Tôi mến bạn (I love you)
By Isabelle Craft

“I love you.”

My whole body froze. The hair on my arms was standing straight up. Did I hear the right? Did Bà nội really just tell me that she loves me? I turned to face her, and she lowered her gaze. In Vietnamese culture, we rarely make eye contact with our elders, as a sign of respect. Instead, she nodded and I knew that was her way of saying, “Yes, I just told you that I love you.” While this may have not seemed like a big deal to my other sixteen-year-old-peers, I knew it was huge. Up until that point, I had never heard those words from her and while I felt the warmth of tears building up, I knew it would make her uncomfortable and so instead I just whispered out, “I love you too, Bà nội.”

You see, in Vietnamese culture, “I love you,” is rarely said. Love is often conveyed through nonverbal cues–head nods, spoonfuls of rice, small criticisms as a sign that they are paying attention and they care. But for someone who grew up in the U.S., in a mixed household where white and Vietnamese bled together, yet was given no clear direction – I didn’t always receive these as messages of love. In fact, the way Bà nội conducted herself was often viewed as cold, distant, rude, and critical by my other family members. Now, don’t get me wrong, first-generation Asian-American grandmas can be tough, and hyper-criticism is no stranger to our family’s story, but it’s not the defining factor. There was so much love to be found in my relationship with her, I just had to learn the language of her culture (and mine) to find it.

In talking with other friends, who also come from mixed households where cultures often clash with one another, I know this experience is not isolated to me. In a country where so much focus is placed on race, yet there is a narrative for assimilation as a means of survival, many of us are still struggling to find our place. In that search, many families have also experienced immense loss. Loss of language. Loss of tradition. Loss of storytelling. Loss of self. But does that loss have to be forever?

As an adult, I’ve grown to be very close with Bà nội. When I went through one of the toughest seasons of my life, she knew before I even told her (yeah, we’re pretty cool and sometimes psychic too). Bà nội has fed me, scolded me, taught me, and held me through incredibly difficult storms and her genuine care for me and my family has provided comfort at times when I felt like I may never rise again. My children have been able to grow up with a pride for our Vietnamese heritage, that isn’t attached to the same traumas and fears that were instilled in me and as a mom, that is the greatest gift. There is so much of my own healing to be found there, as I walk alongside them in their own journeys.

And even better, now Bà nội and I say, “I love you,” every time we hang up the phone. Often, she says it first.