COMING HOME

          As a student of biblical studies, I love stories from the Holy Bible. One of my all-time favorite stories is that of the Prodigal Son in Luke 15:11-32. It is a story of Fatherly Love; an immense love that our Heavenly Father has for each one of us no matter how strayed we are from Him. The story begins when the Prodigal Son arrogantly demanded his share of the inheritance, and then having left his homeland, he quickly wasted all of his possessions. When hard time came, he found his way home as the last resort. Meanwhile, his father was waiting for him; the old man was hoping and longing for the coming home of his son. Contrary to the title of the Story of the Prodigal Son, the story was never about the son. In my mind, it is all about the Merciful Father, who longed for the return of his son. The father looked down the road everyday waiting for his son, and when he saw his son from a distance, the old man ran toward his son and embraced him welcoming him back. The son’s coming home shows more about the great mercy and abundant love of his father than the reckless behavior and foolishness of the son. It is this tremendous love from the father for the prodigal son that shows the power of the mercy from God. For me, the merciful image of a forgiving father embracing his wayward son gives me the courage to ask God for forgiveness and acceptance for my own coming home. In this Tet New Year Season, while many of my Vietnamese kin folks think of “coming home” as going back to Vietnam, the country of our origin; my “coming home” is more about returning to the Heavenly Homeland, the spiritual country of origin, namely God.

The Country of My Father

          My father was a Lieutenant Colonel of the South Vietnam Armed Forces. On April 30^th of 1975, my father and our family of ten fled Vietnam on a small river boat. The journey was arduous, but my father was able to get all of us safely to the United States. I was 14 years old, when we arrived here. My parents, older siblings, and I worked hard, so that all of us children could attend high school and college here. In May of 1984, I graduated from Texas A&M University in College Station, and I quickly got caught up in the materialistic race called the American Dream. Soon, I forgot about Vietnam, about the sacrifices of my parents and other siblings, and about God. I was living a life of selfishness, and I was recklessly foolish just like the prodigal Son.

          Vietnam was a distant country of my father’s generation. My father gave up 25 years of his life to serve the people of South Vietnam, yet the country did not return his favor. In fact, he was lucky to escape with his life and those of his family. Arriving in the US, his first job was that of a trash-sorter making $2.44 to feed his family of ten. Yet somehow, my father always kept a smile on his face, and his heart was at peace with God and family. Growing up in the US, I learned the values of hard work, discipline, and faith from my father. His love for Country also affected me. For a long time, I considered myself a Vietnamese, an outsider living among Americans. I distanced myself from my American friends and neighbors. I was proud of my dark hair and yellow skin tone. I enjoyed being different, and in a sense, I thought I was superior to many of my American friends. As pride led to arrogance, I became more reliant upon my own self and my Vietnamese work ethics. And for a while, things came my way easily. I got good jobs making lots of money. I got bigger houses, better cars, and nicer clothes. My wife, my children and I lived in relative comfort and luxury. I ran my own company, and it seemed as though the sky is the limit. Just like me, many other Vietnamese first generation immigrants worked hard and earned a good living in the US. From that aspect, I was a typical accomplished Vietnamese living in America.

Returning to Vietnam

          My wife and I first went back to Vietnam in the spring of 2005. We were tourists, and we were curious. On the trip, we went in search of our former residences in Ho Chi Minh City, Da Lat, and Nha Trang. The old houses were still there, but we could no longer call them our own. Someone lived there now, and we had to get permissions just to take photos from the outside. These residences were someone else’s homes, and we did not even know their names. These folks took over our properties, when we fled for our lives. And they must have lived there since. We visited our old schools, and they all had changed. We ate the authentic Vietnamese foods in Saigon, and they were not all that good. The foods in Vietnam were bland comparing to what we had enjoyed in Vietnamese restaurants in Houston and Los Angeles. We tried to speak Vietnamese to the folks; by the people there spoke a different version of Vietnamese: one that we can understand, but cannot properly respond using the correct wording. And the sceneries were not as beautiful as they were in my dreams. On this trip, we met my old friends from the seminary. Meeting these dear, but old, beaten down folks were the highlight of my trip. On the plane back to the US, I was deeply saddened, even though I could hardly understand why. I came back to Vietnam twice since then, and on every trip, my Vietnamese-ness lessened and my heart sunk lower, every time I thought of the old country.

