Hoa ta online art collection

My name is Minh-Hoa Ta. I identify as Chinese-Vietnamese. I was born và raised in Saigon, Vietphái nam, particularly in Chợ Lớn, which had a very big Chinese community. Chinese was my first language, and because one of my grandmothers was Vietnamese, I also learned how lớn speak Vietnamese. I currently work as the Vice President of Student Services at Ohlone College in Fremont, about trăng tròn minutes outside of San Jose, which has the largest community of Vietnamese outside of Vietphái mạnh in terms of numbers—Westminster in Orange County has the most in terms of percentage.

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What was your childhood lượt thích bachồng in Vietnam?

I had a happy childhood. I grew up during war time but I was fortunate to be from a family who did not have sầu to worry about having a roof over its head or food on the table. I was given the opportunity lớn receive a good education and I knew I was loved. Both of my parents were very adventurous and so we traveled a lot. Every weekkết thúc we would go lớn the beach, & my mom took us to lớn delta regions like Mỹ Tho, Cà Mau, Rạch Giá, và many other places. We had this Ford 10-passenger van and each trip all my 8 siblings & I và other family members & friends would cram into lớn the van, but we had a lot of fun together.

My mother was very active in various charities, and was very involved with Chùa Minh Hương in Chợ Lớn. Around 1970 as the war intensified và more & more people were evacuated, she & other women in the community got together and raised money to lớn purchase rice, clothes, và food and brought them lớn refugee camps phối up in Củ Chi. In the summer she turned all of us kids into lớn her little troop: we packed rice into lớn little individual packages the night before, got up early the next day, loaded the trucks, journeyed to Củ Chi, acted as security khổng lồ ensure that everything was orderly và supplies were being fairly distributed, & passed out food. Afterward my mother rewarded us by taking us lớn small local farms for things like bamboo shoots, watermelons, corn, or sweet potatoes. We would then throw everything into the van & we ourselves climbed on top of the van—there were no seat belt laws or anything like that in Vietphái mạnh. When we got trang chính, we distributed the food khổng lồ the neighbors. My mother would also often take us to lớn the orphanage in Biên Hòa. Many of these children were there because they had been abandoned or their parents had passed away. My mother would bring rice và money lớn the orphanage and then we would all spend time playing with the babies. I rethành viên having such a hard time leaving each time because of the bonds we formed with the children.

There were also darker times in my childhood, like when my brother got drafted inkhổng lồ the military. My mother cried so often & worried about my brother. The oldest brother got drafted because he did not pass the university exam. My uncles were also in the military so I have sầu a lot of military family. They say that every family in Vietphái nam probably has an uncle, cousin, nephew, or son in the military & so all families experience some form of heartache. Every family was worried. So growing up in Vietphái nam as a young child, you become mature quickly and you begin khổng lồ underst& life early. You don’t take life for granted. You appreciate people around you. You see & you underst& suffering at a young age and understvà the meaning of separation.

As an ethnic Chinese, you always know that you’re ethnic Chinese because people would tell you và remind you that you’re ethnic Chinese: “Oh! Người Việt nơi bắt đầu Hoa (Ethnic Chinese)!” Or sometimes they would hotline you tín đồ Tàu, which is a derogatory term. And when they would look at my last name, which is Ta, they would easily be able to lớn tell I’m Chinese. Also, during that time, every family had a household identification or certificate. Whenever a security guard came to lớn draft people at night or even during the day, you would have sầu to show your household certificate so they would know not only how many people exactly were in the house, but also your ethnic identity. I lived in Chợ Lớn, District 5, where you couldn’t survive sầu without speaking Chinese because most of the residents there were Chinese. I also remember how my mom told us about how my father was trying khổng lồ build his business at that time and move us inkhổng lồ a particular neighborhood, but because we are ethnic Chinese, we were not allowed khổng lồ live in certain neighborhoods. Therefore, we could not purchase certain tracts of land or properties.

And being Chinese, there were also political circumstances that made life difficult. You would not be encouraged to join politics và you often got reminded of the consequences for speaking up. I lived a blochồng away from Ton Tho Tuong, & there was a wealthy Chinese man named Ta Vinh who was shot & killed at point blank because he và the vice president were competing over a piece of l&. Ta Vinh did not realize he was competing with a person in power and the vice president ordered someone to shoot & kill hyên. That sent out a very strong message lớn the Chinese community that they better not speak up or go against the government or else there would be consequences.

