My teacher made it very clear to my mother that afternoon what a hindrance my lack of English would be.
“Here in America, we speak English. She doesn’t even recognize her own name.”
My mother apologized, promising that she’d try to teach me English as quickly as she could. That night, she wove my American name into my nightly bedtime story, my birth certificate clutched in her hand and her fingers grazing over my place of birth: California. She had to remind herself that she did not come to America for this. For the next month, she and my father spoke only in English, read only English books to me, and listened to only English music.
I don’t remember how long it took for me to stop speaking Vietnamese. But it was the day I stopped singing Vietnamese folk songs to my bedridden grandfather.
It was the day he stopped recognizing me as his granddaughter, and knew me only as the strange little Vietnamese girl living in his house.
It was the day I stopped being Hoang-Anh and became Samantha.
Samantha is good at English; you could say she even excels in it.
She can write essays while in half sleep and when she was twelve, she read Virginia Woolf. But Samantha, I, had clorox poured down my throat. When I speak, I sound too smooth, too glib, too lost, in comparison to my mother who sounds like home and warmth and a country I can no longer remember how to find. When my mother speaks to me in Vietnamese, I can understand her perfectly. But when I try to respond to her in anything but English, it’s like trying to look into my blind spot without turning my head.
I try to make up for what I lack by embracing as much of my heritage, my culture, and my history as possible. But there is only so much I can do when during family reunions and family weddings, I am tightlipped the entire night, sipping soda xi muoi and straining to remember how to say, “I’ve been good, and you?” If there are a handful of Vietnamese words I do remember how to say, it is sorry. Xin lỗi. I am so sorry.
If I could ask my grandmother something, I would ask her how it feels to have four grandchildren who can’t speak to her, how it feels to have her family tree hemorrhaging at its roots when her two baby grandchildren turn their noses up at Vietnamese food. I would ask her if she feels proud of my mother for successfully bleaching my accent right out of my throat.
I would also apologize to my grandfather.
I’m sorry that I stopped singing.