THE FIRST DAY IN A NEW SCHOOL IS HARD FOR ANY child, but try to imagine what it’s like for a refugee who doesn’t speak a word of English. The teacher tells everyone to take out a piece of paper, but you have no idea what she’s saying, and the only reason you take out a piece of paper is because that’s what everyone around you is doing. You nod a lot, not because you understand but because you don’t want everyone else to think you’re stupid. You smile at everyone, not because you’re happy but because you’re terrified by the thought of making someone angry. You sit by yourself in the cafeteria and wish someone would approach you, but you don’t dare approach someone else.
On the first Monday following our arrival in Fort Smith, Jenny, Bruce, Yen, Nikki, and Thai all began their American educations at Belle Point Elementary School, starting classes almost two months into the school year, which put them behind in every subject. Jenny was in sixth grade, Bruce in fifth, Yen in fourth, Nikki in first, and Thai in kindergarten. Almost everything they had been taught in Vietnam was useless; in America no one cared if they were able to recite songs of praise to Uncle Ho.
I was too young even for kindergarten, but at Allied Gardens there was a program called Head Start that was funded by the Department of Health and Human Services to help children from low-income families get ready for kindergarten. My parents loved Head Start because the program was free. I loved it because all we did was play and eat doughnuts, and if we wanted another doughnut, all we had to do was ask for more. More was the second English word I ever learned, which gave me a two-word vocabulary: Coke and more. If I ever wanted more Coke, I was ready.
I only spoke Vietnamese and Cháo zhōu, so when they had story time, I listened without understanding; and when they sang nursery rhymes, I lip-synched so no one would know I didn’t understand the words. There were a couple of other Vietnamese kids in my Head Start program, so I didn’t feel completely alone—I just couldn’t talk to anyone. But there wasn’t much need to talk with a mouthful of doughnuts anyway, and I was too busy enjoying all the activities to care much about conversation.
When I advanced to first grade, I was in school only a couple of weeks before an error was discovered on my enrollment record. On American calendars the New Year always begins on January 1, but on the Chinese calendar the start of the New Year varies each year from late January to mid-February. I was born on January 1, and according to the American calendar the year was 1976. But on the Chinese calendar the New Year did not begin that year until January 31, so according to that calendar, my birth year was 1975. My parents had used the Chinese calendar when they recorded my birth year on official documents back in Singapore, and that gave everyone the impression that I was five years old when, in fact, I was only four. When the error was discovered, the school decided I was too young to be in first grade and should be in kindergarten instead. The decision to move me back a grade level meant nothing to me at the time, but it was to have a major impact on my life later on.
Kindergarten was new to me, and it had its challenges. On the very first day the teacher announced that everyone should bring a towel to class the next day for nap time. The teacher knew I wouldn’t understand, so she gave me a note to take home to my mother that would explain everything—but my mother didn’t know any more English than I did, and the note didn’t help at all.
Yen helped her decipher the note, which is something she always did for our family. Whenever there was a note or letter for my parents to read, Yen helped them figure it out; whenever there was a report card or a permission slip for my parents to sign, Yen signed it for them. Yen managed to figure out that I was supposed to bring something to school the next day, but even Yen couldn’t understand what the item was. It was the word towel that confused them; towel sounds like the Vietnamese word thao, which means “wash basin,” and my mother couldn’t understand why in the world the teacher would want me to bring a wash basin to school. It finally dawned on Yen what the word must have meant, and she explained it to my mother.
The next day when the teacher asked everyone to take out their towels and spread them on the floor for nap time, I watched as the other kids unrolled enormous beach towels with He-Man or Malibu Barbie printed on the front—then I reached into my pocket and pulled out a little washcloth. Everyone laughed at me, and while they were all napping on their fluffy beach towels, I had to curl up on the carpet.
Coke, more, and towel—my vocabulary was expanding fast.
In grade school I also learned my first lessons about racism and discrimination. My elementary school was predominantly white, and my brothers and sisters and I stood out like beacons there. In my first-grade class we were all sitting on the floor for story time one day when a boy raised his hand and asked in front of everyone, “Why does Vinh have a flat nose?” I lost count of the number of times I was asked, “Do you know kung fu?” and each time I was asked that question, I wished I did. We were called “flat-faced,” “fat head,” and sometimes names that didn’t even make sense.
I was in second grade before anyone called me “gook,” and I had no idea what the word meant. Another Vietnamese boy had to tell me, “Don’t you know what that means? That’s the worst thing anyone can call you!” and I had to make a mental note that the next time I was called gook, I should get very angry. That’s the strange thing about discrimination: it has to be learned, on both the sending end and receiving end. In a fistfight no one has to tell you if you’ve been punched or not, but you have to learn when you’ve been insulted in a conversation—and I was given plenty of opportunities to learn.
My biggest struggle was that I didn’t speak English. I got into a pushing match with a boy in first grade, and we both had to go to the principal’s office. The principal listened while the other boy explained his version of the story first: yes, the boy admitted, it was true that he pushed me first, but only by accident. The principal turned to me and asked, “Is that true? Did he push you by accident?” I had no idea what he was asking me. Accident—that word was not in this week’s vocabulary lesson. What did it mean? I don’t remember what I said to the principal in reply, but whatever it was got me punished and allowed the other boy to go free.
It happened again in second grade. I got into a pushing match with another boy, and this time my teacher asked me, “Don’t you think you owe him an apology?” I just stared at her. I didn’t know what an apology was, and I wasn’t sure if you could owe one or not—so I told her no and got in trouble again.
In both cases I clearly remember thinking, That’s not fair. I wasn’t being punished for pushing someone—I was being punished for not knowing the words accident and apology. If I had possessed a better command of the language, the other boys would have been punished and I would have gone free. That was when I first began to understand the power of language. I could use it to attack, and I could use it to defend but only if I knew the right words.
Though school was difficult for us all, it was hardest for Jenny. She was twelve when we arrived, and though she may have been the brightest of all of us, she had the hardest time learning the English language. When I was only four, Jenny brought a book home from school one day. She always took immaculate care of her books; she saved the nicest wrapping paper from previous holidays to wrap them in, and it would have been unthinkable for her to ever make a mark in one. But she left her book on the coffee table that day, and I not only opened it but tore a page—and when I did, she slapped me so hard that I almost passed out. Jenny feels terrible about that to this day, but I understand. Jenny loved school back in Vietnam, and she suffered more than any of us when the communists took over and her dream of one day becoming an engineer was shattered. In America she saw a second chance, and the opportunity to get an education was far more precious to her than it was to the rest of us. The book I tore was sacred to her because education was sacred to her. When I tore that page, I think she felt her dream being torn away from her for a second time.
We all struggled when we first started school, and unfortunately the challenges did not go away as the years went by. The lessons just got harder—the lessons in math, science, English, and also racism and discrimination. We had a lot to learn about what it took to succeed in America, and the most important lessons they didn’t teach in school; we had to learn those lessons somewhere else.