Personal
Essays

My mother’s voice pierces through the thin walls of our apartment. Any second now, I would expect her to call me for the same old favor.

As early as the age of 8, I was translating English and Vietnamese. Before I even knew, I served as a portal between the two different worlds that I lived in. I would find myself translating words in both languages that I did not understand but needed to learn. Frustrating as it was, it only proved to me how out of touch I was with certain aspects of my roots and the western world. To my family, I was not Vietnamese enough, while my friends felt as if I were too Asian. I used to be uncomfortable with translation because it was a constant reminder of being “stuck” between two worlds.

Even if something feels uncomfortable, it is meant to be understood. Having to relearn my own culture was an act to confront uncomfortability. In turn, I counteracted assimilation, and so today I am fortunate enough as a child of an immigrant to even retain my native tongue. Using uncomfortability to revolutionize our behaviors is a tiny part of how I apprehend the world. Beginning with a simple task of helping my mom understand the English world, it grew to outwardly seeking curiosity for a myriad of subjects–chess, conceptual development, coding, painting or even bigger questions such as why racism exists. The art of translation was the catalyst for self realization. It is not just deciphering the essence of text, but letting the meaning simmer and swirl around a bit. Translation is digging deeper than face-value; it is to think abstractly and draw your opinions out of it.