ON WOMANHOOD

To all the inspiring women in my life.

Hanoian women in 1950s. At 29, my Grandma (standing) was already a mother of eight children.

Phụ nữ Việt Nam khổ lắm! Being a Vietnamese woman is a misery. I grew up hearing this phrase from grandmas and mothers, aunts and sisters, teachers and friends, chanted to my ears like a hypnotic mantra. I believed it.

I wanted to stay a kid. A kid was somehow genderless. A kid seemingly did not shoulder the weight of gendered prejudices. My parents, the same people who took joy in my calculation speed when I was 5, pushed me to gifted school when I was 10, are the same people who told me "math/martial arts/soccer/running is not suitable for girls", "girls do not have to study much" and "ambition is not good for girls" when I reached 15. How baffling. If growing up means intellectual demotion by default, I wish I could indefinitely delay adulthood.

Nothing was exciting about womanhood. What I have seen were ill-treated wives simply because they did not give birth to a son, overworked mothers in both career and domestic roles, trapped in failed marriages, discriminated daughters and granddaughters, pretty girls getting openly harassed on the street, and competent women getting actively hindered in office. The much-praised virtues of Vietnamese women - beautiful, humble, gentle, loving, and forgiving - in fact, translate to sexualized, superficial, docile, sacrificing, and good at suffering. When đồ đàn bà, literally you women, remains a vernacularized insult for pettiness, fickleness, and narrow-mindedness, womanhood stays undesirable.

I rejected Vietnamese womanhood in every possible way. I resisted cooking. I disliked áo dài, the national dress, the Vietnamese symbol of femininity. I refuse to nod and smile. I defend my opinions. I denied make-up. I detest the word “pretty” as if it was an insult that discounts female intelligence. I never believe that girls are in any way inferior to boys. I ran away before turning 18. The strongest motivation for a full ride to American college was never career advancement, social mobility, or immigration but the promise of liberation, independence, and intellectual freedom. I came of age in a foreign country, fully grown through my travels in exotic lands. The newness of a place, the freshness of an experience, and the thrill of knowledge soon replaced my concern about adulthood. Unknowingly, I was no longer a child.

When I moved abroad, unlike other Vietnamese girls, I did not bring áo dài. I did not own one. My first time wearing áo dài, a rented one, was on our high school's senior day. At 17, I felt extremely uncomfortable in my grown body. It was not until college graduation did I think about owning a white áo dài. The color white, a symbol of purity and youthfulness, is traditionally reserved for students. My first and only áo dài was tailored at a shop in Hanoi Old Quarter whose owner reminded me of my aunt. I chose the most traditional style, plain, white, long-sleeved with a stiff mandarin collar. Perhaps it was the first step of re-approaching my cultural identity. Yet at 21, I very much still felt like an impostor in the áo dài, like a child trying out her mom's lipstick and high heels, that I was pretending, that this was still not me and I was not ready. I only wore it once, then tucked it away in the deepest part of my suitcase.

Throughout grad school, especially my tenure at Womxn in Design, I met female professors, mentors, CEOs, founders, principals, leaders, and mothers, who redefine what it means to be a woman. Beth is an architect, professor, and mother of three who leads a successful design office while teaching our 12-hour-a-week architecture studio. She possesses a classy, relaxed attitude yet is the most audacious and assertive when needed. Zsuzsanna, the design principle and my mentor at work, always brings a feminine power to lead. Her way of orchestrating discussions is the most persuasive design narration I have heard. Brenda, Tiffany, Alex, and Lian, my mentors from Womxn in Design, taught me about advocating for myself, navigating the complex net of real-world power, and forging my own career path. The women in my class, facing the arduous demands of architecture school, are in no way less than the men in their physical endurance and intellectual prowess. Their feminine power is like water, at times calm and full as a lake, malleable and flexible as a stream, yet can also rise powerful and formidable like the ocean tides. Knowing them makes me fearless. It is now inspiring to be a woman.

My peers from other countries suffer from many of the same stereotypes I had. The old Vietnamese way is conservative and misogynistic, just like the old American way, the Chinese way, the Ethiopian way, or any other culture. Nonetheless, I recognize a change in generation and culture. I have seen my female friends grow up to be engineers, scientists, PhDs, and competent professionals. I have known men who properly respect and treat women as true equals. The cultures we grew up in shape our experience but we young people have the power to reshape culture for generations to come.

Being Vietnamese no longer holds me back from becoming the woman I aspire to be. A dress cannot conceal my intellectual ambition. My relentless determination in professional pursuit does not stop me from treating friends and family with tenderness. Willing to build a caring and healthy relationship does not mean I depend on a man to bring me happiness. My happiness is mine to create. I no longer associate cooking Vietnamese food with female domestic duty but with cultural pride in our cuisine, with a way to show people care and appreciation for the friendship, love, and support I received. My womanhood is what I decide it to be. I owe it to myself to own my femininity and embrace my culture.

A week ago, I concluded my pursuit of graduate education in architecture. At Harvard's Inaugural Graduation Ceremony for students of pan-Asian heritage, I took out the white áo dài that had been worn only once, fully embracing my identity as a Vietnamese woman.