The last time I met a celebrity, I felt excited, nervous, and uplifted all in the same evening. Earlier that week, I was lying in bed scrolling on Instagram when I stumbled across an event flyer. I stopped dead in my tracks. “Is she really in town this week? For FREE?” I thought. After checking in to said event, I claimed an aisle seat with a good view of the stage. The conference room was large, cold, and slightly dim. It quickly filled up. A professor made the introduction, then out came Amanda Nguyen—the civil rights astronaut. For the next hour and a half, her poise controlled the room, eventually erupting into applause. Then, the butterflies came. It was time to greet her. Growing up, I’ve witnessed what it was like to lose control of your narrative. My loved one experienced victimization, which triggered what I now understand to be a depressive episode. Yet, due to our family dynamic, it was easier to mind my business. Years later, they told me how that decision actually hurt them more. So, I pledged to do better. Beginning my sophomore year of college, I was eager to do everything I had planned: new classes, club presidency, my part-time job, and even cooking for real, instead of as a hobby. I had everything under control for this new academic chapter. Yet, the week I entered my twenties, everything turned south. Someone I was afraid of moved in next door. I reported the issue to my RA, but the system failed me. Still, I had to continue reporting. Some action was eventually taken, but not enough. I struggled to complete assignments on time, did the bare minimum for the club, and even quit my job. The only constant? Grocery shopping and meal prepping. It became an intersection for many of my other interests: culinary arts, nutrition, world cultures, personal finance, consumer rights, and for the amount of steps I took pushing a shopping cart, cardio. I spent my Saturdays cooking up a storm for the next couple months to cope, yet, I knew this was only a crutch. I eventually sought extra help and began to heal. With more energy came a lot of introspection. One thing that helped me was what the civil rights astronaut brought on her first trip to the stars. After her victimization, she wrote a note to herself: “Never Never Never Give Up.” Even though I felt powerless, it didn’t define me. I am more than what happened. I am a person with likes, dislikes, interests, ambition, and community. She derailed her space dreams to pursue justice. Then, when she took off in Blue Origin, she brought the note to remind herself: Your dreams can come true, no matter who wants to take them away. I’ve worked in community organizing spaces since high school, focusing on Queer and BIPOC coalition-building. Lately, I presented a collage about human connection in the age of AI, using my experiences on dating apps to construct the narrative. Like the art project, I shared my journey to normalcy with my village. Instead of them “minding their business,” I was met with a flurry of solidarity, love, and encouragement. By doing so, I gave others permission to seek community care and be held. After college, I’d love to keep building my skills in event planning to foster safe spaces and help others find their voices. When it was my turn to greet Amanda, I introduced myself and shared my story. I told her that doctors are known to save lives. This time, her activism saved mine.

“Power in Organizing” I wrote the first play I acted in, telling a story I never saw growing up—my own. Imagine being crouched in a cramped closet, your heart pounding, and sweat soaking your body as the clock ticked closer to curtain time—that was my reality. At the Asian Student Alliance, a 501(c)3 founded by Asian-American/Pacific Islander high school students and educators, we were the first of our kind. But trailblazing has no support system—we just had to swallow our worries and go all in. Set in the backdrop of COVID-19 and the Atlanta Spa Shootings, “Lunchbox” served to amplify our voices. We spent days brainstorming over our lived experiences. One girl spoke up about surviving sexual harassment at school. Another expressed his loneliness adjusting to another country, while another vented about meeting his parents' sky-high expectations. I decided to embody Aalam, a half-Vietnamese, half-Pakistani student and aspiring journalist. Okay—he wasn’t my story—but leveraging his journalism background, I weaved the theme of food as a form of storytelling, something Aalam does best. I hoped that food, a human need, would bridge cultural gaps in empathy. After the show, we engaged with the audience in a post-play discussion. Everyone was nodding, raising their hands, and sharing vulnerable commentary. While S, the student lead, facilitated this discussion, we looked at each other. We didn’t even have to say it—we just knew it was a job well done. So, I continued to stay with ASA. I fell in love with the community I built—I made some of my first high school friends. From acting in a play to being a student intern, I helped my peers find ways to get involved. I held monthly leadership workshops at the local library and planned our annual leadership conference. Younger students saw me as their mentor. When Lunchbox got overwhelming, I looked up to S for reassurance. So, when it was time to speak at their conference presentations, I held their hands