I've been at a tug of war with the thought of writing this for a long time now. But I think this story needs to be told. On the eve of my vacation on the west coast, to an area in which I have blood-related family that I can't talk to, and to a house that my parents own but can't house me, the anger and betrayl feels more alive than ever.Â
Haunted by my inability to “let it go”, it is causing me to tell this story via the internet. How sad but hopefully entertaining to some of you.
Family History:
In the early 1980s, my dad’s family escaped persecution from the Lao government and sought refuge in the United States. From what I’ve been told, my grandfather was apparently accused of treason and while the details are unknown in regards to his time in jail and how they technically got here as a whole, the point of the story is that they went through a lot in search for freedom. My dad has 6 other siblings — 3 sisters and 3 brothers. The oldest sister was first to marry, and she married a man in Arkansas with the last name Vongphachanh. This is why for the first 18 years of my life, I went by the name of Phinnphana Vongphachanh. It wasn’t until he had passed right before I started college that my dad decided to go back to his roots and we ultimately embraced becoming a Thikeo.
My mom is a quarter Lao as the Vietnamese bloodline in her family runs deep. Her father was a Vietnamese military man and left during the Vietnam war. He had presumed to have died during the war so my mother was raised by her mother and grandmother, both fiery and fierce women. I get a lot of my strength and personality from this line.
My mom left Laos with my grandmother and great grandmother in search of the American Dream. They had also spent some time in a Thai concentration camp before they arrived by airplane to the United States. I believe she had the option of choosing either France or the U.S but she believed that Lady Liberty could offer her more freedom.
My dad met my mom at a laundromat in Stockton, California and began dating. When they had planned to marry, family drama ensued. For whatever reason, my dad’s mother was extremely unhappy about the marriage. Rumors range from the fact that my mother was not fully Lao to a feud about money. Whatever the reason was, my parents chose love and flew all the way to the other side of the country.
This is how I was born in a seaside city called Lynn within the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
I was raised by my vietnamese grandmother and great grandmother until they passed. Up until kindergarten I was fluent in Vietnamese. After 1997, our family was just the four of us, and we can make it if we try, just the four of us. . . Anyway. . .
The Family Reunion:
After my dad’s mom apologized to my mother we all tried reconnecting. There has only been two times in all of my 25 years that I’ve seen that side of the family. The first time that I met anyone from my dad’s side, I was a freshman in high school. At that point in time, I didn’t know anyone’s Lao or American names nor did I actually know how many cousins I had. We were all basically strangers.
The second time I attended a family reunion was this past January in 2014. My parents bought a house in Sacramento in about a 5 mile radius from my dad’s family. I was really excited about this new chapter as I’ve secretly longed for a more meaningful family connection. However my visit provided a much different perspective, one that made me realize how much a connection can’t be strengthen by bloodline alone.
Perspective 1: I’m too much of feminist and an activist. I have issues with being submissive. The fact that the women in my extended family are extremely submissive to their husbands disgusted me. Some might say that this is just a sign of cultural respect and to which I will only cater to my grandpa. But if you’re a mid 35 year old man, you can get that fucking beer yourself. One of my uncles has this extremely arrogant vibe to him and his wife caters to him hand and foot. This same aunt also never made any eye contact to me and immediately made a racist comment when she wrongly overheard that I may have been dating a black man. She’s about in her mid 30s so her age doesn’t allow me to throw her ignorance under the rug. Sexist and racist behavior truly rubs me the wrong way and it’s a constant reminder as to why I try to keep a distance from certain sexist traditions within the Lao community.
Perspective 2: We are all strangers. Not once did my uncles, aunts, or cousins tried to get to know me beyond a surface level. They didn’t ask me any of the important things such as my political, spiritual, and religious beliefs. It was kind of like, “ oh, you’re here. You’re pretty. It’s good to see you.” They didn’t ask what I was doing for work, what my intentions were in the future, or what kind of things that inspires me. It doesn’t help that there’s this really annoying stereotype that my brother and I are the rich, stuck up Northeast folks. Which might explain why when I tried to get to know them, I got one-worded responses. Little do they know the struggles that my family went through all alone on the east coast. We worked hard for everything.
Perspective 3: The segregation between generations is real. There was a “grown up only” table at the dinner that I wasn’t allowed to be a part of. No one from my generation was allowed to sit at this table and I wasn’t the only one in my mid 20s. This bothered me a lot because during my family gatherings or BBQs in MA, everyone sat together and talked to one another. I love hearing stories from family and it really bothered me that this kind of thing made sense to them. How else does family get to know each other when you don’t eat together?
The reason why I can’t go visit my Sacramento home or stay there during my trip this week is because my cousin is doing something illegal in it. Sparing you the details, you all can guess what happened next. I confronted my family in probably the worse way possible or at least the most unexpected way that a “pretty Lao girl should” and my parents told me to back off in order to save face.
I know that my story isn’t unique to me. I feel as though a lot of second generation children of refugee parents have similar events or feelings. It’s as if we long for this deep family connection that for whatever reason isn’t available to us. The theme is common, whether it’s because of family drama, PTSD from the escape to the US, or the cultural traditions and divide, such culprits don’t allow us to effectively communicate with one another.
We just don’t know how to be a family.
As I grow older and become more interested in my family’s history and journey to this country, I long to understand how each and every one of them influenced my growth and perspective on life. Don’t you? What is your family story? How did they get here and how has their journey influenced you?
