本文讲述了越南裔电影制作人Ai Vuong的个人经历，她出生于越南，5岁时随家人移民美国德州。在青少年时期的一次越南之旅后，她对自己的文化根源产生了强烈的探索欲望。大学毕业后，她回到越南生活了七年，最终回到美国发展事业。然而，她对亚洲的归属感从未改变，并计划未来再次搬回亚洲，希望在那里建立家庭，让孩子们在相互依存的文化环境中成长。文章探讨了Vuong在不同文化背景下的身份认同、文化适应以及对未来的规划。

🏡 早期生活与文化冲击：Ai Vuong在越南出生，童年时期移居美国，在美国德州长大，在越南裔移民社区中长大。尽管如此，她从小就因为自己的文化背景而感到与众不同，例如名字和食物带来的差异，让她在学校里遭受嘲笑。这让她逐渐意识到自己与周围环境的不同，并开始思考自身的文化身份。

🌏 重返故土与文化探索：青少年时期的一次越南之旅，让她对自己的文化根源产生了强烈的认同感。大学毕业后，她选择回到越南生活，并在那里度过了七年时光。这段经历让她深入了解了越南的文化和社会，也在不断适应和探索自己的身份。

🎬 职业发展与未来规划：她在越南期间，逐渐适应了当地的工作文化和社会交往方式。后来，她在亚洲其他地区工作，并与一位哥伦比亚电影制作人相遇。为了事业发展，她和伴侣回到美国，共同创办了电影公司。尽管如此，她仍然计划未来搬回亚洲，希望在那里建立家庭，让孩子们在相互依存的文化环境中成长。

Ai Vuong, 38, was born in Vietnam and moved to Texas when she was 5.During a trip back in her late teens, she realized she wanted to explore her heritage further.Vuong lived in Vietnam after college before returning to the US, but her long-term plan is to move back to Asia.

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Ai Vuong, a Vietnamese-born filmmaker who grew up in Texas. Her words have been edited for length and clarity.

My parents always reminded me that I was Vietnamese, even though I was growing up in Texas.

I was 5 when my family left Vietnam, and 17 when I went back for the first time. On that trip, I was surprised to find I felt more at home there.

So after graduating from college, I moved back. I spent the next seven years living in Vietnam before returning to the US.

Now, my goal is to return to Southeast Asia.

My Family's journey West

I was born in a small town in the Mekong Delta in 1986.

My parents left Vietnam through the Humanitarian Operation program, which helped former re-education camp detainees immigrate to the US.

My dad had been imprisoned multiple times for trying to escape. When my aunt, who had gained US citizenship, sponsored us, we left.

Finding my place in Texas

We landed in Houston and eventually settled in Dallas, where I was raised in a tight-knit Vietnamese immigrant community. It helped me become fluent in Vietnamese.

Still, like many children of immigrants, I grew up quietly ashamed of what made me different. The smell of our food and the sound of my name — "Ai," which sounds like "eye" — made me an easy target for teasing. Kids would point to their eyes or say things like "Hi, Ai."

They were daily reminders that I was seen as different.

I grew up in a diverse suburb with other immigrant families, which gave me a sense of belonging. My parents, though, faced discrimination — especially my dad, who worked loading boxes. He didn't talk about it much, but over time, I picked up on the harassment and bullying he endured through the little things he let slip.

Finding my place in Vietnam

I was a junior in high school when we first went back to Vietnam. After that trip, I tried to return every year.

I studied anthropology and sociology with a minor in French at the University of Texas at Austin, mostly to comply with my parents' wishes.

In 2009, when I was 22, I moved back and joined a volunteer program in Huế, in central Vietnam. Back then, few Vietnamese Americans were doing that, and my relatives in the US wondered why.

"Why go back?" they asked. "And why there?"

To them, Vietnam was a place they had escaped. But I wasn't going back in fear — I was going back with the intention to reconnect, to immerse myself, and to learn.

My parents visited me while I was there. For them, it was just as new — they'd never been to central Vietnam, so they were discovering the culture and dialect alongside me.

They expected I'd stay a year.

But I ended up living there for seven. They didn't understand why I wanted to stay. To them, the American dream had meant building a career and making money in the US.

Fitting in

Vietnam, for all its emotional familiarity, also reflected my American identity.

I spoke Vietnamese with an accent, and my cultural instincts leaned Western. When it came to work culture, I didn't realize how relational it could be — so much depended on building trust and reading the room.

When I arrived, I was used to getting straight to the point. I had to learn to navigate through conversation, timing, and subtle cues.

I also struggled with the concept of personal space. In the West, alone time is normal; in Vietnam, it often felt like something I had to fight for — and I felt guilty for wanting it.

Even the day-to-day realities — the rhythm of motorbike traffic, the communal intensity of neighborhoods — forced me to recalibrate.

Texas was spread out, quiet, and individualistic. In Vietnam, life happened on the street.

That duality stayed with me. I had always identified as Vietnamese-American, hyphen and all. But the longer I stayed in Vietnam, the more that label started to feel inadequate. A writer I admire, Gloria Anzaldúa, talks about hybridity — not being half of two things, but something new altogether. That's what I am. A hybrid.

The longer-term plan is not in the US

Near the end of my time in Vietnam, I began working across the region — and eventually joined a film education program in Cambodia. That's where I met my partner, a Colombian filmmaker. He needed to renew his green card, so we moved back to the States and started our film company, TẠPI Story.

We also cofounded The School of Slow Media, which focuses on film education across Asia and the US.

Since then, we've created human-driven documentaries and videos for organizations like the UN Environment Programme and Google, and we've filmed on five continents.

We felt we needed to build our company and gain skills in the US, where most grants and opportunities are.

But long term, the plan is to move back. I don't want to raise a family in the US. I want my children to grow up with a strong sense of interdependence — an awareness of how our lives are connected to others.

We're now building toward that next chapter.

Got a personal essay about moving to Asia that you want to share? Get in touch with the editor: akarplus@businessinsider.com.