It's still there, the Vietnamese school where my brother and I used to go. 
Even with a new coat of paint and the high wire fence, the school I knew ten years ago remains the same.
Every day at 5 p.m., instead of flying kites with our friends, my brother and I had to go to Vietnamese school. No amount of kicking, screaming, or arguing could stop my mother, who was determined to have us learn the language of our culture. She held us by the collar and walked with us the seven long, hilly blocks from our home to school, leaving our tearful faces before the front of the school.
We all sat in little chairs in a big empty room, which had a faint smell of old clothes that had been stored for a long time. I hated that smell. There was a stage far to the right, with an American flag on one side and the flag of the Republic of Vietnam on the other side.
Although the school mainly taught language - speaking, reading, dictation - the lessons always began with an exercise in politeness. With the entrance of the teacher, the best student would tap a bell and everyone would get up, and say in Vietnamese, "How are you, teacher?"
The language always made me embarrassed. More often than not I had tried to separate myself from the loud voice that followed me whenever I went to the American supermarket outside our area. The voice belonged to my grandmother, a small old woman who could shout louder than anyone on the street. Her Vietnamese was quick, it was loud, it was not beautiful.
In our area, the comings and goings of hundreds of Vietnamese on their daily tasks sounded crazy. I did not want to be thought of as mad, as talking nonsense. When I spoke English, people nodded at me, smiled and encouraged me. Even Vietnamese people would laugh and say that I'd do well in life. "My, doesn't she move her lips fast," they would say, meaning that I'd be able to do well in the world outside our area.
My brother was even more strict than I about speaking English. He was especially cruel towards my mother, criticizing her for her poor English. Bits of Vietnamese were often mixed in her conversation. Sometimes Mom might leave out "the" or "a", or perhaps a verb. He would stop her in the middle of her sentence: "Say it again, Mom. Say it right." When he tripped over his own tongue, he'd blame it on her: "See, Mom, it's all your fault. You set a bad example."
After two years of struggle, I finally was given a divorce from my culture. I was permitted to stop Vietnamese school. I thought of myself as American. At last, I thought I was one of you; I wasn't one of them.
Sadly, I am only an American.
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