Santa Clara University

Nhu-Y Le

June 29th of 2001 was the 12th year that my parents and I have been in the United States of America. About 13 years ago, my parents and I finally escaped out of Vietnam after more than 40 tries. My mother always said that she stopped counting after our 40th try. I was born in 1980 after my dad had returned home from spending five years in the Communist's reform camp. That was also the year my parents became more active in trying to escape. In 1988, we successfully made it out of Vietnam in a 20-foot fishing boat along with another 105 passengers. Like all previous escape attempts, we had to be very secretive and extremely careful with every move we made.

Each trip starts by contacting a family with fishing boats. Once we get information that they are planning an escape trip, we would have to reserve and put a deposit for our seats on the boat. The payments are never in cash, but always in gold because the Vietnamese Dong (dollar) is unstable and has little value. The cost of each seat depends on the reputation of the coordinating family. The more successful trips they have planned, the higher they can charge per seat, which could be as much as one thousand dollars. The deposit was usually half of the total, and the last half was paid after we arrived at the refugee camp. We would wire a message back to our family to pay the rest of the amount. If the trip was unsuccessful, for any reason, we would either get back the deposit, or wait for another attempt planned by the same people, or we would lose the deposit entirely. My parents have lost their deposits many times because the planning families were greedy and refused to honor their promises.

After putting down the deposit the planning family would contact us with information of when and where to meet. Sometimes the plan was so secretive that we did not know what would happen until we got to a contact point and got instructions for the next contact point. This could go on for days before we actually boarded to the boat. At any time the trip could be canceled if there were suspicions that we were being watched or followed. After an unsuccessful trip, we would return home and pretend that nothing happened. Because of all the uncertainties and expenses, some people were discouraged and changed their minds about escaping, but others like my parents, who were very eager to leave Vietnam, would wait until the next opportunity to arise again.

My last trip out of Vietnam started like all the others; we gathered our things and left before sunrise. We secretively moved through the neighborhood trying not to attract attention to ourselves. In Vietnam you need permission from the government to go from one place to another, and of course, we did not get permission to leave. Our instruction was to meet at a local bus stop and wait for a bus with a designated driver to pick us up. From there, we went to a nearby city and met another informant to get the next instructions. The bus took us from one place to another and we acted like tourists on a long vacation. The charade went on for several days so the bus was our home. We ate and slept on the bus, and occasionally toured the cities where the bus stopped.

On the last night, the bus dropped us off in at isolated area that was on a high cliff by a beach. We had to slide down the cliff to get to the beach. The cliff was wet and treacherous with many sharp rocks and tree branches. On the way down, I could hear people's clothes ripping and shrieking in tiny voices of pain, knowing that every sound could attract the Cong An (Communist Police). People were stumbling over each other as if we were stampeding out of a theater after someone yelled fire. Once we were at the bottom of the cliff, we had to run to two small fishing boats by the shore waiting to carry us to the main boat. The small boats made several trips back and forth delivering people, with each trips carrying more than their capacity. On the main boat, people were squeezed into anywhere that could hold a person.

As we were situated in our cramped positions, the boat turned on its engines and slowly headed away from the shore. Sitting on the deck, I could see an outline of the mountain ranges and the beach fading into the darkness. I did not realize that it was the last time I would see that shore again. I was eight years old at the time, and I did not understand that these "trips" were a matter of life and death. They were tiny adventures that became a routine in my life.

The first night at sea was peaceful. It was not until the morning that we realized how small the boat was and how many people were on it. The boat was about 20 feet long and had 108 passengers. It had two small engines and two inexperienced fishermen, one supposedly had navigation experience and the other was an operator. By the end of the second day the wind became rough and the waves were getting higher and higher. To make the matter worse, our engines died, and the food and water supply were gone. By nightfall, we were floating in the middle of a storm. Most people were able to squeeze into the small fish cabins except for my father. He was unable to bend his left upper leg normally, a result from reform camp, so he had to lie on the top deck, tucking his body next to the one-foot side bar. It was the only divider between him and the angry sea. Like a typical movie, the sky was sunny, clear and dry during the day, but turned stormy, cold and wet during the night. Though the rain helped us to quench our thirst. We used our torn clothes to catch the rain and then squeezed them for fresh water.

On the third night we started to see big commercial ships in the distance. I heard that some of these cargo ships would rescue people and bring them to one of the nearby refugee camps. Every time we saw a ship heading in our direction we prayed that it would not be a pirate ship. All the women and children would climb on the top deck and the men went down to the bottom cabins. We hoped that when the ships saw the children and women they would have mercy and rescue us. Sadly, all the ships passed by us without turning their heads. As each ship passed by us, our hope died along with our spirits. Our hopelessness tricked us into believing that we would die; it was only a matter of time.

