For the past few years I have been struggling to define myself, to have an answer for that question, "Who am I?" My answer constantly evolves. In my high school, which predominantly consisted of Caucasians, I was simply the smart Vietnamese girl. Whenever anyone had asked me where I was from, automatically I would respond "Vietnam," even though I had no memories of the country in which I was born. I had not even considered calling myself American, or Vietnamese American, despite the fact that English had become the language in which I formulated my thoughts. When my friends continued to probe me about what it was like in Vietnam, I told them truthfully that I did not know. My family had immigrated to America when I was only twelve months old.

Every now and then at the dinner table, I would ask my parents to tell me about what had happened in Vietnam and on our journey to America. They never told me the entire story, only bits and pieces. I did not know whether or not to attribute their lack of information to poor memory or a desire to forget. But when they thought I was being ungrateful, they would remind me of how fortunate I was to be alive. I had been born two months premature and weighed only four pounds. My grandfather had wanted my parents to leave me behind. My mother had been his favorite child; I was his only granddaughter. Along with my other relatives, he thought that I was too weak and would not survive the journey. My parents did not listen. We made it to Hong Kong, where I went into shock and stopped breathing for five minutes. My mother thought that I had died. I was revived after a nurse dunked me into a tub of ice cold water. This story always makes me wonder what my family would be like without me.

Not until college did I begin to question my identity as a Vietnamese woman. In high school, I was one of only two Vietnamese students; the other student was a male classmate whom I rarely interacted with. Being the eldest daughter, I was expected to be a role model for my younger sisters. This meant constant studying to achieve academic excellence and no friends. Vietnamese women are expected to be obedient, so I was. When I entered college, I was suddenly free to choose what I wanted to do. It was exhilarating, yet confusing at the same time. At Wellesley, I developed qualities that are frowned upon in Vietnamese society. Proper Vietnamese women are not outspoken. Wellesley not only taught me to be outspoken, but unafraid to express my opinions and question others' actions.