From Vietnam to Heritage: Creating My Own Family Heirlooms

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Each time I’m preparing to visit my parents, a familiar text from my mother, Thi, arrives, inquiring about my meal preferences. My response is always the same: anything will suffice. I trust that she’ll whip up something wholesome, satisfying, and distinctly Vietnamese. Even when I’m alone, she and my dad, Danh, will stock up on groceries as if feeding a small army. The spread will include an array of fruits, rice, noodles, and fresh herbs, perfectly illustrating their love through nourishment.

Food is interwoven into nearly every narrative my parents share. During challenging times, their memories are steeped in hunger. In moments of joy, they celebrate with meals. When they seek to express care for someone, feeding them is their go-to gesture. Growing up, I was always a part of the “clean plate club,” shaped by their stories of scarcity.

Navigating a Landscape of Conflict

My parents’ formative years unfolded amid the turmoil of Vietnam, culminating in the fall of Saigon on April 30, 1975. This pivotal moment saw 140,000 South Vietnamese fleeing their homeland by air and sea to escape advancing North Vietnamese troops. My father, once a history teacher, found himself instructing students in farming as the regime changed, a task for which he had little preparation, leading to crop failures.

Doan Nguyen

As a child, I was always part of the “clean plate club” because my parents would recount their stories of hunger.

— Doan Nguyen

Both parents faced job losses, grappling with the challenge of supporting themselves and my older sister. My father took on a series of manual jobs, including bread selling. One poignant moment he recalls involves finding a single grain of rice during his work; he describes it as the most delightful grain of rice he had ever tasted. They sacrificed their pots, pans, and cherished books just to secure enough food, preparing congee over a small charcoal fire for my sister. Every tale from this era revolves around intense hunger and the lengths they went to nourish their child.

The Perilous Voyage from Vietnam

After enduring years of hardship, my parents deemed risking their lives on the sea worth it over remaining in Vietnam. In April 1979, they pooled their resources to acquire a worn fishing boat and arranged to pose as fishermen while venturing into international waters. Along with family and friends, including my sister and a number of their students, they became part of a massive exodus, with no assurance of survival. Tragically, hundreds of thousands met grim fates along similar journeys.

During their perilous travel, three groups of pirates attacked, robbing them of everything and nearly abducting my sister. Their harrowing journey ultimately led to a refugee camp in Indonesia, where they encountered generous souls who shared food, alongside experiences of malaria and the desperate necessity to hunt for snakes and frogs for sustenance. After seeking asylum in multiple countries, my family settled in Kinston, North Carolina, in January 1980, arriving with only the clothes they wore, as my father wryly notes, “Without one single red penny!” I was born nearly a year afterward.

My upbringing included an eclectic mix of mismatched dinnerware, secondhand clothing, and furniture, the majority of which had been graciously provided by the local community. I often found myself envious of those families with cohesive sets of silverware or cherished kitchenware from past generations—items that felt forever out of reach for us.

The lack of family recipes left me yearning for connections as friends spoke of cookie-baking grandmothers or revered culinary traditions. My own grandmother had passed away when my mother was just six, denying her the chance to share culinary wisdom. My mother’s culinary education stemmed from observing street vendors in southern Vietnam. Though little is known about my grandmother, I do know that she sold copper cookware, reached out to help a less fortunate family, and fled from northern Vietnam, ultimately succumbing to grief from her losses.

Creating Personal Legacies

Initially, I longed for the family treasures and recipes I felt deprived of, but I’ve come to recognize the heirlooms I do possess. A clothes drying rack handed down to us has become a functional piece for both laundry and drying pasta. From the array of donations, we kept a set of silverware featuring a fleur-de-lis design—not of great monetary worth, but it has a special place in my kitchen. In time, I sought to complete the set via eBay, now proudly owning numerous soup spoons—a true kitchen essential.

When I was an infant, my parents acquired a knife and a whetstone. Each month, my father honed the blade, testing it for sharpness by attempting to remove hair from his forearm. This versatile knife became central to our family meals, with my parents taking turns cooking based on their work schedules. Sacrificing personal convenience, my mother often opted for crackers at work, ensuring her family had nutritious home-cooked meals instead. That same whetstone is now a part of my kitchen, where I continue to maintain my knife’s edge.

Emulating my mother’s cooking style, I often blend recipes while gathering insights from friends. Even now, she frequently sends me Vietnamese recipes and articles highlighting the growing appreciation for our cuisine. Fish sauce has become increasingly popular in American kitchens, and the widespread recognition of pho delights me.

While I once felt isolated in my background, I’ve found a profound sense of pride in my heritage. It’s remarkable to reflect on the immense risks that displaced individuals, especially my parents, have taken to carve out a better existence, significantly influencing America’s culinary landscape in the process. Their bravery and the generosity of those who offered us nourishment during difficult times are cherished heirlooms that I hold dear.

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