When I moved to America, I learned about how the Vietnamese people were discriminated from Chinatown, và I realized that discrimination happens everywhere, & not just on a racial màn chơi, but also the socio-economic màn chơi.

I went to a Chinese school where I learned Chinese (Mandarin) and Vietnamese at the same time. I actually went lớn Catholic schools for most of my life—first in kindergarten and middle school, và then I came to America and went khổng lồ public schools, & then returned lớn a Jesuit school when I went for my doctorate. So somehow it was all very full-circle!

When & how did you leave sầu Vietphái mạnh, và how did you and your family end up in the United States?

In 1975 we had permission to lớn leave sầu the country, but the permission only extended to 3 of us—we had 14 people in total. In Vietphái nam, you never thought about leaving your family to lớn another province or city, let alone another country. This was our trang chủ. So when we were given the choice of picking 3 family members khổng lồ leave, everyone said no, that we were going to lớn stay together. We stayed for another 2.5 years, but things got so bad that we had to escape. In late 1977-1978, there was a lot of anti-Chinese sentiment and all Chinese businesses & even houses were taken away. We were then forced lớn stay in one place, my parents could not keep their businesses, my brother và uncles were sent to lớn re-education camps, and we knew that if we stayed any longer, my younger brother would be drafted lớn the Cambodian War. So there were a lot of turmoil surrounding my family, và also seeing how the Chinese were not welcome, my mother began planning our escape. For the first attempt, my mother planned an escape for just a few of my siblings, but it failed and they had khổng lồ go khổng lồ jail. After they got released, my mom then planned for a second escape with everyone in my family, except for my grandparents who were too old to lớn take the journey, & my father, who was staying behind so that in case we did get caught, because if we did get caught, there would still be someone to lớn bail us out from jail. With the second attempt in 1979, my mom was in liên hệ with someone who had a small boat and they put together the escape plan. The boat sailed for 14 days directly lớn Indonesia & it was a long journey, a nightmare journey. We successfully arrived in Indonesia, but we had to lớn leave sầu my father và my grandparents behind. I think the decision khổng lồ leave behind her parents was one that my mom could never forgive sầu herself for because she was an only child, & unfortunately, we never saw my grandparents again. My grandfather passed away a year after we escaped, having died of a broken heart. My mother held onto my grandfather’s letters and pictures in her wallet every day when she was in the the U.S., carrying them with her everywhere she went. My grandfather passed away at the age of 79 and I rethành viên my mother telling herself that she would never want to lớn live past that age because of the guilt that was eating her alive sầu every day, and sadly, she actually did not live sầu past the age of 79.

When we arrived at an isl& in Indonesia, we were sent to another island, và then finally arrived at a third isl& where there was a refugee camp called Tanjung Pinang. We stayed there for 5.5 months before we got transferred lớn a refugee camp in Jakarta, where we stayed for another month. We were lucky because at that time, anybody toàn thân who arrived in a refugee camp before a certain date was automatically admitted to the U.S. without a sponsor. And if you belonged to a military family, which we did because of my brother, as long as there was a church that was willing to lớn sponsor you, you could come khổng lồ the U.S. We were ultimately sponsored lớn Oakl&, CA. I have a sister who left Vietnam before everyone else did in 1979, và she actually arrived at the same island in Indonesia that we would later arrive sầu at, but was already in the U.S.—in Oakland!—by the time we got khổng lồ the refugee camp. So we somehow had the same escape route & journey lớn the U.S.! However, she had lớn change her identity và clalặng someone else’s family as her own so she did not have lớn stay behind in the refugee camp by herself. Luckily, that family had their household certificate which still listed the name of a daughter who had passed away, & my sister was able lớn assume that identity. When she arrived in the U.S., she parted ways with them & went khổng lồ live with an American minister’s family who took her in because she was only 18 at the time and still considered a minor. However, when she found out that we had safely arrived in Indonesia, because of her assumed identity, she was unable to sponsor us, but luckily we were sponsored by a church & so did not require family sponsorship. She came to lớn the airport to lớn welcome us when we arrived to lớn the U.S., and her host family saw us, they immediately knew we were related because we all looked so alike! So similar khổng lồ the Paper Son & Paper Daughter phenomenon baông xã in the early 1900s, my sister became a modern-day Paper Daughter. Many people in the community, including myself, also had to change our birthdays or birth years in order to lớn survive. In Vietphái nam, many people tried to lớn avoid the draft & so made their oldest sons younger on paper, but that also meant that the rest of the children had khổng lồ have sầu their birth years adjusted accordingly. My brother had his age changed baông chồng in Vietphái mạnh & it was listed on his military ID, so the rest of us had the years changed on our records when we came lớn the U.S. khổng lồ match the legal record.

