Linh Ta as told to Andrea Sahouri| Des Moines Register

Linh Ta: Too American or too Asian | Des Moines Storyteller's Project

How this Iowan learned to love all sides of herself, as told at the Des Moines Storyteller's Project's "Love" on, Feb. 15, 2022.

Des Moines Storytellers Project, Mediacom

Editor's note: Linh Tafirst told this story on stage at theDes Moines Storytellers Project's "Love: Stories of companionship, desireand commitment."The Des Moines Storytellers Projectis a series of storytelling events in which community members work with Register journalists to tell true, first-person stories live on stage. An edited version appears below.

Here in Des Moines, thousands upon thousands of miles away from the home they first knew, my parents met.

My dad always said that my mom was the prettiest girl in town.

She had a few other feelings about him. But she eventually got to know him and they married two people with a dream of a fruitlife life they hoped would happen through a Vietnamese restaurant and a family.

A lot of us know the story about how Iowa shone as a beacon of hope when the Vietnam War displaced refugees who needed homes. Thousands of them came here to Iowa, including my parents.

But then what happened?

On an April day Duc Ta and Thanh Nguyen-Ta had me.

They chose the name Linh L-i-n-h because it was a common Vietnamese name, but alsoIowans could pronounce it too.

Jokes on them. Sometimes, they cant.

There was no guidebook for how we were supposed to navigate our lives here. No family recipe to reminisce grandmas Thanksgiving dinner. No creaky home where generations of our family stayed we were just seeds in the air trying to find land that wouldnt spit us back up.

Add on top of that, I was quickly growing into an American child of the 2000s that demanded a Gameboy Color and beads in my hair and a growing desire to be more like a Linda versus a Linh.

When I was 10, I had a crush on the neighbor boy with his bright blue eyes. Wed make sand castles in his backyard and I would twist up grass and make little rings, one for him, one for me.

He invited me over for dinner sometimes and I sat with his family around their laminate table, hands together in prayer. That's where I discovered for the first timefive-minute rice with butter, which I politely shoveled under some food.

They were so freely nice, telling me that I could come over whenever and come play on their swingset.

But for my family, like many other Asian families, there's a lot of love between us, but there's also a reservation to others that can come off as coldness.

That meant misunderstood interactions, lots of nos when I asked if friends could come to our house and a general assumption from outsiders that well they must not like us, so we dont like them.

After a particularly fun day of playing with the neighbor boy, I begged my mom to let him stay for dinner. To my shock, she said yes it was something that rarely, if ever happened and I was elated.

We talked Pokemon cards and laughed about school. He was my best friend and to bring him to my table,I was ecstatic.

But when I looked across the dinner table, twinges of embarrassment kicked in. She didnt have to say it. But I could sense it. The judgment. I avoided my moms gaze and we finished dinner and he went home.

Later that night, I asked her what she thought of him at dinner. Without a beat of hesitation, she said he was rude. No please or thank you. Shoes on inside the house. I went to defend his reputation even though she felt like she was defending mine.

We argued that night as she cleaned up the dishes her fingernails scratching off flecks of food even though we had a dishwasher right there. I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed that in her eyes, I chose wrong. I was embarrassed because we were the house where people had to act a certain way, where American families Iowan families were so warm and welcoming and we were so utterly not.

Years later, when the neighbor and I were both teenagers in middle school, we took the bus together. It wasnt together-together, as we had reached that awkward age of self-awareness where one small move could mean social calamity in the vicious world of teenage popularity.

I was no longer the cute, elementary student that charmed people. New school, new students, acne-ridden. To the new kids at my school, I was then that Asian kid.

The new anonymity was freeing and trapping in certain ways. I leaned into stereotypes, pretending I was good at math when I was not good at math. I started making friends with the other Asian kids and felt a new sense of camaraderie I hadnt before.

But one day on the bus, when I was sitting with the other Asian kids, the neighbor boy the one who knew me turned to us and asked: Did you guys get your names from your parents throwing pots and pans down the stairs?

I was able to shrug off the comments from the other kids, but this one, I wasnt protected from. It was a reminder that no matter how hard I tried to assimilate, no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I was the Asian kid, first and foremost.

Plus, our stairs were carpeted. He knew that.

Being the kid of immigrants, its a wave you learn to ride.

Your great aunt gives you a bar of soap and points to your face, you nod and smile and say, "Im taking care of it, I know you love me, dont worry, theres this new three-step process called Proactiv."

When a white guy on Tinder immediately asks you if youre into anime you say well, duh but swipe left.

I let jokes slide by that I shouldnt have. And felt parts of myself slip away that I should have held dear, things that I should have loved in myself like my mothers eyes or my fathers tan skin.

But even among the people I looked like I feared their judgment too. Too Asian for the American people, but too American for Asian people.

I could help relatives with their resumes, but could barely speak with my own grandmother in Vietnamese.

And while I grew okay with being a Linh, the uncomfortable gray area sat with me for a long time.

But love changes things. And loving yourself is hard, oh so hard. But sometimes, when you love somebody else and see parts of yourself in them, it makes it easier to love yourself too.

For me, that started when I watched my little cousins grow up.

The next generation of my family isnt shy about sharing their lives, which is why I know way too much right now about Harry Styles and YouTube drama.

Its so fun watching them live their fun, authentic lives where they dont hesitate to share details about their heritage with their friends and classmates.

But when my little cousin was upset one day and told me the story about a boy who asked her if she ate dogs you better know, I was ready to beat a kid up.

And thats when I realized how badly my parents must have only wanted to protect me from the same cruelties and glares when they first came here so many years ago.

And I love them for who they are trying to keep me safe from a world that can be cruel and instantly judgmental.

I love my cousins for how open they are and how they dont hide themselves. And as they get older and that self-awareness kicks in, I want them to see that I love myself and that there's nothing they need to hide.

And when I think about my life now so many years later and all the different types of people who care about me, I feel forever grateful.

Andyou know what my parents have been doing? Theyve been asking me about when Im going to bring a nice person over.

ABOUT THE STORYTELLER:Linh Ta is a proud Des Moines resident, born and raised. She works as a reporter for Axios Des Moines, a daily newsletter that covers everything from politics to the best eats in town. Prior to that, she worked at the Des Moines Register and Iowa Capital Dispatch. As a new homeowner, her days are spent asking "how the heck do you do that?" and telling her cat to knock it off.

The Des Moines Storytellers Project strongly believes that everyone HAS a story and everyone CAN tell it. None of the storytellers who take our stage are professionals. They are your neighbors, friends or co-workers, and they are coached to tell byRegister journalists.

Want to tell your story at one of our upcoming Storytellers Project events?Read our guidelines and submit a story at DesMoinesRegister.com/Tell.

Contactstorytelling@dmreg.comfor more information.

WATCH:Mediacom rebroadcasts stories from the most recent show on MC22 periodically;check local listings for times. A replay is also available at YouTube.com/DMRegister.

LISTEN:Check out the Des Moines Storytellers Project podcast, which is available on your favorite podcasting platforms.

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Excerpt from:
Too American or too Asian? How this Iowan learned to love all sides of herself - Des Moines Register