Keep On Moving
Vietnam seen from the author’s flight
One of the most nerve-wrecking days I’ve ever experienced was my first day of school in the U.S. I was 13, nervous and flustered, carrying the remnants of my home country in a deep tan and a teal T-shirt splattered with indecipherable glitter graphics. I easily stood out, because I was a new kid and, as I later learned, one of three students of Asian heritage in my grade at Griswold Middle School, Connecticut.
The first class was homeroom. Seated next to me was a gawky kid with close-cropped hair and braces. He turned and asked me a question.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?” I muttered to him a phrase that I’d use over and over again.
“Are you new?”
“Yes.” I stammered, cheeks burning, eyes locked toward the ground.
I had arrived in Connecticut two months prior, the warm summer weather a relief and a gradual transition to a new harsher climate. I should have gone to eighth grade, but after much deliberation my family decided it would be best for me to repeat seventh grade due to the language barrier and potential differences in education between the two countries.
I had gone to public schools in Vietnam and taken English classes, which focused more on grammar and vocabulary and less on speaking and listening. The pronunciation of native American speakers was like night and day from what I had been taught in schools by my Vietnamese teachers. In a way, I had to pick up the language from scratch.
Homework took me twice as much time because I had to look up every unfamiliar word. I learned new vocabulary by reading. I would spend hours in the school library over a book, following the sentences slowly and noting down new words on a piece of scrap paper so that I could look them up in the dictionary later.
I was quiet at school, too shy to speak and make friends because of my English. I tried to keep to myself and not get in anyone’s way, but that didn’t stop me from being a target of bullying.
One time, we were sitting in a circle in the common space for an assembly. A kid named Walter, who had a reputation as a bully, happened to sit next to me. I kept my eyes down, trying to keep my presence as small as possible.
“Can you talk?” he growled at me all of a sudden.
I was stunned and could only look at him with wide eyes. I felt frozen in one place. My heart was racing, my throat felt stuck.
“Talk. Do you know what that means? Can you talk?” he repeated, frustrated by my silence, before bursting into mocking laughter.
I sat there in silence, dumbfounded, more ashamed than angry. If anything, I was angry at myself because I could not find a retort.
***
When we first moved to Connecticut, we lived with my grandparents and uncles in their house in Rocky Hill. My brother enrolled in twelfth grade. My parents found jobs that paid minimum wage.
I didn’t know it back then, but teenage years, at least for American girls, were supposed to be for identity exploration, Sephora makeup, moody music played on iPods, and slumber parties where you traded tales of first kisses or your crushes. I was doing none of that. When I was not busy studying, I was helping my parents with endless household tasks. In the beginning, my extended family—my aunts and uncles—helped us settle in, for which I’ll always be grateful, but that couldn’t last forever. The responsibilities quickly fell on my brother and me. And when my brother left for college, it was just me managing the household. Even though my English was far from fluent, it was better than my parents’, so I became the one answering phone calls and accompanying my dad to doctor’s appointments. I would struggle to understand medical jargon and fumble for the right words to translate, while my dad sat on the exam table, helpless and impatient for any news he could comprehend.
Then came the complexities of insurance and money. My parents grew anxious whenever finances were involved, as money was always tight. Like many immigrant adults without college degrees, they could only find low-wage labor jobs. The American healthcare system, already baffling to most, felt like a complete labyrinth to us. In my parents’ minds, medical insurance should cover everything. But there was always fine print.
I would be both the interpreter and the problem solver. I would be the one to ask the office, to receive a vague answer of “just an estimate” that “we won’t know for certain until after the procedure is done and a claim is submitted to the insurer.” I would be the first to hear my parents’ grievances if they received an unexpected bill. And I had to solve it.
This was my crash course in the mundane reality of adulthood. I’ve come to dread paperwork and mind-numbing administrative tasks after doing them for not one, but three people. As a teenager, I had to deal with rude customer service, the frustration of chasing down documents from different offices, and the skeptical tone on the other end of the line when they realized they were speaking to a child. Now, even as an adult living on my own, I’m still making calls and handling paperwork for my parents from afar.
During that time, I often went to bed feeling overwhelmed and profoundly sad, wishing my life could be different. I longed for the carefree existence that seemed to define childhood for others. But each morning brought me back to the reality of my responsibilities. I would push aside any lingering sadness, board the bus with my books and scrap paper, and focus on what I could control, tuning out the chatter of kids who had known each other since they were young.