What was it lượt thích for you và your family in those first few years after you arrived in the United States? What was the Bay Area lượt thích at that time?

Overall, it was a very tough time in my life, one that I would not want lớn relive sầu. I was 14, almost 15 years old when we arrived in the States on February 14th, 1980. The school semester was already in progress so we could not be enrolled in school yet, và so I went lớn Berkeley Adult School in the meantime. I rethành viên studying with all the adults, how fast-paced the material was, and how diverse the student toàn thân was. The teacher was very nice, which helped make the transition a little easier. The following September, I was admitted to Albany High School. Our sponsor said that since we had a lot of young women in the family, Albany would be a safer đô thị for us to lớn live in than Oakland, & so they helped us find a 2-bedroom place for the 8 of us. I remember whenever we heard that the landlord was coming, we all disappeared because we knew that we would get in trouble for having so many of us living under the same roof. Even when the water heater broke, we didn’t dare tell the landlord because we were afraid that would mean they would drop by, và so we had to lớn find ways to lớn pay someone ourselves lớn come & fix it. I slept on the sofa, which was actually my bed for 10 years.

We didn’t have sầu any family in the United States besides my sister so we didn’t really have an extended network lớn rely on. My mother was in her late 50s when we arrived and it was so hard for her khổng lồ find a job, and so my oldest siblings had to lớn immediately find work lớn support our family—my oldest sisters worked as in-home babysitters & so were only home page on the weekends, & my brother, who had never washed dishes in his life, worked as a dishwasher in a restaurant washing hundreds of dishes at a time. I still remember how when one of my sisters got a job in San Rafael, before that bridge was built, she had lớn take several buses to lớn get lớn work: from Albany to San Francisteo, from San Francisteo to lớn Marin County, and then from Marin County to San Rafael. My oldest siblings never had the chance khổng lồ go to lớn school, but because of our ages, two of my sisters & I did have sầu that opportunity. But we still had to lớn work too; during high school I delivered newspapers, worked as a housecleaner, mowed lawns—everything. But seeing how hard my siblings worked and the struggles they had to lớn go through, I never complained. It was so hard living with the fear of the landlord suddenly coming in và busting us, that worry of not having enough khổng lồ eat, the găng of peer pressure since we always stood out with our Salvation Army clothes và shoes, the stigma of being on welfare.

But I was very fortunate to lớn have sầu such caring teachers at Albany High School. Because of the language barrier, we didn’t hang out with most of the other kids và the teachers allowed us khổng lồ stay in their classrooms lớn study & to ask questions, and they protected us from classmates who made fun of us or screamed at us. Their kindness meant a lot to me and I still kept in touch with them long after I graduated.

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We were always so happy to lớn go lớn Oakl& Chinatown. We didn’t have a car so we rode the bus everywhere. Chinatown was only two blocks long when I arrived, but now it’s so big! The Southeast Asian community in Oakl& was also very small then; the majority of merchants were ABC (American Born Chinese) and it wasn’t until a bit later that we began having Vietnamese merchants or products. I remember how excited we were khổng lồ get bok choy & bean sprouts, but nothing lượt thích bittermelon, mint, Tnhị basil, or tamarind was available yet—the only way we could make canh chua (sour soup) was to lớn use vinegar. There wasn’t a lot of fresh produce at the time either, meaning we ate a lot of canned food. I still have memories of us buying melons và sacks of rice và carrying them trang chủ on the bus. I also rethành viên when we were at the Berkeley Adult School, my sisters and I would have sầu đôi mươi cents for the bus (10 cents each way), but sometimes we would debate over whether we should take the bus or walk instead & use the bus fare for Coca Cola.