On the seventh day, everyone was exhausted and waiting to die. But our fate turned in the early afternoon when we saw a big red ship heading in our direction. With little hope, we attempted our usual routine; all the children and women went up onto the deck to plead for our lives. The men went down to the cabins. As the ship got closer, we grabbed anything that we could find to create attention to ourselves. The ship got closer and bigger, and from our tiny boat, we could see men running out to the deck and looking down at the tiny wooden boat filled with desperate people. A ladder suddenly dropped down on the side of the big ship to fill the grabbing hands of boat people. Some of the ship men came down to our boat, and one by one, they helped us up onto their ship. On their deck, we were given warm blankets and milk in small cartons. The milk tasted so good and different. It was the taste of freedom.

We spent three days on the ship, where we learned that there were 108 people on our boat. They told us that if we were not rescued within the next several hours our boat would have been swallowed by a nearby whirlpool or it would have fallen apart on its own. The ship that rescued us was a Grecian oil ship on its way to Singapore. It ran into us by detouring from its original route to avoid a heavy storm. Being on the ship was my first encounter with the Western world. Everything was so clean, organized, and big. I particularly remember standing on the deck at night looking out onto the dark water and seeing so many lights from other ships. When the morning came, I recognized that they were the same ships that passed by us without turning their heads only days and hours before. On the last day the ship docked at Singapore, but we were not allowed to step off the ship until we were vaccinated. So, one by one, we took turns getting our shots.

When we got off the ship we were taken to a waiting area with buses to take us to the refugee camp. When we arrived at the refugee camp, everyone ran out and to see who the new comers were. They were amazed at the length of our single-filed line. At the camp we were given a food ration everyday and a small allowance every week. We were also free to do what we wanted including leaving the camp and visiting the local areas as long as we returned before curfew. At times there were some local community groups that came to the camp and took us to places and special events. My parents and I stayed in Singapore for about two and a half months, and we were transferred to the Philippines and stayed at the Bataam Refugee camp.

Our purpose at the Bataam was to learn English. We were required to enroll in a class that lasted six months or one Cycle. Our Cycle was number 126. During our stay, we had to apply to the countries where we wanted to go. My parents applied to go to the United States because my father had priority due to his military service during the Vietnam War. The entire process was long and difficult, especially applying to the United States. Everything we did and said had to be specific. We had to remember every single detail of what we said in one interview to another. Any discrepancy could be used as ground for rejection. The United States was usually a first-choice country, and there were many people and families who were denied. There were families that were separated because some members were accepted and others were denied. They either went their separate ways or re-applied to another country that would accept the whole family. It was ironic how we risked our lives for freedom and the ability to make our own choices, but in the end the decisions were made by others. After Cycle 126 was completed, my parents and I had to stay for another three months to complete the application process.

On June 29th of 1989 we arrived on North American soil. After going through customs at the airport we had to walk through a long tunnel where our families would meet us at the exit. As we exited the tunnel, there were many people laughing, hugging, and flashing their cameras. My mom pointed to a particular family and told me that they were my uncle (my father's younger brother), aunt, cousins, and brother. That was the first time that I met my uncle and his family. This is not unusual for a Vietnamese person. After the Vietnam War ended, many families were dispersed through out the world. However, my parents and I were reuniting with my brother who left Vietnam more than a year before us with my mother's younger sister.

As we were driving home from San Francisco International Airport I was amazed by the grandness of the U.S. I remember the crisp clean air filtering through my lungs. Even though I never truly experienced suppression by the Communists nor was I old enough to comprehend what it meant, I understood what freedom was. It was as clear as the air that I breathed. When we reached my uncle's house, my aunt (my father's youngest sister) and her family from Orange County were there to meet us. It was another family that I never knew. Both my uncle and aunt left right after I was born, so I never had the chance to know them until now.

As our sponsor, my uncle was responsible for our well being in the United States so we stayed at his house. However, my mom insisted that we move out after two weeks to be on our own. After so many struggles for independence, my parents wanted our own place to start our lives as a family in the U.S. We moved into a two-bedroom duplex on 700 Banff Street in San Jose. I also started third grade at McKinley Elementary School. At 8 years old, I was supposed to be in the fourth grade, but because my English was very limited, the school thought that it would be better for me to go back one grade. My third grade teacher was Mrs. Sovey who was tall, blond in her early thirties, and had a very soft voice.

