It’s strange to read a memoir about
a young girl who feels like an outsider and to realize that when the author
speaks about the group that left her out throughout childhood, she is almost
literally referring to you. As I read the first nine chapters of Bich Minh
Nguyen’s Stealing Buddha’s Dinner this
weekend, that’s what I felt like. I was the insider Nguyen described—she was
the outsider. The beginning half of Stealing
Buddha’s Dinner resonated with me on a very personal level because it
outlined almost exactly how “someone like me” could make “different” children
feel at a young age.
My childhood was what I considered
“normal.” I grew up in Holland, Michigan, a small, Dutch, Christian-Reformed,
West Michigan lakeshore town. I ate Pringles, prayed with my family before
dinner, and always went to school with a cold lunch prepared by one of my
parents with a little note tucked inside. I remember my mom making banana bread
and Jiffy corn bread and Nestlé Toll House chocolate chip cookies on a regular
basis. My dad sometimes took me to McDonalds for an “Egg McMuffin” or chicken
nuggets. We even participated in the strange Dutch tradition of, as Nguyen
writes, “dredging every piece” of dinner in applesauce.
Nguyen writes of an immigrant
childhood filled with Vietnamese food, fascination with Americanism, and
cultural tension. She writes of moving to a West Michigan town like mine and
having many Dutch, Christian-Reformed neighbors. She longs for Pringles, Jiffy
bread, Nestlé Toll House chocolate chip cookies, and McDonalds’ fast food.
While she ate lunch from Styrofoam trays in elementary school, she remarks that
the implicit lunchtime judgment was that, “if you had to get lunch from the
cafeteria, then your mom obviously didn’t care enough.” American traditions
like prayer and applesauce at dinner make her uncomfortable.
The contrast between my childhood
and Nguyen’s seems remarkable to me, but I know that many other young girls in
the Midwest probably experienced the various American customs I’ve listed and that
Nguyen describes in her memoir. The connection seems deeper for me though
because my dad and his family moved from the Netherlands to a small house on
Baldwin Street in Grand Rapids, Michigan in 1956. When Nguyen and her family
moved into a house about two blocks down the street in 1975, my dad was a
sophomore in college, but the rest of his family still lived on Baldwin in the
same neighborhood as the Nguyen family. “I know exactly where the house was,”
he said when I asked him about his neighbor.
My dad said he doesn’t remember
ever meeting a young girl named Bich. Their age difference and the Nguyen
family’s move from Baldwin must have kept them from ever knowing each other. I
know, however, that what she writes about her childhood in Grand Rapids must be
true. I grew up listening to bedtime stories about all of my dad’s Dutch
friends on Baldwin Street. I know that applesauce on meat was a regular
dinnertime occurrence in those households because I picked up the trick from my
grandparents and my dad. I know that most of the children were blond haired and
blue eyed because my dad and his brothers and sisters and their friends were
too. Life on Baldwin seems to be just as Nguyen describes it.
While it must have been
excruciatingly difficult for Nguyen and her sister to grow up in a neighborhood
where everyone was so different from them, I also know that it was difficult
for my dad and his brothers and sisters too. I can’t seem to shake the reminder
that although the similarities between my family and their Dutch neighbors made
Nguyen feel so outcast, my dad’s family was an immigrant family just like hers.
Life wasn’t easy for them either. They didn’t speak English well when they
started school, they didn’t understand all of the American customs, they were poor,
and their parents made foods like banket
and oliebollen instead of muffins and
chocolate chip cookies.
According to my dad, he and his
siblings assimilated to American culture relatively quickly and I’m sure it was
helpful for them to have so many Dutch friends nearby. By the time the Nguyen
family moved into the neighborhood, the Donk family and all of the other new
Dutch immigrants on the street must have seemed as American as anyone else.
It’s strange to think that Nguyen could be describing the Donks and their
neighbors throughout the book, but I also think this is an important lesson for
me. I’m sure that when many of the Mexican immigrants in my elementary school
classes moved to Holland, they felt the same way about my friends and I as
Nguyen describes feeling about my aunts and uncles and their neighbors in the
book. I’d never given this a single thought before. I don’t know whether this
new connection is something I should be ashamed of, but I do think it’s
important.
What a wonderful insight, Kelsey. I think shame can only be useful when it's instructive to us--and when we can separate it from our identity. The United States is an immigrant culture, and somewhere in each of our pasts, our people were outsiders. That some of us have the privilege to lose that sense of "difference," I think, does our culture a disservice, especially in that it can lead to our oppressing (intentionally or unintentionally) those we deem as "Other." I cannot wait to hear more of your stories and connections to this book.
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