Going to lớn San Francisco Chinatown was always a treat, but it was expensive to get there. I also remember getting lost. We were supposed khổng lồ meet a friover but ended up getting lost and just going up & down Market Street. We had the address but had no idea how lớn get there. We ran into a sponge cake delivery man who told us that our destination was actually in Daly City, but luckily he was headed that way and could drop us off. We had no idea what he was saying but we piled into lớn his delivery van of cookies & cakes và helped us find our friover. I think people were much friendlier và trusting then. Here was this man who saw these five Asian women, which included my mother who was in her 60s, who were clearly lost, and yet he went out of his way to help us.

There was definitely a lot of culture shochồng. We came from a culture that is not very affectionate và suddenly we’re in a society where people hug, have friendly conversations even with strangers. I rethành viên a neighbor said hi to lớn me và I said hi back; he said hi to me again và I said hi bachồng. Then I ran away because I had no idea what khổng lồ do! And we were very shocked lớn see how open dating was. In school, it was new to lớn me khổng lồ see students talking baông chồng to teachers, being loud, or even yelling at the principal. Going from one room lớn another for different subjects made me feel like there was no structure; in Vietnam you stayed in the same room while the teachers rotated. P..E. was also difficult for me because playing sports like football made me very uncomfortable. All these people, guys in particular, are suddenly coming at you và making liên hệ. There was this one game when somehow I had the ball and my teammate told me khổng lồ run, but when I saw all these guys running at me, I quickly surrendered the ball. Football, handball, golf—these weren’t sports we had in Vietnam, and some sports, like soccer, were not sports played by Vietnamese women. All these things—the language barrier, the class background differences, the cultural differences—made me feel lượt thích I didn’t fit in.

You have sầu such an incredible academic resume: B.A.’s in Social Welfare & Asian American Studies from U.C. Berkeley, an M.S.W. in Social Work Education from San Francisteo State University, & a PhD in International Multicultural Education from University of San Francisco. How has your education shaped not only your professional journey, but also the lens through which you see the world?

Everything ties baông chồng to my accidental fall into lớn Asian American Studies. When I got accepted at U.C. Berkeley, I was actually planning lớn major in computers. Because I was good at math, I had never dreamed of going inlớn the social sciences; you want to major in something that you are good at. However, I really disliked programming, and I remember just sitting in class one day and feeling lost, unhappy with the field I was in. I bumped inlớn this woman who told me to lớn come with her khổng lồ the Asian American Studies class she was in và thought I might like. I didn’t know what Asian American Studies was và so I went with her and sat in on a lecture by Dr. Ron Takaki. He is such a dynamic instructor and the way he talked about Asian American history và the Asian American experience changed everything for me. It was the first time I saw myself reflected in the curriculum—the parallels between what other Asian communities went through and what my family went through, the discrimination we all faced, the struggles we had to overcome. Asian American Studies allowed me to lớn find myself, my voice. But I also had doubts about what I could vì with my major. My family was waiting for me khổng lồ graduate and make a living và I knew that I did not have sầu the luxury to major in something just because I liked it. Since I speak several languages, someone recommended that I major in Social Welfare, another field I had no idea about. But I knew what a social worker was because one had helped me và my family, & I thought that it would be pretty nice lớn work with newcomers. So I ended up double-majoring in Social Welfare và Asian American Studies with the thinking that I could use my background in Asian American Studies and the quality perspective from American society. It makes me a social worker who was not only effective sầu, but also empathetic and knowledgeable about the diversity of this country.