As the years passed, our family became like distant islands, each of us navigating our own separate challenges and emotions. My parents were consumed by work, trying to make ends meet, while my brother and I focused on our studies. I didn’t tell my parents about my struggles; I knew they had their own worries—about money, the future, and how to build a life in a country that did not know them. In that silence, we each carried our own burdens, afraid of sharing them with each other.
***
As a teenager and an island to myself, I learned to do many things on my own. I scheduled doctor appointments, enrolled in driving school, organized my class schedules, and completed all the necessary paperwork for each school year.
One year, while filling out the application for free or reduced lunch, I made an error. For years, I had posed as my parents, and it had always worked—until it didn’t. I misread the question about household size and listed only myself, which disqualified our application. A simple mistake, but one that threw me into panic. The prospect of paying full price for lunch—$2.50 a day instead of 40 cents—felt like an insurmountable challenge. Our family’s financial situation was tight, and the money I was gifted each year for Christmas, the rare allowance I received, wouldn’t be enough to cover the cost.
After calling the school office and correcting my mistake, the application was approved. Looking back, I can laugh at how I catastrophized the situation, but at the time, it felt serious. If I had talked to my parents, my mom could’ve assured me that they would have enough. Or maybe she couldn’t. Either way, I never told them about the incident. I quietly handled everything on my own, and every moment of despair, qualified or not, was mine to own. Most of the time, I could manage fine and things went smoothly. When something went astray, panic was quick to ensue. Every small misstep carried weight when resources were scarce.
Aside from the panic moments, I experienced deep isolation. Throughout middle school, I formed few close friendships—one of them being with my ESL teacher, Mrs. Colla. She was often the only adult I could rely on, offering not only language lessons but practical advice on everyday challenges, from school supplies to navigating phone calls. When I graduated from ESL classes, we continued communicating through email. To this day we keep in touch.
As a family, we rarely traveled or participated in leisurely activities. Vacations and extracurriculars were simply not feasible given our financial situation. Though I had a natural curiosity and a desire to explore new experiences, many activities—like sports or music programs—were out of reach due to their cost. When pamphlets for music camps or martial arts classes came around, I knew better than to hold onto them. Beyond the expense, I often lacked transportation. My parents, busy with work and unfamiliar with driving in the U.S., couldn’t offer rides, and my requests for such things felt like adding more weight to their already full plates.
While other kids my age participated in extracurriculars or took trips with their families, my world revolved around work. I took two weekend jobs when I was 16—receptionist at a tailor shop and housekeeper at a nursing home. The work was physically draining, especially at the nursing home, where I cleaned toilets and mopped floors for $8.75 an hour. I can still smell the nursing home - an offending concoction of cleaning agents, disinfectants, bodily odors, and the end of life. Yet, there was satisfaction in earning my own money, a sense of control over my circumstances.
At times, I resented my situation and struggled with a sense of unfairness. It was easy to feel like I was carrying more than I should. But as I adapted, handling things on my own became normal. I remember being surprised when an upperclassman mentioned his mom made his doctor’s appointments. That kind of support felt foreign to me, and it made me realize how different my reality was.
At my magnet school, some students were placed in advanced math classes. While I was in Algebra, they were in Calculus; when I was in Calculus, they were already in Multivariable Calculus. I had assumed they were simply more gifted. It wasn’t until my senior year that I learned their parents had advocated for them to skip Freshman Earth Science and double up on math courses. This left me wondering how many opportunities I might have missed without someone to guide or advocate for me
Emma on her high school graduation, 2018
***
The magnet school, Greater Hartford Academy of Math and Science (GHAMAS), offered a half-day program that allowed students from surrounding towns to pursue a STEM-focused curriculum. I learned about it through a family friend and enrolled as a freshman in high school. In the morning, I went to Hartford for math and science classes. In the afternoon, I took a bus to my hometown Rocky Hill for social studies and humanities classes.
GHAMAS was a fresh start. I enjoyed the diverse student body and the nerdy culture. My experience at Rocky Hill High had improved as well; my English was better, and I felt I was starting to fit in, even planning to run for the Freshman Student Council.
However, my family’s decision to buy a house in Bristol, where my dad worked, changed everything. We managed to secure a mortgage, a significant achievement considering our family income at the time, thanks to my parents’ hard work and careful savings. The new home was a nascent manifestation of the elusive American dream we had been unconsciously chasing.
While I was grateful for our new house, I struggled to regain my footing after the move. I found it challenging to form lasting friendships at the new high school and felt like an outsider. Once again, I had to try to belong.
