Monday, February 12, 2024
Candace wasn’t the name given to me by my parents. My authentic Vietnamese name is Nhung, which is pronounced ñūng and translates to velvet, embodying the wealth and prosperity my parents envisioned for my future.
This vision also motivated them to emigrate from their native country at nearly 50, bringing along their six children in pursuit of a brighter, more prosperous future for us, despite the hardships and the need to start anew in an unfamiliar place.
As the child of immigrants and refugees, I faced challenges associated with adapting to dual identities after moving to the United States. My upbringing was marked by reliance on free school lunches, second-hand clothes, and weekends spent queuing at food banks or social security offices, contrasted with evenings filled with Vietnamese opera and karaoke during family dinners.
In March 1996, we took our first family photo in America upon our arrival in San Francisco. At school, I concealed the realities of my life, as my peers were preoccupied with the latest gadgets and music, while I kept my affection for Vietnamese culture to myself, often spending recess indoors and feeling disconnected from my classmates. This sense of isolation was deepened by my struggle with the mispronunciation of my name, which became a source of shame and misunderstanding.
It took years beyond high school to understand how the constant mispronunciation of my name and the jokes that compared it to a lightsaber sound had gradually undermined my confidence. The difficulty in introducing myself and the fear of being called by an unrecognizable name in class led to a reluctance to engage with new people and situations.
Before college, I decided to embrace change, adopting the name Candace with my best friend’s support. Candace, meaning queen, innocence, and purity, represented a crucial step in redefining my cultural identity and finding my place within American society.
In April 2012, I co-choreographed a traditional Vietnamese ribbon dance for the annual culture show of the Vietnamese Student Association (CalVSA). This name change and my involvement in a new community boosted my confidence, leading me to take on leadership roles, explore new interests, perform on renowned stages, and speak at my Southeast Asian graduation. Despite criticisms of whitewashing my ethnicity or abandoning my parents’ dreams, I came to see the name change not as a rejection of my heritage but as a means to proudly express my cultural pride.
My path to belonging brought me to Alaska Airlines, a company that truly values diversity and inclusion. Early in my tenure, I participated in the SF Chinese New Year Parade, an event sponsored by Alaska Airlines, which regularly showcases its commitment to the Asian community through various initiatives.
By February 2022, participating in such events and contributing to the company’s engagement with cultural celebrations affirmed the value of my experiences. Now, I no longer feel the need to hide my cultural background, whether through the music I listen to, my contributions to work discussions, or my ability to switch between English and Vietnamese. My business cards and social profiles proudly display my full name, Candace Mỹ Nhung Lê, reflecting my journey towards embracing and advocating for my culture and identity.
Saturday, April 27, 2024
