“This is not nearly as good as mine,” said my mom, in reference to the steaming bowl of pho she had ordered from the local Vietnamese restaurant. “There’s just no flavor!”

Even though I go to school a little more than half an hour away from my parents, they often commemorate each of my visits back home with a trip to the local restaurant for a hot serving of my favorite food. And although I agree that the broth is missing a certain element — it probably needs some more cinnamon — I happily slurp it down anyway. Who can say no to a good bowl of pho anyway? (If you hate pho, then you clearly have no soul.)

It’s moments like these that make me appreciate my culture, one that I have not so eagerly embraced in the past as I do now. So why did it take so long for me to accept my upbringing? Unbeknownst to many, I am a first-generation Asian American. Like many immigrants who came to the states, my family came in search of a better life than the one afforded in their home country.

I was fortunate to immigrate at an early age, and I was spared much of the culture clash that my parents and sisters each experienced. Often, they jokingly call me the “Golden Child,” and this statement isn’t entirely untrue. Of all the kids in my extended family, I have had tremendous opportunity — I pretty much have spent my entire life here!

Growing up in a Vietnamese household, I was particularly aware of the stark dichotomy between the world outside my window and that which my parents created within the walls of our cramped apartment. We strictly communicated in Vietnamese at home and frequently dined on Vietnamese fare. But I didn’t feel particularly Asian (and is that even possible?). As I entered school, I was used to being one of the only Asian kids in my classes, and my family would often notice with a profound amusement when there was another Asian student in my school. In a way, I both avoided and found myself in the middle of a culture clash.

Around the same time, my mom was beginning her cosmetology career, and one day after preschool, I came home and begged her to dye my hair blonde. She steadfastly refused, despite my incessant pleas. I remember being fascinated by my naturally blonde classmates and lamenting the fact that I did not look like them, especially since they were mostly white (in fact, my first crush was a strawberry-blonde girl whom I would play with during recess). Thinking back, I wonder what thoughts raced through my mom’s head and why I was so upset.

As I entered junior high school and high school, I immediately became surrounded by a more diverse population of students. All around were kids who looked just like me, and although I didn’t have a hard time connecting with many (some of my closest friends at the time were in fact Asian), I did not consider myself truly part of the “Asian crew.” In high school, I was one of only a few Asian kids on my swim team, which had more Asian American representation than most of the other sports combined. Besides participating in orchestra, in which many Asian American students participated, I had a good number of white friends. Some of them would jokingly call me a “banana,” a more colloquially known slang term for a person who is yellow on the outside (read: Asian) and white on the inside, or “whitewashed.” These comments didn’t bother me much, but they did get me thinking: Why did I have a such a hard time accepting myself as an Asian American? Was I responsible for holding myself back?

Perhaps I had internalized the misconception that, as an Asian American, I would never be as “cool” as the other kids or that I would be confined to the stereotype of a nerdy “model minority.” Sure, I made good grades, but what could I do to avoid being seen as just another Asian? Looking back, I feel silly that I had those thoughts, but they just felt so real at the time. After all, anyone who has seen an episode or two of "Fresh Off The Boat" knows that some of the portrayals certainly contain some cringeworthy truths. Whatever the reason, I kept these feelings strictly to myself, ashamed that I couldn’t fully embrace my heritage due to an amalgamation of complex internal feelings and reasons.

Upon entering college, I was inundated with diversity workshops. “This is easy,” I thought, since I had surrounded myself from an early age with people from all different types of cultures, thanks to my parents’ efforts to push me into a variety of activities. But I began to notice something different about the kids from my school: They all wholeheartedly embraced their own cultures without inhibition while accepting others. I particularly noted the other Asian students and their endeavors — they led Asian cultural clubs and even taught courses dedicated to learning the cultures through exploration of different delicious foods. I met and befriended a multitude of Vietnamese-American students who proudly embraced their heritage. These students weren’t ashamed to display their culture, and never had I experienced such a welcoming and open environment.

In an increasingly xenophobic American world that seems much more unforgiving of foreign culture, it is important to stand up and be proud of one’s own culture. Particularly because this upcoming election seems to have a focus on the ethnicities and cultures of the voters and citizens, acceptance has become more important than ever. It is OK to be different, and that is something that I am glad to have learned over the past few years.

Although I sometimes feel saddened by the time I lost, I am making up for it despite being busier than ever, and I have Rice to thank for that. I still have much to learn, but I've made a lot of progress. Despite the stereotypes and misconceptions, I now know that they are just misinterpretations rooted in a guise of ignorance. And I will always be that nerdy kid — let’s face it, so will everyone else at Rice — but I am no longer ashamed of it.