When I first journeyed to Vietnam at the age of 22, fresh out of college over two decades ago, the romantic allure of Hanoi captivated me. My arrival coincided with the Mid-Autumn Festival, a time when the atmosphere in the capital city felt celebratory, mirroring my exhilaration of being abroad.

That autumn I met a host of new friends: Vietnamese Americans like myself; other expats who were taking time off to travel; and acquaintances determined to build their lives in Hanoi. Yet I felt suspended in a liminal space – not quite a foreigner, not fully Vietnamese but an overseas Vietnamese ("Viet Kieu"), grappling with identity.

A few months after my arrival, the atmosphere of Tet, the Lunar New Year and the most important holiday for Vietnamese people, created a certain quietude that felt rather joyful. In reality, I had to experience several Tet celebrations in Vietnam to fully grasp the essence of the holiday and my personal ties to both the country and the tradition. Prior to my time in Vietnam, the country and its cultural heritage held minimal personal relevance, beyond the basic knowledge that my parents were from there.

Unknowingly following my father's past

Many local friends suggested that Tet might be dull and boring for "foreigners." The normally bustling city shut down for two weeks as people prepared for the celebrations, and a common response from Vietnamese people was that nothing could happen until “after Tet.”

Although the streets of Hanoi were adorned with blooming "hoa dao" (peach flower) trees sold on the backs of motorbikes, my perception of Tet became skewed: I viewed it as a time when the city paused and foreigners vacationed.

That year, 2003, following friends’ suggestions, I traveled south to Saigon and the regional beaches, unknowingly being led to places intertwined with my father's past. He was born in Saigon, spent time in Vung Tau with his grandmother on a longan orchard during his childhood, and as a military physician was stationed in Phu Quoc during the war's final month – which, fortuitously, facilitated his escape from Vietnam when Saigon fell on April 30, 1975.

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After spending months in refugee camps, my father eventually settled in Connecticut, where I was born in 1979. My mother passed away when I was 14. And I've recently gotten to know my father better through writing a book with him, "My Vietnam, Your Vietnam: A Father Flees. A Daughter Returns. A Dual Memoir.”

I understood my father's Vietnam primarily through his writings. We were both guilty of not delving deeper into family history and cultural traditions with each other. He never shared, and I never asked.

In an excerpt of one his books, he fondly reminisced about Tet in Saigon:

According to Asian customs, everyone was one year older on the Lunar New Year. This explains why Tet was such a big holiday in Viet Nam. This was the busiest time of the year for local tailors, who worked overtime to complete their customers’ orders. Houses were cleaned, broken doors and windows were fixed. New curtains were made, and all the chandeliers and silver were polished. This was the time to settle all debts, as they could bring bad luck for the upcoming year.

Celebrating Tet then in Vietnam – and now in the Southwest

My subsequent returns to Vietnam as an adult, twice more to work in Hanoi, brought a deeper appreciation of the country and traditions such as Tet.

One year, a Vietnamese friend invited me to select a Tet tree for her family with her. We walked the streets attempting to find the perfect one that would bloom precisely at the peak of Tet. I cherished the serene atmosphere of Tet in Hanoi and the absence of incessant sounds of motorbikes. The city and my heart felt calm.

Gradually, Tet gained a special place in my heart, surpassing even the winter holidays back in the United States. Hanoi, even more so than any U.S. city, became a place I called home. My colleagues called me by my Vietnamese name, Tuyet (meaning snow). I avoided saying it in America because it sounded like “twit."

When I returned to Hanoi for the second time for a full-time position at UNICEF, one colleague said to me, “Welcome back, Tuyet. I knew you would return.”

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In hindsight, I wish my father had instilled a deeper appreciation of Tet and our Vietnamese culture within our family. Yet, I comprehend his rationale. Perhaps he thought the beauty of this Vietnamese holiday – and the depth of our collective history and story – would be lost on us in the small predominantly white towns we resided in.

Only through returning to Vietnam, and finding my place there, could I truly understand and experience the essence of Tet – a celebration intrinsically linked to my heritage, running deep within my blood, and yet, only by living there could I actually feel it in my bones.

Today, although I reside in a small town in the Southwest, the spirit of Tet still resonates within me. There’s supposed to be a fresh blanket of snow Saturday, bringing a sense of calmness, peace and hope in the dawn of the first day of the Year of the Dragon. This snow also brings me a sense of pride for my namesake, Tuyet. 

To celebrate, I’ll surround myself with a close-knit circle of Vietnamese American and Asian American friends for the Tet holiday: those of us who share a common thread – living here, yet harboring a deep connection to another place we also call home, a place like Vietnam.

Christina Vo is the co-author of "My Vietnam, Your Vietnam: A Father Flees. A Daughter Returns. A Dual Memoir." Follow her on Instagram @stina_vo and Facebook: facebook.com/stina.vo, or find her at christinavo.com

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