Chris Nguyễn is an English tutor and soon-to-be Japanese and HASS teacher. They explore culture through many aspects of their life, studying sociology, being president of the ANU Kabuki club and engaging with their Vietnamese heritage.
Chris was born in Australia to Vietnamese parents and talks their mother tongue, Vietnamese, at home. But over the years they have sometimes wondered: ‘What makes me Vietnamese?’, ‘What makes me Australian?’ ‘What is home?’
Image: © Dušica Milutinović, 2018
I stumble when confronted with the question, “Where are you from?”
A paradox echoes within me — I am Australian, a citizen of a land once stolen, by virtue of my birth. Yet, the threads of my heritage hang onto Vietnamese roots, for my parents were once cradled by their homeland. I say, “I’m going ‘back’ to Vietnam to visit my relatives,” but never am I returning, as it was never my home. But I do not feel like Australia is my home. I am neither solely Australian, as my ethnicity shows, nor exclusively Vietnamese, as the shores of my birthright elude me. I wonder if I can embody both worlds. Can I be both 100% Australian and 100% Vietnamese at the same time?
On government forms, I tick the checkbox that proclaims, “I speak another language at home.” Vietnamese was the first language I learnt as a baby, and I was placed in ESL classes until I was in Year 7. At home, we speak Vietnamese, an homage to our heritage. Very rarely will my parents speak to me in English. Yet, in public, my mother’s silent reproach accompanies our linguistic exchange — a cryptic expression that masks a subtle shame. I wonder, why does our linguistic diversity have to evoke fear and secrecy rather than pride?
When I speak with Vietnamese international students who are my age, there is a noticeable generational gap. How funny is it, considering we were both born in the same year, yet my word choices become relics and linguistic artifacts to them? Mockingly, they poke fun at my usage of archaic terms, their laughter a biting reminder that language, too, evolves with time. Their accents resonate with a richness I struggle to comprehend, and their slang becomes a labyrinth where I lose myself. In those moments, I sense a detachment, a fading familiarity with the language that I once used so proudly.
On my resume, the claim of fluency in Vietnamese stands bold, yet the act of writing in my native tongue becomes an arduous task. The dichotomy emerges: while I navigate news articles and decipher my mum’s text messages with ease, the act of penning my thoughts in Vietnamese reveals the fragility of my linguistic claims. The variations of vowels and consonants perplex me, leaving me at odds with the language I claim I have mastered. I’m afraid I cannot write in Vietnamese without the help of my phone’s auto-suggest feature, to guide me on which tonal accent is appropriate for which word. In the confines of a virtual classroom, I face the conundrum of taking a final Vietnamese exam on my smartphone, leaning on auto-suggestions for support. Is this a desperate plea for assistance, or an inadvertent trespass of academic integrity?
“Where are you from?” I know what they are expecting when they ask me this question. Yet, I never feel confident enough in my own identity or connection to either culture to answer truthfully. I am not just Australian, but I am not just Vietnamese. Perhaps the answer to that question lies in my parents, bearers of a Vietnamese heritage transplanted to Australian shores. My dad, who left Vietnam to escape the war when he was 14, and my mum, who migrated at 20 for more opportunities. My parents shaped my existence with the memories of their past. I find I am, myself, a mosaic, shaped by the collision of cultures. I am both the fusion of old stories and the pulsing beat of today. I am from my parents.
© Chris Nguyễn, 2023
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