Shame is a Five Letter Word
Shame is a five letter word for not knowing your ancestral language, for speaking your adopted language in a perfect accent that doesn’t quite match the face in the mirror.
It’s an inability to greet your parents’ friend, the chef and owner of that delicious Vietnamese restaurant you go to, the one that plays Vietnamese music - like the type at home - that you can’t understand but associate with family, home, and Saturday mornings cooking eggs and bacon and dipping French baguettes into sweet hot Vietnamese condensed milk. The old woman comes out of the kitchen to chat with your family and ask you how you’re doing, but all you can do is smile and nod and bury that shame deep in your chest as she laughs and asks your parents about you. You’re secretly glad when she goes back into the kitchen, and you feel ashamed for that.
Shame is when your family goes to the Buddhist temple - your first and only time - and you’re left with the other young kids. There’s an adult speaking about Buddhism, you assume, but you can’t understand so you ask the girl next to you to translate, and she tries but can’t listen and explain at the same time. You’re the only one there who doesn’t understand. For the first time, you’re suddenly aware that you’re not like them. There’s something wrong with you. You don’t belong there.
Shame is dreading that visit to Worcester to see your cousins and aunts and uncles. Your mom’s oldest brother and his wife don’t speak much English but you still do the traditional bow of respect, and feel your cheeks turn red when they talk to you - forgetting you don’t understand - then laugh when you can’t answer.
Shame is that confusion and discomfort when you see your elderly grandmother, whose family was ripped apart during the war and later moved to a strange country. She loves you, of course, because you’re her granddaughter, but how do you love someone when you can’t talk to them? Shame is knowing that you should love her, but you can’t express it.
Shame is standing at the funeral and crying because it’s the first time you’ve seen your strong, unbreakable mother sob, because you’re grieving for your mother’s grief more than your own, because you wish you knew her mother and loved her as everyone else did. Because something as small and insignificant as language barred you from knowing your own grandmother and loving her. Shame is crying for the experiences and love and family that you missed.
Shame is when your own people look at you with those eyes when you tell them you can’t speak their language. The children at the temple, your peers in the college student organization, the haircutter who was initially so excited to find someone with the same ethnicity. Their eyes ask, how can you be Vietnamese if you can’t speak the language? Those eyes - confused, accusing, incredulous - continue chasing you your whole life.
They make you feel less Vietnamese. They make you feel less.