From South Vietnamese to Vietnamese-American

          One day, a colleague asked me if I would consider myself a Vietnamese or Vietnamese-American. “Vietnamese-American”, I answered without hesitation. And the answer shocked me. The country of my father was no longer mine. The blood, tears, and heartbreaks that my father endured to raise me in Saigon were forgotten. After decades in the US, I was now a Vietnamese-American. My trips to Vietnam were never a “coming home”, but more like exploratory visits. I resigned to this fact, and I was saddened by it. But in one sense, it was liberating. I was able to be honest with myself and paid tribute by showing allegiance to the adopted country that had given me the opportunity to raise a family of my own. When I left Vietnam at 14 years old, I did not know the meaning of “love of country”.  Four decades later, “love of country” meant America.

Recently, I looked up the definition of “home”, and the Merriam-Webster Dictionary defined it as “a place of residence; a family living together in one place.” Yes, this confirmed my feeling: Houston, Texas, USA, is definitely where I live, and it is my home. My residence in Cypress was where my wife and I raised our family. It was the home for my children for many years, and it is still our home. We have no home in Vietnam, and we do not live there. For the past 39 years, we were in Vietnam for a total of less than 30 days; much less than the time we spent on vacations in Hawaii, Europe, or even Japan. And about language and culture, we were better understood during our travel by speaking English than when we were in Vietnam speaking Vietnamese. Yet, while I still struggled with the English language, I no longer had to translate Vietnamese to English in my head. With an accent, I can speak, read and write English more comfortably than Vietnamese. And all my children were born Texans. Yes, I am definitely a Vietnamese-American. Yes, I am definitely a prodigal son of Vietnam. I came back several times, but the fatherland did not make me feel welcome at all. In fact, Vietnam seems to be someone else’s fatherland altogether.

American or Vietnamese

          Anh Chanh called me last week on January 1^st. A dedicated leader of the VRN Organization, Anh Chanh was someone I admired, and I took his phone call. We ended up talking for more than an hour. He wanted me to write a brief essay about “Coming Home”, as it is related to the Tet Celebration. Anh Chanh talked passionately about coming back to Vietnam and doing something useful for the country and its people. It was obvious to me that Anh Chanh still loves Vietnam with all his heart. But sadly, I cannot match his sentiment about Vietnam. The country of my father, of Anh Chanh and of many of my other friends, was no longer that of mine. And also sadly, I do not feel as strongly about America either. American or Vietnamese to me are divisive nouns used to classify people for someone’s own purpose. Sometime, some Americans would call me Vietnamese to mean that I am different from them; and at other times, some Vietnamese folks would call me American, as an indication of “mat goc”, a derogatory remark used for their own political or organizational purpose.

          Anh Chanh anticipated an essay describing the romantic notion and emotion of coming home, meaning coming back to Vietnam, Vietnamese Culture and Traditions. But I cannot write about coming home to Vietnam, when America is my home and when my culture and traditions are more American than Vietnamese. So I write about my true feelings on the subject matter. These thoughts might offend some folks. Some people might think that I am in denial of my feelings about Vietnam. Maybe some readers are in denial. But for whatever it is worth, this prodigal son is a true prodigal son of God. Either I am Vietnamese or American, God the Father has welcomed me, as I am, into His arms. The Heavenly Fatherland does not discriminate based on the color of my hair, my skin, my ability to speak a language, or my sentiment about a certain location. God is always there loving me and welcoming me back into His open arms. After years of chasing the American Dream, when I return from being strayed, He rushes out to embrace me back into His home. And that feeling of love and belonging was more than I can ever feel from any country, Vietnam or America, or from any people, Vietnamese or American.

In Summary

          There was a man, who crossed the street to help a victim of a violent crime. He could have walked on as a priest and some other holy person did; but instead, this man could not careless about the nationality of the injured person, and he went out of his way to help someone in need (The parable of the Good Samaritan, Luke 10:25-37).

Vietnamese or American, we are all the children of God, who created all of us and loves us all. God did not draw any lines on the map to divide us. We, by our own doings, draw lines to separate and divide each other. We make obstacles for ourselves, and we judge others by which side of the line we belong. By going back to Vietnam, I was trying to find a remnant of my heart, to satisfy the dreams of distant past; but instead, I found the land of my ancestors was nothing more than a place to visit. The Vietnamese I have seen in Ho Chi Minh City were in no difference from the French folks I met in Paris or the Brazilians I met in Sao Paolo. We all long for love and acceptance. Until we shed the labels being forced on by one another, and until we look upon each other with mercy and love the same way the Good Samaritan did, we will never find peace among ourselves or among our nations.

As for this prodigal son, this is my prayer:

O Lord, I have sinned against God and man,
          I am not worthy of being called your son.
          Please wash away my iniquities, and forgive me my sins,
          And give me the courage to love you and all people.
          Amen.

 

Vui Le
Houston, Texas
January 13, 2014