In the first six months of third grade I attended an ESL class (English as a Second Language) at John F. Kennedy Elementary School that was about five minutes from McKinley. I went through the program successfully and moved onto fourth grade. My fourth grade teacher was Mr. Gist, who was teaching his last year before retiring. He was a strict, but a very kind man. He influenced me with his demands for hard work. He had a passion for woodworking and he taught my class how to make birdhouses in between our lessons. By making the birdhouse, I learned that through patience and hard work, anything could be accomplished. My fifth grade teacher was Mrs. Johnson, who I believed had the biggest impact on my academic life. She recommended me for the GATE Program and took me through the testing process. Students who are recommended for the GATE Program must be above their grade level academically as well as have additional talents. The program gave the GATE students additional resources and opportunities to explore our gifted sides. The GATE Program showed me that working hard has rewards, and it will eventually pay off in the future. With academic success, I will be able to achieve the "American dream."

In Mrs. Johnson's class I went on many field trips. Mrs. Johnson was the type of teacher who believed in active leaning, so she integrated her lessons by taking us to museums, performances and college campus tours to promote higher education. One particular campus tour was to Santa Clara University. That was my first exposure to Santa Clara. We had the typical campus tour, attended a performance and had a group reflection of where we wanted to go after high school. The discussion also included information about Santa Clara. After the field trip, I knew that Santa Clara was where I wanted to be.

From the very beginning my parents emphasized the importance of school. Even with their busy work schedules, they always made sure that my brother and I got my homework done, encouraged us to read, and limited our television hours. After a short while my parents' expectation of our schooling became part of our lives. They did not have to ask or remind us every single day of what we had to do. It was an unspoken and mutual expectation. They often reminded my brother and I that they were willing to make many sacrifices for us to get a good education and a better future if we were also willing to work hard for ourselves. Sometimes this felt like a guilt trip to make us to do what we were told, but it was so ingrained in our thoughts that going to college was the next natural step. As children, our job was to be students.

After elementary school came middle school followed by high school, and then college as the final step.

In the middle of my seventh grade my parents saved enough money to buy a house in the North Valley area of San Jose. After completing seventh grade at J.W. Fair Middle School, I transferred to Piedmont Middle School. Piedmont Middle is located in a suburban neighborhood right under a foothill. There was a noticeable difference between the economic resources at J.W. Fair compared with Piedmont Middle. At Piedmont Middle there were many resources available for students and the expectations to achieve were higher and more competitive. Fortunately I was able to do well at Piedmont because of the strong work ethic that was encouraged by my parents. By the end of the eighth grade, some of my teachers recommended me for the honors program at Piedmont Hills High School. Piedmont Hills also had a very similar environment as Piedmont Middle. Students were required to have a strong academic focus. Its high standards required that students work hard to keep up with their academic programs. Going to college was talked about every day. At Piedmont Hills I became very active in many different leadership positions such as the Student Body Association and held numerous Executive Offices for student clubs and organizations.

 By my senior year I had to think about which colleges I wanted to attend, and Santa Clara University was almost a natural choice. Even though high school was a success, the beginning of my journeys in high school and college were shaky because of cultural differences. At home, I was fostered in an environment where parents and children understand the sacrifices that we made for each other. I understood why my parents had to work a lot, and it never occurred to me that I should expect them to be at special school functions such as concerts, and award banquets. I knew that they were supportive of me, and I wanted them to rest after work. However, at school, I was surrounded with the ideas that parents must support their children by physically being at special events such as being on the Parent-Teacher Association (PTA), chaperoning dances, cheering for their children at concerts, awards banquets, and sporting events. Every time a parent would congratulate me for achieving something, they would ask where my parents were; I told them, and they smiled with disapproving eyes. They were not disapproving of me, but of my parents.

Others' expectations of my parents soon lead me to disapprove of them. If they were more involved in my life like other American parents, they would understand what I was going through. Every time my parents refused me something, I would rebel believing that they did not understand. For example, my parents would not allow me stay out late until early hours of the morning with my friends. I would fight back with annoying remarks in English that they were too "traditional." They just wanted to lock me in the house without any fun. If they were like other parents who understood what it was like to be a teenager in America, they would let me go out and have fun. I felt that they did not trust me, and they were trying to control me. I thought that by having good grades and doing everything right should give me the right to do whatever that I wanted. Of course, I did not know the potential negative social influences that could lead me to the wrong path. Looking back, there are many people I would have gone out with who did not finish high school and are not going to college.

