VISIONARY SCHOLARSHIP
Hi! I'm Natalie. I am currently a freshman at NC State University. I wanted to show a more well-rounded side of myself through these platforms because I express myself in many different ways. In this multimedia essay, I express my thoughts in video, text, and photography.
In order to create ripples of progress, we must think of ourselves as those ripples.
We are products of our parents, our environment, our generation, and our own hopes and dreams. None of us are the same, because we are all different individuals. We all have our own stories. Everyone has their own story that is part of a larger story: our community.
This is my story.
In order to create a ripple in the water:
You must hold no burdens and be ready to create. (hands)
You must be hopeful. (heart)
You must stand up proudly, and strongly so you are supported. (back)
You must step forward. (feet)
In this visual essay, I'll show you how I created my own ripples of progress, and how these ripples will multiply with others' ripples and we will, together, create a stronger Vietnamese community with our hands, heart, back, and feet.
My Story
Contact
The girl I was at age ten had restless hands. Her fingers were always tapping along edges of tables to some impromptu rhythm, and she was always scratching her initials into rest stop walls and into the trees of national parks just to leave her own personal mark in something permanent. She was a curious child who had always felt a strong, innate desire to poke just about – caution sign or not – much to her parent’s annoyance. But no matter what she insistently poked or prodded, the girl I was at age ten still had fresh-looking hands, free of any deep indentations or cuts running across her palms because her hands had always been taken care of.
At age ten, she had spent most of her time with my mother in nail salons. She’d sit in the back with the bottles of paraffin and boxes of nail tools, doodling superheros and wondering what her power would be. But her mother would call her over and the girl I was at age ten would always eagerly hold her hands out to her mother.
My mom would pull the nail filer across the tips of my nails, straightening their rough edges into round ovals. “You have pretty hands,” she’d say, “They’re small and soft.” She curled my fingers into my palms and gripped my hands close to her like she always meant to say more but I’d always smile, and ask for a sweet pink color that would make me look pretty. “Pretty?” My mom asked, teasingly, “Are you not pretty right now?”
The girl I was at age fourteen had sweaty hands. She found herself with clammy palms that were always shoved into her pockets. A result of entering high school. She found friends; people who she liked, and people who she wanted to be like so she’d pick a deep, sophisticated red polish over the sweet pink, clothes that never fit her quite right, interests that would never suit her tastes, and her mom would always look at her questioningly.
“Why do your nails always look nice?” Her friend would ask. The girl couldn’t boast about adventures in Europe or summer cruises but she had her hands. Her soft hands. How could she have forgotten? She’d respond with pride, “My mom works at a nail salon.” Then there was the long pause that I dreaded for years.
I guess that's when I began to hate the stereotype of Vietnamese women in nail shops, and when I truly felt embarrassment for something that I shouldn't have. I hid my hands.
The girl I was at age fourteen would curl her hands into fists and held them to her chest when her mother asked to see them.
The young lady I am at nineteen has powerful hands. I realized my own power. My hands can make my dreams into realities, my imaginations into possibilities, and most importantly, they’re always restless, unable to settle for less. My hands are everything. I could make anything I wanted, become who I ever wanted and but someone else gave me that power.
My parents were immigrants who bravely left their country to avoid poverty and corruption for another country that still didn't recognize or understand them. I have so much to be proud of, but at that age I was also confused how to navigate the world as a first-generation Vietnamese-American. I kept wanting to be different, but one can't ignore their roots, or their culture. I learned how to appreciate them, and by extension, my identity.
My mom grips my hands close to her. I smile back at her, and shake her grip so I can hold her hands instead. “I'm sorry,” I say when I think about how I acted before. She begins to drag the nail file across my crooked nails. She doesn’t know what I’m apologizing for and I don’t even know where to begin.
Sorry for ignoring my background. Sorry for being ashamed. Sorry for –
“It’s okay,” my mom says casually like she knows exactly what I’m talking about and I immediately squirm, waves of guilt washing over me. “I can fix it. Don’t be so dramatic,” she teases before giving me a soft smile. She brushes the buffer against my nails, and they’re back to being soft, smooth, and pretty just like the rest of my hands.
Thanks to my mother, I have appreciated my hands.
My ability to create, my ability to touch, my ability to reach out.
Hands
Heart
Here is something important about my dad: he is the most hopeful person I know.
Here is something irritating about my dad: he is the most hopeful person I know.
