In one homeland they were treated as outcasts, in the other as
refugees. Now thousands of these Amerasians are uniting and lobbying
Congress for what they feel is a birthright: 'We are Americans.'
By My-Thuan Tran
October 04, 2008
Randy Tran walked quickly past the majestic domes and marble statues
of Capitol Hill, looking for the Cannon House Office building and the
people he believed could help him.
Tran, a Vietnamese pop singer who lives in a Bay Area suburb and
sleeps on a friend's couch, flew 2,900 miles to be here. He rehearsed
what he wanted to say. His English was not perfect. He was afraid he
would have just a few minutes to make his case.
He had a 3 p.m. appointment in the office of a Wisconsin congressman.
He was not exactly sure what the congressman did, but he was certain
that this was a powerful man who could help untangle a political
process that had ensnared him and thousands like him.
Tran came to Washington on behalf of abandoned children of American
soldiers and Vietnamese women, born during the Vietnam War and, like
him, seeking citizenship in the country their fathers fought for.
Called Amerasians, many were left to grow up in the rough streets and
rural rice fields of Vietnam where they stood out, looked different,
were taunted as "dust of life." Most were brought to the United
States 20 years ago after Congress passed the Amerasian Homecoming
Act, which allowed the children of American soldiers living in
Vietnam to immigrate. But citizenship was not guaranteed, and today
about half of the estimated 25,000 Amerasians living in the U.S. are
Tran lives in Hayward and travels the country crooning pop songs to
Vietnamese fans at restaurants and concert halls. But he feels unsettled.
"I feel like I belong nowhere," said Tran, whose father was an
African American whose name he likely will never know, but who gave
him the mocha-colored skin so different from other Vietnamese.
"If I go to Little Saigon, they say, 'Are you Vietnamese? You look
black.' If I go to the American community, they say, 'You're not one
of us. You're Vietnamese.' "
But most wrenching for Tran is his lack of citizenship, a constant
reminder of being an outsider in what he considers his fatherland.
"Our fathers served for the country, fought for freedom," Tran said.
"I am not a refugee, but I am being treated as one. We are Americans."
Tran and 21 other Amerasians flew to Washington, D.C., for three days
in July to lobby for the Amerasian Paternity Act. It would give
Amerasians born during the Vietnam and Korean wars automatic
citizenship, rather than requiring them to pass tests in English.
Most of them had never been to Washington. Some purchased their first
suits for the trip. Some spoke no English at all.
Tran does not know his age. On paper he is 34, but he guesses he is
closer to 37.
His mother left him in an orphanage in Da Nang when he was days old.
A few years later, a woman in a nearby village adopted him to help
care for her cows. She refused to let him call her "mother."
The neighbors gawked at his dark skin; the village children yanked
his curly hair. At night he would dream that his hair had turned
straight and that he could pour a liquid over his body to turn his
face pale. He would hide behind the bamboo mat he slept on.
"They looked at us like we were wild animals, not people," Tran said.
When the Homecoming Act passed in 1988, thousands of Vietnamese who
wanted to escape the Communist government used the Amerasians as a
device to flee. At 17, Tran was sold to a family for three gold bars.
When the family got to America, they asked Tran to leave their home.
He moved in with a friend's family.
Like Tran, many Amerasians lacked the English skills, education and
family connections that had helped other Vietnamese refugees
assimilate. Many did not attend school in Vietnam and arrived in
America illiterate. Many migrated to Vietnamese communities where
they were once again shunned. Some turned to drugs or gangs.
They received eight months of government assistance, including
healthcare, English lessons and some job training. But the government
did not help Amerasians locate their fathers, and funding for the
program ended in 1995.
In Washington, Tran and the other Amerasians crowded into a friend's
house. There was Vivian Preziose from Queens, whose father brought
her to the U.S. when she was 10. There was Nhat Tung Miller from
Seattle, who found his father a few months before he died. There was
Huy Duc Nguyen from Dallas, whose only clue about his father is that
his last name sounds something like "Sheffer."
They mapped out their plans. Preziose passed out 435 folders
containing a letter she wrote. The next day they would deliver a
folder to every Congressional office. They also had appointments on
Capitol Hill, so they rehearsed what they would say.
Some stumbled over their words. Preziose encouraged them to speak
from their hearts. Nguyen reminded them not to wear jeans. Tran
advised them to speak slowly.
A year ago, few of the Amerasians knew one another. That changed when
Nguyen went to a screening of a documentary about Amerasians stuck in
Vietnam and met others like him. They talked about helping those
still in Vietnam and started reaching out to Amerasians across the
country. They knew of Tran from his singing.
Tran urged them to lobby for the citizenship bill, sponsored by Rep.
Zoe Lofgren (D-San Jose). In September 2007, they formed the
Amerasian Fellowship Assn., which now has 5,000 members.
They had grown up haunted by a raw sense of being thrown away by
their parents. Now mostly in their 30s and 40s, they came together
for political reform, and along the way formed a community for those
who felt invisible.
The day after they handed out the folders, Tran anxiously waited on
the marble steps of the Cannon building for his team to arrive.
By the time they got to Rep. F. James Sensenbrenner's office
(R-Wisconsin), they were five minutes late.
They met a man in a tan suit with a faint smile.
Tran introduced himself and began describing the difficulties faced
by Amerasians. Many cannot speak English, he said, making it
difficult to pass the citizenship test.
The meeting lasted less than 25 minutes – not enough time for Tran to
say that he was not allowed to go to school in Vietnam, that while he
tended to the cows he would peer through the schoolhouse windows at
the students learning to read.
Tran thought the man seemed confused why they were there. But the man
promised to do what he could to help.
It wasn't until the man handed out his business card that Tran
realized he wasn't talking to the congressman from Wisconsin. He was
talking to a staffer.
"I didn't know who he was," Tran said. "I just knew we wanted to meet
him. I wanted to tell our story."
There is a lot Tran does not understand. He's not sure which of the
two houses of Congress the bill is stuck in or why it is taking so
long to become law. When he and other Amerasians met with Lofgren in
the Capitol building, he thought they were in the White House.
Lofgren warned the group that it was unlikely the bill would pass
this year. But she promised to reintroduce it next year.
Some of the Amerasians decided to visit the Vietnam Veterans
Memorial, believing the names of their fathers might be inscribed on the wall.
Tran decided not to go. He has no clues as to who his father his.
When Tran walked past an older black man on the street, he turned and looked.
He still wonders why his mother left him to suffer in Vietnam. Once,
it was a source of deep anger. But his fury turned to sympathy when
he learned about the harsh conditions during the war, the stigma of
having a child out of wedlock with an American.
Perhaps she gave him away hoping he would have a better life. He once
wrote a song called "After the War." When he performs it before
Vietnamese audiences, they are often brought to tears.
Tran later wrote an e-mail to the staffer. He mistakenly identified
the man as "Mrs." He also sent along an English translation of the
lyrics of "After the War."
He has yet to hear back. But he has faith that America will come