How Eden Center Taught Me to Accept My Mixed-Race Identity
By Annabel Taylor,
A few years ago, I found a book hidden among the shelves of my grandparents’ dusty armoire. It was called “The Unwanted” by Kien Nguyen, a memoir of his childhood in Vietnam during the war as the son of an American soldier and a Vietnamese woman.
Reading his story, I was shocked and disgusted by the racism he faced being mixed in Vietnam. I also began to realize how lucky I was to live in a place where I wasn’t outright deprecated for the way I looked. Most of my racial self-consciousness stemmed from my internal fear of being judged by my relatives and peers as “not enough” in some sense — not American enough, not Asian enough. This insecurity began to permeate other areas of my life, causing me to be more critical of myself. I didn’t allow myself the same level of lenience and room to make mistakes as I did to those around me.
I grew up in a large family on my mom’s side, who is Vietnamese. I have aunts, uncles and cousins scattered across the world — in Paris, Switzerland, London, California and here in the DMV. My dad’s family, who is American, lives in Maine and Connecticut, places where I felt similarly out of place, but for different reasons. The dispersion of my family allowed me to gain a diverse cultural understanding of different places from a young age, although understanding never necessarily meant belonging for me.
Growing up, I attended chùa, temple, with my Ong and Ba, grandparents in Vietnamese. The temple I attended was in Northwest D.C., where the streets weaved through narrow alleyways until we saw the red turrets of the place I felt most calm.
The courtyard was verdant, a playground of bonsai topiaries and white lotuses which bloomed even in a downpour. A white lady Buddha built from porous stone sat in the center. The Monk’s house was adjacent to the temple, a townhouse with long patterned carpets and bowls of fruit inside. Bullets of rain seemed to pierce through the tin roof, acting as a lullaby during my prayer. I would sit with my knees folded under me with my bare feet scuffing against the threadbare rug. Ash dripped down my fingers from the red incense stick clasped between my hands.
After chùa, we would drive 30 minutes to Falls Church where the largest Vietnamese shopping center on the East coast, Eden center, was located. It was a second home to my Ong and Ba and later, to me. Eden Center lives among the sun-drenched memories of my childhood, accompanied by the waft of bánh bao, the neon lights of “open” signs and the sound of karaoke coming from the inner depths of the mall.
We would go to the restaurant Rice Paper most often. I almost always ordered the same thing — a coconut juice and Bún Chả Hanoi, which consists of vermicelli noodles, rice paper and marinated pork.
Afterwards, when the sun dipped lower in the sky, we would get boba or red bean cakes shaped like fish. This was the place where I felt most connected to my heritage, swinging hand-in-hand between my parents, making silly faces with my brother, following my grandparents as they navigated the grocery aisles. I may not have been able to order in Vietnamese or understand the labels in the convenience stores, but I felt the deep sense of belonging that language alone cannot convey.
For me, Eden Center always felt like a hazy dream, almost like an exotic vacation to a place I knew but never to a full extent. Having never been to Vietnam, little me wondered if this was what it was like — rows and rows of pho and banh mi shops bubbling with energy, racks of ao dais and Buddha trinkets, a little community where one could do everything from buying custom made jewelry to getting their dry cleaning done. That’s precisely what Eden Center is — it’s a community of restaurants, beauty parlors, retail shops, grocery stores and even medical and financial services, all on one strip. It’s built brick by brick by the business-savvy shop owners, who brought the Vietnam of their own hazy past to America.
As I got older, I realized that Eden Center was not an exact replica of Vietnam, only a microcosm that developed its own traditions, culture and crowd of diverse individuals. Similarly, my America isn’t my parent’s America. It’s completely and utterly mine, built from the experiences that only I can fully understand being mixed race. I may never be able to speak Vietnamese fluently (or even proficiently) with the perfect intonation of a Northern accent, but I have a strong passive understanding for it, listening in on the conversations around me. I love hearing the “th” sound rolling off my Ba’s tongue and the blend of French, English and Vietnamese that my mom speaks with my grandparents.
I may not look fully Vietnamese, but I do comprehend the intricacies of the South Asian values my mom and grandparents taught me about family, wellbeing, humility and perseverance. I may never feel acclimated to the American traditions I watch my friends’ families taking part in, but I do understand the complexity of growing up in a sociocultural environment that is constantly fluctuating. I may have grown up with a different background, but I have a deep affection for the old American films and music that my dad introduced me to.
Now I know that I don’t have to fill in one racial checkbox or another, figuratively speaking. The beauty of multiculturalism lies in its aversion to assimilation. Being two races shouldn’t force me to deduct one from my identity. Instead, being biracial allows me to exist at ease in the cultural sphere I’ve always known — Vietnamese and American.
I am a constantly evolving amalgamation of the cultures I grew up with and am still learning about. Half does not mean broken in any sense of the word. It means that I am full — of tradition, novelty and the love of my family, ancestors and above all, myself.
Annabel Taylor is excited to be starting this summer as an intern for The Falls Church Independent. She's a rising junior at Walt Whitman High School, and an opinion writer for the student-run newspaper. In her free time, she loves to read and write, crochet, and play basketball. This summer, Annabel looks forward to covering a wide variety of topics, from personal blogs to features on the arts, cuisine and culture.
Eden Center
Along Wilson Blvd., Eden Center in the City of Falls Church is the largest Vietnamese shopping and dining center – with over 150 stores – on the U.S. East Coast.
For AAPI Heritage Month in May, The City of Falls Church Economic Development Office (FCEDO) posted the following tribute to Eden Center on Instagram:
"Eden Center is a cultural hub for the Vietnamese community in not only the city, but across the country and around the world. With customers traveling sometimes hundreds of miles to visit the shopping center, Eden Center serves as a mecca of Vietnamese goods, events, and community."
"When you ask a passing shopper why they come to Eden Center you’ll get a wide variety of answers—maybe they stopped in for their favorite fried tofu, or they traveled from afar for the autumn festival, or they’re doing their regular weekly or even daily grocery shopping. While the list goes on and on, what you’re certain to find in the depths of these answers is the profound cultural meaning the center has for the community. There are things to be found in Eden Center that can’t be found elsewhere — collective experience, cultural preservation, a shared meaning that can’t fully be understood by outsiders, but welcomes them to try."
For more reporting on Eden Center, see our recent articles below:
Christopher Jones
Christopher Jones
Member discussion