His hope is blind, unwavering, and it literally applies to all his decisions.
He has this habit of buying lottery tickets and using the same numbers – 12, 26, 6, 29, 7, 9 (my birthday, mom's birthday, my sister's birthday) – over and over on days he felt “lucky.” On days he felt that his luck was normal, he’d play scratch-off cards and buy tickets with randomly assigned numbers. When he didn’t win, he’d look at me wistfully and say, “Maybe next time.”
Most people would take that as a sign to stop; he took it as a sign to continue. He’d cross his fingers when his favorite soccer player would approach the goal post with the ball dribbling between his feet, and then my dad would pretend that it was his crossed fingers and chanting that drove his team to victory. He’d remind me not to jinx him. He believed in otherworldly forces, in luck, and in chance. He believed in shiny slot machines, lottery tickets, but really just anything that was in shiny, bold letters emblazoned on a sign that said, “THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO MAKE IT BIG.” For some reason, he always assumed that was a promise.
This mentality made everyone wary of him. My sister hated it because she believed in facts, data, and something tangible while my mother described it as an excuse for laziness. I hated this because I thought he didn’t believe in himself if he relied on everything else and… I mostly hated it because that mentality passed down to me.
But luck and blind hope were the only things that carried him from poverty in Vietnam to America. In his case, they were his superheroes, his Gods, his shooting stars. In Vietnam, he was known as a “my lai” which meant “mixed person.” But my dad was always in defense of his “white-boy, Yankee” father who, unfortunately, remained absent for the next 26 years. My dad used to tell me that he was proud of his whiteness; he felt like he carried an American hero in his blood. He didn’t have anything else. He was a poor half white, half Vietnamese boy in poor Vietnam. So, he had his whiteness to boast. He had his American-ness to be proud of. He had his absent father to create his complex. In Vietnam, my dad had his mom, his siblings, his mad soccer skills, and his unwavering, undying belief in luck. He was like half James Dean, Rock ‘n Roll, white picket fences, blond beach babes, hamburgers and a freedom he dreamed of. Then he was half third world, source of all white people pity, a result of war, and most importantly, hope.
When I was younger, I didn’t want to be like my dad. Instead, the opposite happened. Genetics decided that I would inherit his short-temper, overly defensive attitude, and incredibly aggressive personality. I received his cheekbones, his eyes, his nose, his smile, his hair color, and I should have been proud of this because he used to be a model but I wanted it to be fifty-fifty. I had no trace of my mother in me (my dad vehemently disagrees, he tells me: “You’re just like her; you’re so good at making people cry.”). My dad was often called a mixed boy, instead of his real name and the same happened to me. Only, for him, it sounded more like a sour insult, and a reminder that he was different. For me, it was a sweet and cute nickname that told me I was special.
The most important thing I inherited from my dad was his belief in luck, otherworldly magic, and never-ending hope. I used to think it was also the most unfortunate thing I inherited. I wished I was more rational like my mother or grounded like my sister but here I was: believing in the power of crossed fingers, birthday candles, and luck. I was incredibly superstitious and a part of me still is. It’s something that would probably never go away, no matter how many times I deny it. I’ll trust fortune cookies, I’ll do some weird, possessed chanting before any sports game, and believe in anything that said, “THIS IS YOUR CHANCE TO MAKE IT BIG.” I clutched those phrases like lifelines and started to see why my dad loved them so much. The universe is often unkind and people are even worse, but at least these dangling half-lit signs, and scraps of paper believed in you.
I grew up. I still carried his undying hope with me and that probably got me out of more situations than I was willing to admit. He still did some furious and indecipherable witchcraft-chanting under his breath when his favorite soccer team was on. I still wished to look more like my mom and that somehow I could develop her rational thinking. I wanted to drop my superstitions, my clinginess to hope, and become independent. There is that one time that probably changed my relationship with my dad. At fourteen, I was definitely still in the phase where hating my parents was super trendy, and I wasn't proud of my identity.
But then there was this one time where I needed money for something. My dad was always the easiest to ask for anything. I knew he was very optimistic, and I knew that he always wanted me to have a happy, and normal adolescence unlike his. He often could not deny me, and I was an awful person for using that as an advantage. My dad pulled out his thin, brown wallet and I mentally cheered.