throughout. As students started to age out, we needed ways to attract new members. We leaned into a founding principle—that joy is a form of resistance through storytelling. Channelling that spirit, our team challenged youth applicants to submit their stories in our “Passion Project” show. In this cohort, we examined works ranging from identity-based artwork to an engineering project highlighting healthcare inequality. We curated gallery-like spaces for each project, allowing the community to explore the nuances behind each student’s passion in an intimate setting, at their own pace. I created a space where I allowed others to shine through their passion, just like how I did in “Lunchbox.” Hearing each applicant speak their truth made me realize how community care will dismantle systemic discrimination. My sweet dream? To build a sense of belonging in my community. Opportunities like these are what inspire leadership in future generations—and I’m their support system. I’m grateful to live among different genders, sexualities, religions, and ethnicities. I use food as a tool to educate and celebrate. Whether it’s from my Vietnamese culture or another, I want to normalize our differences. In the end. we are more alike than we are different. From being nervous in a cramped closet, ready to jump out, to exchanging laughs at my booth, I displayed my culinary and entrepreneurial journey alongside cookie samples. I said, “I’m Andy Tran. I aspire to be a bakery/restaurant owner in Atlanta’s Asian-American community. Growing up in a mixed immigrant family, I saw how racial solidarity could help or hurt households of color. Food, no matter where it comes from, is a great tool of promoting community...”

For as long as I can remember, I hated wearing my clothes. As the actor's wife stormed off the stage, the crowd erupted. Her long split tunic, tight across the torso and looser downwards, flowed like her straight black hair. Her pair of baggy silk pants fluttered to her dash, after vowing to leave the marriage. Her dress, áo dài, is the traditional clothing of the Vietnamese people. For a long time, I believed that was all. This was a typical scene in the many DVD volumes of Paris by Night, an entertainment program where overseas Vietnamese families reconnect to their homeland through music and theater in the comfort of their living rooms. While the women exuded elegance, it was not true for us men. They sew theirs differently. Pair it with skinny jeans; you’ll look like an improper fraction or a cardboard box. To quote little me: “Boy’s áo dài look ugly!” As a second-generation Vietnamese immigrant, my interests reflected my diverse community. Whether it was making Korean baechu-kimchi, touring villages on Google Maps, or interviewing my Guyanese friend about his family, I loved learning about our planet. Growing up as a Vietnamese-American—the resulting generational gaps disconnected me from my Vietnamese identity. On trips to Hong Kong Supermarket to buy Lunar New Year cakes, I asked myself—what was the difference between bánh chưng and bánh tét? What religion did we follow? And why did my mom leave everything for my dad’s family an ocean away—a “shameful” past? I would ask my parents these questions in their native tongue—if I could learn it. How can I reclaim my Vietnamese identity? Step 1: Use the internet. Practice saying tones and play Vietnamese pop music. Watch fan dance videos on YouTube. Learn to steam bánh giò, a rice dumpling. Start penpalling. Step 2: Practice longer sentences. Tell your mom that you need a ride, or reminisce your fear of rambutans because they resembled evil sea urchins from Spongebob Squarepants. Perform at your school’s cultural festival. Step 3: You’ve reclaimed your culture! Right? Wrong. BREAKING NEWS: “Backlash against K-pop star Hanni shows Vietnam still struggles with the legacy of the war.” But the war ended forty-eight years ago. This scandal reopened political wounds and nationalistic sentiment on internet forums—unfortunately coinciding with the rise of Asian culture and music in the West. Whether the capitalist South or the communist North were correct, it didn’t matter. Then, I remembered that Paris by Night was a cultural byproduct of refugees like my dad. It reminded me of when I used to hate men’s áo dài, until I realized there was a gap in my cultural knowledge. What did my clothing look like? Enter: Việt Phục. Beyond áo dài, Việt Phục describes Vietnamese traditional clothing. With over four thousand years of history, through multiple dynasties, Việt Phục reflects our unique heritage, coming into contact with different technologies. The most awe-inspiring was the áo tấc: think áo dài’s maximalist brother, with baggy sleeves, layers, and vibrant motifs. After sending my measurements and waiting for the package to arrive, I found my community, people in the same boat as me: Overseas Vietnamese who want to reconnect to their culture without regard to political affiliation. This is when I realized—that to wear traditional clothing in America is to showcase your roots with pride. Through tragedy, we developed our identity through clothing, showcasing the gems of our culture beyond the wounds of war. My crimson dragon áo tấc sits in the corner of my closet most times. But on cultural holidays—and for today—I dress to impress. I’m Vietnamese, after all.

