All in the Palms of my Hands
If you believe my elders, my hands reveal my future. I have grown up in a family that credits my success through reading my palms. I’m destined to be rich, successful, and powerful. Or at the very least, a well-established hand model. At any family party the women stop their gossip circle to whisper me fortunes while their acetone-scented fingers grip mine.
“Con thấy? See? The line that spans between your index and middle finger is your heart line. It shows that you talk about your feelings!”
“Look how your head line is curving. You’re creative, which makes sense since you have the fingers of an artist. Con thấy? See? You’re so good at the piano.”
I would smile politely, and I still do to this day when any well-meaning older relative or family friend wishes to regale me with their predictions about my life. Perhaps it was this constant practice that made me hesitate in learning to talk back. As a single parent immigrant, my mom was always aware of her vulnerability. Coupled with the Asian mindset to assimilate, she would caution me to refrain from speaking out in fear of getting hurt by “Americans” – a confusing concept growing up since I did not understand how we could grow and live in a country yet not be a part of it.
Looking back I realize moments that I thought were strange are now subtle auditions that others would request of me in order to test how “other” I really am. The most recent violent example was during spring break. We were navigating a parking lot of a popular mall complex in my hometown in Orange County. We had found a space first and signaled into it and were about to exit when we were stopped. A large disgruntled bear of a man left his car in the middle of the intersection and walked up to us to demand an apology for stealing his parking spot. Not wanting to deal with an angry stranger, my mom casually offered to leave the spot when he barked a laugh. Positioning himself as our white savior, he replied that he would rather give us a lecture. My mom rolled her eyes and the window up, but not before he attacked with “This is so typical. That’s why people like you aren’t welcome here.” While I was livid, my mom looked at me with questions in her eyes instead of rage at the unfairness of the situation. I had to explain to her that when he said “here,” he meant the U.S. and when he said, “people like us,” he meant foreigners – people that he views as trespassers to his country. As I was crying to her out of frustration and helplessness, she only sighed out of resignation.
“It happens more than you think, and it doesn’t happen to everyone. You have to know your place.”
I wondered what the next accusation is going to be. This time it was a parking spot, but how much longer until there are claims of stealing jobs and other xenophobic sentiments. It is ironic that such a nativist narrative is propagating because America was founded by immigrants. It also breaks my heart because these people are my people. They are like my family who keep their heads down to stay out of trouble and are subsequently stereotyped. That is why I desire to work in public service, community building, and the legislative process. My goal is to build a career with a foundation in advocacy for immigrants, survivors of sexual violence, and other marginalized communities.
I have wanted to explore the nonprofit sector for a long time and the chance to contribute to a field that has helped raise me is invaluable. When my family and I moved here, nonprofits were crucial to our survival. They taught my mom how to apply for food stamps, buy insurance, and helped us with other kinds of services that my family can never repay. After completing my education at UCSB, I plan to further my professional development by working with legislators and nonprofit organizations before I attend graduate school. I want to relieve the financial burdens my mother faces and pay for my own Master’s Degree in Foreign Public Policy. Education has always meant more mobility in my family, so I want to use my degrees to enact change.
Though there are moments where American academia overshadows my Vietnamese culture, I still cannot completely let go of my family’s belief in fortune telling. Growing up superstitious has ingrained at best a comfort of destiny and at worse an anxiety of being a pawn in my own life. As a result, I played the piano, gained emotional intelligence, and never did anything that would attract Linh hồn mà Quỷ, bad spirits. However, my mother has always navigated around cultural norms. Growing up with such polarizing yet powerful women was paradoxical at times, but foundational to my personal and professional ambitions. My grandmother believes that there are hardships from my past life etched onto my skin and warns me not make the same mistakes again. Although she and I hold different faiths, I do believe that my creases symbolize something more. They remind me to work hard and of things I have accomplished and failed at in this life.
In 1999, my family came to the United States seeking the American Dream; instead, my parents filed for divorce, and I lost a father. He moved back to Vietnam while I stayed in America. The Land of Opportunity had proven to be too unstable for my parents to build their white picket fence on, but I work hard to grow a thriving future. Obstacles and failures can be detrimental, but for me, these are the bricks and mortar my hands use to build character and maintain balance. While many could have given up, I am more determined to achieve the dream that my parents never could.