Only, he opened it to reveal nothing but a single dollar and a pack of lottery tickets. For that very moment, I was filled with embarrassment and anger. He had a single dollar to his name and those stupid yellow tickets. I wanted to cry out of frustration. I wanted to scream at him and ask him why he kept buying those tickets. He clutched them like they were no longer lottery tickets, but like they were real and actual promises to a better life. My dad looked up at me with an apologetic but shy grin.
“Sorry, kiddo. Today is not your lucky day,” he said jokingly as he quickly shoved his wallet back into his pocket. No one was watching this conversation. We were by ourselves at home yet I could feel the curious eyes of all my friends peering into our windows, witnessing this moment with me.
I didn’t know what I was thinking so all that came out was, “No. This is your fault. Why do you always rely on those?” My dad has a habit of overthinking (something I also inherited) so probably after hearing his daughter spit out something as harsh, as selfish, as close-to-home that was, I would imagine he felt terrible.
I tried to force something else out but guilt was already seeping in. I left before my dad could say something, and before I could apologize. That was also the first day I realized I shared something in common with my mother: our emotions consumed us.
The next day, I was still reeling from all my anger and embarrassment. I was set into ignoring my dad to the best of my ability. I successfully did so in the morning, and shrugged off all his daily sports news. I was convinced that I could ignore him for the next couple of the days but I felt too guilty to ignore him any longer.
“Natalie,” he started.
“Yes?” I responded as politely as I could.
He turned to me and pulled out that same withered, leather wallet. Inside, there were no more lottery tickets. There was his license, his U.S. residency card, a picture of my mother, my sister, and me, and a single twenty dollar bill. He grabbed the bill and awkwardly held it out to me, “This is for you. I won it yesterday with those tickets. I kept hoping I would win just something, and I did.”
For a moment, I wanted to cry. I felt as if the universe was laughing at me because this was too much and that his blinding hope was never going to leave me alone. But it was then that I realized it was the only thing that carried him to where he is today.
Taking my silence as a bad sign, he tried again, in a louder and clearer voice, as if his previous pronunciation wasn’t up to my standards: “This is for you.” After living in America for more than twenty years, his accent still sticks to his words.
Some words stumble on his tongue, and some words he gives up saying completely, but -
My dad pressed the bill to my palm, curled my fingers over the twenty, and in his best English pronunciation to date, he reiterated, “For you.”
Dad becomes less synonymous with “guilt” as I get older and older, and more so with, "hope."
Here is something important about my dad: he's so good at believing, hoping, and loving.
Thanks to my father, I have appreciated my heart.
My ability to preserve, my ability to believe, my ability to find hope.
Back
In response to: Life happens to the best of us. It becomes comfortable, routine, mundane. What keeps you going? What makes you hungry for this forward momentum? Why?
Thanks to the people in my life and to the people who inspire me with their stories:
My ability to keep going, my ability to thrive, my ability to stay in love with life.
Feet
In ten years, I believe we'll go forward. I believe we'll become a community that lives on each other's stories. We'll become aware, and proud of our identities. We'll all become visionaries who empower each other with our own unique perspectives and experiences.
In ten years, the Vietnamese community will become a safe haven and a space to thrive where we can express pride for our culture and ourselves. We'll become a diverse community that seeks collaboration and improvement amongst each other. We'll seek comfort out of each other, and we'll keep changing for the better. We'll create our space in the United States as emerging Vietnamese-American leaders across many different fields. There will be no limits.
I responded to the prompt with the story of my mother, and father because in ten years, I grew. I went back to my roots, and found myself again so I believe the community will do the same.
I think of our community as a tree. To grow strongly, we must realize we cannot grow without our roots. We cannot branch out without a strong foundation. In ten years, we will deeply root ourselves in this country.
With our backs upright and strong, our hands interlaced, our hearts heavy with hope and passion, we'll move forward to make our own ripples of progress to forward our legacy.
I believe we can do it.
taken by Phong Dinh.
taken by Phong Dinh.
taken by Phong Dinh.
taken by Phong Dinh.
taken by Phong Dinh.
Last Words
North Carolina State University recently entered MAUVSA this year. I was unable to go to conference, but I reached out to many people who immediately welcomed me, and connected with me. They told me about UNAVSA. I found out about this scholarship, and I was hesitant to even apply because I didn't know anything but they told me about how much it changed their lives, and how the people they met stuck with them.
Although I'm still young, I would like to experience something that life-changing as well.
Thank you for reading my journey.