For as long as I can remember, I hated wearing traditional clothes. On Paris by Night, a popular program for overseas Vietnamese, the actor's wife would storm off the stage, her long split tunic flowing like her straight black hair, her baggy silk pants fluttering. Her áo dài, the traditional Vietnamese dress, was something I believed was all my people could create. Paris by Night featured scenes where women looked elegant in their áo dài, but the men's versions always seemed less appealing. Paired with skinny jeans, they looked awkward—like an improper fraction or a cardboard box. Young me would say, “Boy’s áo dài look ugly!” As a second-generation Vietnamese immigrant, my interests were diverse. From making Korean baechu-kimchi in my garage to exploring Congolese villages on Google Maps and interviewing my Guyanese friend, I loved learning about different cultures. Growing up as a Vietnamese-American, my parents’ different reasons for coming to America created a generational gap that distanced me from my Vietnamese identity. On trips to Hong Kong Supermarket for Lunar New Year cakes, I wondered about bánh chưng and bánh tét, our religion, and why my mom left everything behind to live with my dad’s family. I wanted to reclaim my Vietnamese identity. Step 1: Use the internet. Practice Vietnamese tones, play pop music, and watch fan dance videos on YouTube. Learn to fold banana leaves to make bánh giò, a rice dumpling. Start penpalling. Step 2: Practice longer sentences. Ask your mom for a ride to volunteering or talk about how you once feared rambutans because they looked like sea urchins from Spongebob Squarepants. Perform at school cultural festivals using your fan dance skills. Step 3: You’ve reclaimed your culture! Right? Not exactly. News reports about backlash against K-pop star Hanni revealed that Vietnam still struggles with its war legacy. The scandal reopened old wounds and heightened nationalist sentiments online, coinciding with the rise of Asian culture and music in the West. The divide between the capitalist South and communist North seemed irrelevant. Then I remembered that Paris by Night was a cultural product of refugees like my dad. It made me reflect on my previous disdain for men’s áo dài and realize my cultural knowledge was lacking. What did my traditional clothing look like? Enter: Việt Phục. Beyond áo dài, Việt Phục refers to traditional Vietnamese clothing, with over four thousand years of history. Through various dynasties, it reflects our heritage, adapting to different technologies and cultures. The áo tấc, a more elaborate version of the áo dài, features baggy sleeves, layers, and vibrant motifs. After sending my measurements and waiting for the package, I found my community. We filmed fashion hauls, shared sketches, and offered design tips. These were fellow overseas Vietnamese reconnecting with their culture, regardless of political views. I realized that wearing traditional clothing in America is a way to showcase pride in your roots. My people have endured much to preserve their culture, and clothing is a testament to that resilience. Now, my crimson dragon áo tấc sits in the corner of my closet most of the time. But on cultural holidays—and today—I dress to impress. I’m Vietnamese, after all.