Asian American Studies also led me lớn question my views on U.S. intervention in Vietphái mạnh. I remember hating the Communists và blaming them for everything—my parents being forced lớn separate, never seeing my grandparents again, the suffering my family had khổng lồ go through. But after understanding U.S. intervention & learning about imperialism, capitalism, communism, socialism—all the -isms—everything was put inkhổng lồ perspective. I became a community activist because I wanted to champion for social justice, especially for at-risk youth. So after I finished at U.C. Berkeley, I went lớn work for Asians for Job Opportunities as a Social Worker Aide, helping newcomers with things like going khổng lồ the doctor & filling out forms. Then I worked for the International Institute of the East Bay where I started an afterschool youth program at Westlake Junior High, và later at the Oakl& Probation Department as a translator for at-risk Southeast Asian youth, accompanying them to lớn Juvenile Hall, visiting them there, presenting them at court, getting them out of pool halls, keeping tabs on them. I didn’t make much money, but I was doing something that I really liked and was beneficial to the communities around me. And I didn’t have any fear. At that time, East Oakland & West Oaklvà were really bad neighborhoods where people would be selling drugs left & right, but I wasn’t afraid that I would get shot or get harmed. I think this fearlessness had to lớn vày with having a good understanding of why people had to bởi vì the things that they did & how they ended up where they were, & communicating & supporting people from a position of respect và empathy. I spent a lot of time in the housing projects in West Oakl& và the heart of the ghetkhổng lồ in East Oakl& because that’s where most of the Vietnamese refugee community lived. I rethành viên walking around trying to lớn find the youths who had skipped out on their court dates before the police did, or else they could get locked up for even longer periods of time. The work I did was tough, but it was an important time for me lớn learn about myself và the diverse communities in the East Bay. I made connections to Cambodian New Generation, the Vietnamese Fishermen’s Association, Catholic Charities, Women’s Inc., Asian Community Mental Health, và many other community organizations. These were people who put their heart into lớn helping newcomers, women, seniors, & people who were struggling or marginalized, và we were constantly having conversations about what we can vì khổng lồ make our communities better, how we can work together lớn create change. I rethành viên how we all pushed the Oaklvà Police Department to hire Robert Sayaphupha, the very first Southeast Asian police officer in the department. We argued that in order to build trust, we needed someone who looked like us and who understood the community. So we formed the Southeast Asian Community on Crime to address issues within the community, to build relationships between the community and the police, lớn educate police officers about our culture. For example, in a lot of Asian cultures, corporal punishment is a comtháng practice, but not in the U.S. When parents would hit their children, the children would Gọi the police và then the parents would get locked up. So we had lớn be advocates for both sides, educating the parents about how parents aren’t supposed to hit their children here và the judicial system about the need khổng lồ consider cultural differences and that locking the parents up is not the answer. There were also a lot of cases about cạo gió (coining) because while its a traditional medical practice in Asia, it isn’t in the U.S. & so many child abuse claims were made. These are just some of the issues we talked about when we brought the community, social agencies, and law enforcement together in these meetings.

You wrote your PhD thesis on Twice a Minority: A Participatory Study of the Chinese-Vietnamese Adaptation Experiences in Vietphái mạnh & the U.S. What inspired you lớn choose this topic?

As a Chinese-Vietnamese,it was very obvious to me when I was working in the community that the majority of the community organizations were led by Vietnamese people, & most of them men. They would still use terms lượt thích người Việt cội Hoa or bạn Tàu & I knew they still see me as an outsider. We as a Southeast Asian community got lumped together after the war, but our struggles were different. The ethnic Chinese in Vietnamese in reality were forced out by the regime và we suffered deeply between 1977-1980 — because ethnic Chinese were classified as a minority in Vietphái mạnh, all our properties were taken away, many of our family members and friends were taken lớn re-education camps or the New Economic Zones, we were not allowed to participate in politics or go lớn law school. Many turned khổng lồ business because that was the only way lớn make money, which you needed in order to lớn buy safety. In America, we are seen as Chinese by the Vietnamese community but Vietnamese by the Chinese community, but according to the general public, there is no difference between Chinese or Vietnamese because we are all just seen as refugees. So we were like people who were “in-between,” struggling with an identity crisis. My father always said that he felt lượt thích a deaf & mute person because he couldn’t underst& what people were saying, we couldn’t have sầu conversations with others, & he was helpless like an infant. There was so much unfairness for my parents’ generation, many of whom had to leave sầu Trung Quốc for Vietnam, only khổng lồ be forced out again later but this time from Vietnam to lớn the West. While they had hope for their children, they often had little hope for themselves. So upon seeing how the Chinese-Vietnamese experience was never represented in any of the retìm kiếm, I felt like that there was a need khổng lồ give a voice khổng lồ this community for my dissertation.

I interviewed 6 participants và I asked them questions like where were they born, what their life in Trung Quốc was like, what brought them to lớn Vietnam, what their life in Vietnam was like, & what brought them to the U.S. I was exploring the fact that they were twice a minority, first in Vietphái nam and then in the U.S. These interviews demonstrated the range of backgrounds of the community, like how some were very educated while others never had the opportunity lớn receive sầu an education, & how not everyone’s reason for leaving Đài Loan Trung Quốc or path khổng lồ the U.S. was identical. I rethành viên this one interviewee who talked about how they went from Đài Loan Trung Quốc to lớn Cambodia lớn Vietnam and then to the U.S., just constantly fleeing war. These interviews also gave sầu me a better understanding of how others in the community think about topics like fate, the concept of past lives và karma, và gender roles.