Another challenge was figuring out how to continue attending GHAMAS as a Bristol student. I understood that each district had a limited number of lottery spots for the school, but no one seemed to have clear answers. When I reached out to the guidance counselor at Bristol Eastern, she was surprised to hear from a student rather than a parent and was unfamiliar with the GHAMAS partnership. Understandably so, as I was one of only two students from Bristol Eastern attending GHAMAS.
In a final effort, I approached the vice principal at GHAMAS for assistance. He was sympathetic to my situation but couldn’t guarantee a solution. It felt as though no one was fully invested in helping me, perhaps because I lacked connections in the new school. I remember calling my best and only friend at the time Nina, bless her, and sobbing nonstop about the situation. Although feeling helpless, I resolved to persist until I found a way to continue at GHAMAS. After making more calls and following up, I finally secured my spot as a half-day student at both Bristol Eastern High School and GHAMAS for my sophomore year.
Engaging in adult responsibilities didn’t always lead others to see me as an adult. This reality hit home when I faced another obstacle with attending GHAMAS. The summer before my junior year, I received a letter stating that the bus service between Bristol and GHAMAS would no longer operate, leaving us to arrange our own transportation. Unfortunately, no one in my family could help during the workday, so I felt stuck. I repeatedly contacted CREC, the central educational council overseeing the magnet schools, hoping for assistance. Despite my efforts, I received no solutions.
A friend from Bristol who also attended GHAMAS had her mother call CREC, and just like that, the issue was resolved: they agreed to provide a van for our daily commute. I felt relieved but also frustrated. Why did it seem that only an adult’s involvement could prompt a solution? This experience reinforced my sense that it was easier to dismiss a child’s concerns. I often felt like my age limited my ability to be taken seriously, and I began to wonder if my challenges were magnified simply because I was perceived as “just a kid.”
Navigating these feelings of hopelessness and persistence became a defining part of my adolescence. Over time, I developed a reluctance to ask for help, which I carried into adulthood. I often hesitate to request favors from friends, fearing I might be seen as a burden. In my first job after college, I struggled to seek assistance and focused instead on working hard. Growing up, relying on others wasn’t an option, so I came to depend on independence—an instinct that sometimes led to sickening self-isolation.
Beneath my stubborn independence lies a parallel and paradoxical fear of loneliness. I know my parents love me, but they can’t always provide the emotional, practical, and financial support I wish they could. These thoughts are not always irrational but they are prone to arise—if family support is supposed to be unconditional and I can’t fully rely on it, who else is there? Who will call the doctor for me or pick up medicine when I’m sick?
Years later in therapy, I learned that it’s okay to ask for help, to lean on someone. It’s okay to not have to put on a brave face all the time.
But back then, I had to set aside my frustration and keep on moving. I passed the driver’s license test and had the freedom to drive myself to places when I had access to my parents’ car. I switched roles to receptionist at the nursing home, answering phones instead of cleaning rooms and increasing my salary to $9/hour. I studied and passed the U.S. citizenship test, becoming a naturalized citizen. I even applied for my own credit card with no understanding of what building credit meant and managed to pay the bill in full each month from my own banking account.
Then it was time to apply to college.
***
For immigrant children, the mantra is clear: education is essential for achieving a better life than our parents, who make countless sacrifices. Implicitly and explicitly, I understood that I needed a good job with a decent income to support myself and my family while building for my future self. That was the end, the means - I had to figure it out myself.
I knew my parents couldn't finance my education, so scholarships and loans became my only options. I was also clueless when it came to applying to college in general. I first learned about the SAT during a sophomore bus ride when a classmate mentioned it. “We have to take the SAT to apply to college?” I asked, surprised. After getting off the bus, I headed straight to the school library, borrowed a prep book, and started studying.
During my scrambling research, I discovered QuestBridge, an organization that connects low-income students with competitive private universities. This was my introduction to the Ivy League and liberal arts colleges like Williams, Pomona, and Amherst. Before this, I was only familiar with Manchester Community College and UCONN, where my brother attended. Learning about QuestBridge felt like a lightbulb moment—this could be my opportunity to attend college with minimal cost.
A conundrum illustrating the profound socioeconomic inequality in the U.S. educational system is that schools offering the most generous financial aid are often the hardest for low-income students to access. Numerous barriers contribute to this challenge: a lack of resources that provide the right opportunities for building a competitive college application, insufficient support during the application process, and a general unawareness of these schools' existence.
As a high-performing student with strong grades and SAT scores, I dared to consider applying to Yale Early Action. I had visited several campuses, but Yale stood out as my favorite—its proximity and the guarantee of fully meeting students' financial needs, like other well-endowed private universities, made it appealing
So I submitted my application as a QuestBridge scholar without informing my family until Decision Day. To my surprise and immense gratitude, I was accepted.
