“Where are you from?”
That question has defined my life for as long as I can remember.
Whenever someone asks, I launch into the same explanation: I’m Chinese-Vietnamese. But I only speak Cantonese, a dialect of Chinese. My family is ethnically Chinese, but they have been born and raised in Vietnam for generations.
In my head, being Chinese-Vietnamese is its own culture — distinct from being just Chinese or just Vietnamese. But more often than not, my explanation is met with a dismissive: “So…you’re just Chinese.”
If I try to explain further, I get shut down. To others, my background doesn’t quite make sense. But to me, it’s all I’ve ever known.
For years, I struggled with being told who I was and wasn’t. As I got older, I started questioning myself on something I used to be so confident about when I was younger. I remember coming home from school in fourth grade, asking my older sister and parents, “Are we Chinese or Vietnamese?”
They always answered the same: “Both.”
My first language was Cantonese, and although I couldn’t speak Vietnamese fluently, it was woven into our lives at home. I lived in a kind of language limbo where I understood common Vietnamese phrases and casually mixed them with Cantonese, never realizing where one ended and the other began. Our dinner table was a reflection of that blend, too. One night, it was chow fun. The next, it was bún bò huế. Dumplings and spring rolls. Hot pot and pho.
Inside our home, the culture coexisted in harmony. But outside of it, that blend didn’t seem to exist. I hadn’t met anyone my age who shared that same Chinese-Vietnamese upbringing. My Vietnamese peers expected me to speak Vietnamese, otherwise I wasn’t quite considered one of them. Most of the Chinese people I met primarily spoke Mandarin, a dialect I didn’t understand — and when I did meet people who spoke Cantonese, they were usually from Hong Kong, and I noticed the distinct difference between us.
The result? I never felt Chinese enough, and I never felt Vietnamese enough. What was I? Where did I belong?
The truth is, I spent years chasing an answer that I eventually had to define for myself. There was no moment of instant clarity, but toward the end of high school, I stopped trying to fit into labels that made me feel like I had to prove I was “enough” of either culture. I realized that my identity wasn’t something to prove, but something to claim.
Going into college, I was nervous to join cultural clubs. I didn’t know if I’d ever feel like I truly belonged. But I ended up joining both the Chinese Student Association (CSA) and the Vietnamese Student Association (VSA) at my school, the University of Virginia, and slowly, I started finding my place. Even though I didn’t fit neatly into either group, being a part of both helped me embrace the in-between. I also met others who were navigating their own blends of culture and identity too, and those connections made me feel seen.
My identity doesn’t need to be neatly packaged or easily understood by others. It’s complex and personal, but most importantly, it’s valid. Now, I explain my background proudly to those who are open to listening. And for those who don’t get it, or don’t care to, I’ve learned that their misunderstanding doesn’t make my identity any less real.