Some of the struggles were culturally based, which started in the beginning of my Freshman year in high school until the middle of my Sophomore year. I wished that my parents were more like other parents. I blamed them for not trying hard enough to understand me. I thought that they should have spent more time studying English, watching more television, and interacting more with other American parents. Realistically, if they did all that, they would not have been able to provide our family with what we have, a suburban life with many opportunities. They sacrificed their educations and enjoyment so that my brother and I could be educated. They sacrificed their hard labor so that my brother and I could have opportunities to move ahead and not have to work as hard in the future. They understood my struggle between being American and being Vietnamese, and patiently helped me to understand the importance of family and being focused. To be successful in America, I have to understand the American way of life and be accepted. At the same time, I have to accept my culture and traditions. I am a Vietnamese person living in America, where I do have the best and the worst of both worlds. By understanding myself, I can make the best of what I have which will lead me to the success that I desire. The American life is about working hard and taking advantage of opportunities; it is not problem free or about living above our means as is portrayed on television.

By the middle of my Sophomore year, I recognized myself and embraced the two cultures of which I am blessed. I was able to accept my parents and appreciate everything that they have given me. They did not have to be at my awards ceremonies, they already helped me to get those awards. My breakthrough created a better relationship with my parents. I was able to talk and share my feelings more openly knowing that they understood. Before I kept everything to myself. My close relationship with my family also influenced my decision to go to Santa Clara. It is the perfect choice because it provides me an ideal distance from home. It is close enough for me to keep in touch with my family frequently, yet far enough for me to experience the college life and grow personally by staying on campus.

At Santa Clara I enjoy the rigorous curriculum combined with its personal academic environment. I also enjoy the small classes, approachable professors, and how friendly people are. I especially love the beautiful and well-groomed campus. One of the biggest decisions I had to make about Santa Clara was whether to live on or off campus because my parents only live 20 minutes from school. My parents were worried about me being away from home and that something could happen to me. But they allowed me to make my own decision. I do not think that my parents were aware of the idea that living on campus would provide me with a unique "college experience". To them, living on campus would be more convenient for me without having to deal with traffic and giving me more time to study. To me living on campus would be an experience outside of my comfort zone. After changing my mind to live on or off campus about three times, I decided that I needed to step outside of my bubble.

It is sometimes difficult for me to explain to my friends at home, especially my Asian and Vietnamese friends, why I live on campus. Most of them do not understand why I would stay on campus and live away from my family if school is only 20 minutes away. In this respect, I understand why there are a smaller number of local Vietnamese students living on campus. It does not seem very reasonable to be away from one's family if not necessary. I was taught that family always comes first; which made my freshman year difficult. The separation was challenging because I was very close to my family, but by wanting to live at school I felt like I was rejecting my family. After my reconciliation with my parents in high school, they never restricted me from anything. My parents rarely questioned my reasons for doing anything except for general information. They trusted me to make right decisions on my own. I could go where I wanted and do whatever I wanted. I was not living on campus to gain freedom but my guilt about living on campus made me feel that I was sending them that message.

To compensate, I went home almost every weekend to make up for the time that I was at school during the weekdays. I tried extra hard to spend more time with family by sacrificing time with my friends. Ironically, by being home so much, I missed some of the very events that made the "college experience". I missed bonding times with the residents in my resident hall, and the activities that created those bonds. I was hesitant to join on-campus organizations because I could not commit to weekend activities. I had family obligations. Towards the end of my first year, I realized that it was not the quantity of time that was important, but the quality. I readjusted my time so that I could spend more time with my whole family when everyone was home, not just being home in the weekend. The experiences that I had my first year at college were very important; they influenced the impression that I have of college life and seem to set the tone for the entire college experience.

My first experience at Santa Clara is not particularly unique for someone who came from Piedmont Middle School and Piedmont Hills High School. However, the adjustment would be shocking for someone who came from J.W Fair Middle School and Yerba Buena High School (the high school that I would have attended if I stayed at J.W Fair). There is a lack of diversity at Santa Clara and there is a wide gap in economics between those who can afford to live on campus and those who can not. It seems like the campus culture tends to be less welcoming to off-campus students. I hope that Santa Clara can create more programs that would give all students opportunities to interact with each other. In addition, Santa Clara should offer preparation courses for high school students who are from high schools with little resources to help prepare them for the rigorous academic program at SCU in particular and for college in general. I believe that once incoming students are more prepared to adjust to college life academically, socially, and culturally, they will learn more and find the true value of a higher education.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I would like to thank my parents for giving up everything to give my brother and I a better future. They have worked extremely hard to give us the "American Dream" out of two empty hands. They are truly my heroes!