I was also inspired to vị this retìm kiếm because through all my community work, I was meeting all these elders who had these incredible stories that weren’t being told. I rethành viên meeting some of their grandchildren afterward và them telling me how appreciative sầu they were of me for giving them the opportunity to lớn know their grandparents’ stories. Many of them had never had this type of conversation with their grandparents or even their parents. Some of the elders ended up living out the rest of their years peacefully, but there were a few who could never quite recover from the tragedies và losses in their lives.

You have sầu done so many amazing things lớn help increase educational equity for the Asian American và Southeast Asian American communities in the Bay Area, such as co-founding the Vietnamese American Studies Center at SFSU & the APASS Center at CCSF. Can you tell us a little bit about each?

I feel so privileged và blessed lớn have sầu been able lớn be a part of the creation of the Vietnamese American Studies Center at SFSU. The experience was amazing. Being the co-founder of the Vietnamese American Studies Center allowed me lớn not only get Vietnamese American Studies added into lớn the CSU curriculum, but it also gave me the opportunity lớn work with scholars here in America và in Vietnam. This experience allowed me to underst& the people in Vietnam giới for the first time; I finally understood the country that I was born in. It didn’t matter whether someone was from the North or the South. I learned about why the North behaved the way it did & how the South ended up the way it did, and how we, as a nation và as a people in Vietphái nam, for so many years had been dictated by outside forces about who we were và how lớn think about each other, corrupted và imprisoned by them. I find it so sad how so many young lives were taken away in their prime. The war was so unnecessary but we didn’t really have sầu a choice. The country became so messed up and it had to vị with so many years of colonization, whether it was the Chinese, the French, or the Americans, & then fighting internally with each other. For years & even right now, the leaders are corrupt themselves, influenced by those outside forces. But regardless, it gave me an opportunity lớn realize that we are not that much different when we put politics aside and và actually look at each other as human beings — we actually aren’t that different from each other, and if we can work together, we can learn so much from each other.

This opportunity allowed me khổng lồ go khổng lồ Hanoi, where I was able to lớn feel, touch, and see everything over there & reconcile with the anger that I had toward North Vietnam for so long because of the suffering that my family had to lớn go through. And also, it gave me an opportunity lớn be in South Vietnam where I was able lớn see the impact và aftermath of the war.

The first time I went baông xã lớn Vietnam was in 1992, before the opening up of U.S. & Vietnam relationships. My work also gave sầu me the opportunity to go bachồng again in 1996 when relationships had already begun normalizing. I have continued khổng lồ go bachồng regularly since, maybe cthua kém khổng lồ 30 times now. I have now gotten to lớn know people in the North who I would never dreamed of meeting but who are now my friends. The program also allowed us lớn touch lives on both sides: students from both the North và the South have sầu come over & stayed at my house, and I have watched them get educated in the U.S. and continue through life. It put me bachồng deeper inlớn the community & no longer see myself as just a Chinese-Vietnamese, but rather just a human being who tries khổng lồ vày the right thing. My philosophy is that if I can help just one person, that would be enough. I’m not dreaming of helping hundreds or thousands of people, but if someone crosses my path & I can make one difference in that person’s life, I will. This experience also helped me recognize the importance of addressing the gaps between the Model Minority Myth and the realities so many in the Asian American community face, many of whom are underserved. Not all of us are Mã Sản Phẩm minorities, rich, good at math, or Ivy League or UC-bound.

When I was at CCSF, I felt lượt thích there was a need for me to speak up for the Asian Pacific Islander population. If I, as an Asian American person, did not speak up for my community, then who will or should? I fought for the APASS retention center at CCSF to address this needs of the community. I had the best time working there—it was such a happy place to be and everyone was excited by the work we were doing.

As a former Southeast Asian American Studies và Vietnamese American Studies professor, what are some books you would put on a recommended reading list?

Family Tightrope by Narli KribiaThe Cold War, A New Oral History of life between East and West by Bridget KandallThe Spirit Catches You và You Fall Down: A Hước ao Child, Her American Doctors, & the Collision of Two Cultures by Anne FadimanPerfume Dreams: Reflections on the Vietnamese Diaspora by Andrew LamThe Sympathizer by Viet Thanh hao NguyenMonkey Bridge by Lan CaoDistant Road by Nguyen Duy