Personal Statement 

Windows, mirrors, and sliding glass doors are common features in most houses. My first  house, a second-level 700-square-foot-apartment, had two windows, three mirrors, and one set of  sliding glass doors. My parents worked hard to achieve their American dream, making this small  space our nhà (home). O nhà, at home, melodic tones of my family’s native language filled the  rooms. On weekends, the sounds of cải lương, Vietnamese modern folk opera, blared from the  box TV. Above it was an altar where offerings were prepared for my ancestors. The kitchen was  always filled with the aromas of fish sauce and simmering soups. Our small apartment was  everything. We ate together on newspaper spread out on the floor. We rode bikes zig zagging  around couches. We jumped on the furniture. This was my norm; it was my nhà. 

As a young child, I was excited to meet new friends, learn new things, but o hoc, at  school, I quickly realized I was different. I wasn’t prepared for the differences between me and  my peers, between my family and others, between the bubble I called home and the world  beyond. In the communities I grew up in, less than three percent of students identified as Asian. Throughout my pre-K to high school career, I had only two teachers of color, neither of whom  were Asian. When looking at curriculum and representation, as a Vietnamese American, my  identity and experiences were outliers among dominant narratives. I often felt discouraged and  embarrassed, staying silent in hopes of blending in and avoiding questions like, “Where are you  REALLY from?” I guarded myself and avoided bringing ethnic food, speaking Vietnamese, and  being myself, fearing I would be an outcast. I told little fibs to relate to my peers, masking who I  was. At school, I tried to be American to fit in, but I was too Asian. At home, I tried to be  Vietnamese, but I was too American. This double act was exhausting. 

In 2011, a trip to my parents’ hometown of Vam Lang, Vietnam sparked curiosity to  learn more about my heritage, family history, cultural and educational differences. I noticed that  no children my age attended school, instead some fished or sold lottery tickets, which contrasts  to my full-day schooling in the U.S. Despite this glimpse into the series of stories my parents had  shared for years, I continued to struggle to navigate my identity as a Vietnamese American. In  high school, I faced invisible career expectations that often-placed labels of “success” in STEM  fields. My love of learning aligned with my family’s values to receive an education, but teaching  was not seen as a “successful” career. The absence of representation, or metaphorical mirrors, made it challenging to envision myself as a leader in education. 

It wasn’t until college that I found windows, mirrors, and sliding glass doors—not as physical features, but opportunities to explore diverse perspectives, see my own identity  reflected, and step into new experiences. Through student leadership in the Asian American  Cultural Center, the Asian/Asian American Mentoring Program, and the Vietnamese Student  Association, for the first time, I was surrounded by individuals who shared similar experiences. Over the past few years, I continued to learn to embrace my Vietnamese American identity,  celebrate diverse cuisine, language, traditions, and celebrations, deepening my understanding of  who I am. My family at first challenged my idea to enter the education field, but I am choosing  to teach and lead because of my belief in the power of representation and cultural connection.  

These experiences have shaped my understanding of cultural identity and fueled my  passion for bridging cultural divides. With my own experience with windows, mirrors, and  sliding glass doors—or the lack thereof—I hope to create opportunities for my future students to  see themselves, learn from others, and learn from new experiences. I started my journey as a  student struggling to find her place in society, but through teaching, I aim to continue to grow,  striving to be the culturally responsive educator I needed growing up.