It wasn’t until Yale that I learned there were international schools, people received SAT tutoring, and college admissions was a ludicrous industry. I had been naive and shut out in my own world of struggle and survival. I began to understand the true meaning of high income and to grasp the differences in background between myself and my peers, as well as the broader socioeconomic inequities at play.
Like middle school and high school, I went through college on my own, financial or otherwise. I managed with savings from high school jobs, work study, scholarship money, and rigorous budgeting. Having been independent for so long, once again I thought this was the norm, until one day when I got a meal in the dining hall with a friend of four years. Somehow we landed on the topic of paying for college. When I mentioned that my parents had not contributed a dime to my tuition, she was shocked.
I worked extremely hard at Yale. My classmates were brilliant, talented, well-off, and worldly. Being in our early 20s, most of us didn’t know what we were doing. But for the ones with their future secured, they exuded an air of sophistication, of confidence in the way they walked and talked knowing the world was their oyster. And they had every right to feel that way. For me, the stakes were different. I felt a constant pressure to have everything in order. I focused on building my resume and securing internships, knowing that these experiences would be crucial for my job prospects. With unemployment not being an option, I had to strive for perfection, as I had no safety net to rely on.
Emma today, hiking to the top of Clouds Rest in Yosemite National Park, 2021
***
I think about how those years have a lasting effect on my relationship with my family, on how I view independence, how I choose to receive care and love, and how I both live and loathe the concept of self-starting. Self-reliance is a highly lauded quality, and it does have its own merits. But the idea turns unhealthy when self-reliance is the sole means to an end or used to justify a lack of support. I did persevere and get by, but I wish there had been an easier way - that I, somehow, could have opened up to others more, could have been smarter about asking for help instead of defaulting to stress and desperation.
As an adult, I find more ease in managing tasks that once felt overwhelming when I was a teenager. My requests are legitimized by my age, and there's a sense of pride in knowing that I will be treated with respect when I reach out. I appreciate that I can pick up the phone and know that I will be greeted with common courtesy. A nagging sense of doubt and self-criticism still surfaces when the call doesn’t go as planned. Maybe I didn’t learn it the right way because no one taught me to be effective and graceful on the phone. Maybe my accent came out too noticeable, maybe I could’ve been more articulate, more confident, the way someone born and raised here would be.
The paradox of hopelessness and persistence continues to permeate my reality. I have learned to be resourceful and that I can do anything that I set my mind to. But now and then, it’s easy to feel defeated. As an adolescent immigrant from a low-income background, first-gen student and corporate professional, and a woman of color, I face barriers in my career, higher education, and upward economic mobility. Perhaps things would’ve been easier had I received more resources, guidance, knowledge, or simply exposure to the possibilities and experiences of the other side growing up. In reality, sheer will is not always enough to get one through. Yet I don’t have any other option but to keep on moving.
My experiences have fostered a tendency toward perfectionism and anxiety. I feel pressure to maintain order and avoid mistakes, as each misstep feels consequential, leaving me with a sense of isolation. And I will have to face the consequences alone.
I have been reading extensively about trauma, healing, and mental health. I’m learning to let myself lie down and feel depressive emotions and know them for what they are instead of fighting through them, which is really a luxury. In the past, I often lacked the vocabulary for my struggles or felt compelled to push through because I couldn’t afford to rest. I’m learning to reframe my mindset to not spiral into defeat so quickly or beat myself up too much when I make a misstep. I’m learning to allow myself to take breaks and enjoy life’s moments without guilt. Social activities with friends are not indulgences; they are essential for connection and well-being.
I’m learning to not be an island. I make an effort to call my mom once a week and stay in touch with the friends I have made. I appreciate the emotional support that was lacking in my earlier years and feel grateful for the connections I have built.
Sharing my story about my vulnerable years feels daunting, but I hope it resonates with others in similar situations. I want to convey that there is a way forward, and you are not alone. While the specifics of my experience might be unique, my story is one thread in the broader tapestry of the immigrant experience. My hope is that the collective will encourage understanding and empathy among readers and inspire others to share their journeys. If just one person feels less alone after reading, the platform is a success.
***
When I think about my teenage years, I sometimes wish I could go back in time. If I could go back in time to my younger self, if I could go back to her first day of school in a new country, to the times when she sat alone in her room with no one to talk to but journal, to the nights when she cried into a pillow, I would give her a big hug. I would tell her that everything would turn out all right.
Emma Dinh is the founder of the Straddler Collective. She currently lives in Brooklyn.
