When my family escaped Vietnam at the end of the war, we had to leave behind a lot – documents, belongings, and even family members. As babies, my sister and I didn’t have exact birth dates, and our dad, as well as our uncles and grandmother, couldn’t remember them when questioned by American immigration officials. Birthdays didn’t hold the same significance in Vietnam, as aging was measured by Tet, the lunar new year. Little did I know then that it was common for refugees and immigrants in the United States to have two birthdates – a legal one and an actual one. Unfortunately, my sister and I wouldn’t discover our true birthdates until many years later.
During my childhood, my grandmother Noi decided that my birthday would be August 31 and my sister’s would be March 2, although we were unsure if these were our actual birth dates. Nevertheless, we accepted them because Noi said so. My sister even alternated celebrations between her two dates, and I quickly realized that we had to define for ourselves what a “real” birthday meant. Yet, as I grew up in Grand Rapids, Michigan, I couldn’t help but envy my friends who knew all the details of their birth. None of my refugee family members had birth certificates, so I spent years wishing for evidence of my own beginnings. Instead, I carried a card with the words “resident alien.”
It wasn’t until I turned 18 and applied for American citizenship that I would receive a certificate of naturalization, proving my identity and allowing me to obtain a U.S. passport. Exciting as it was, I never considered the strangeness of having to prove my existence.
Meeting my mother for the first time at the age of 19, who arrived in the United States as a refugee years after the rest of us, I finally mustered the courage to ask about my birth and what it was like for her. However, she didn’t remember anything either. I’ve asked her about it countless times since, but she never had an answer. She made me realize that it didn’t really matter because I was here now.
Sometimes I search for others who share two birthdates because it signifies a shared history of migration and displacement. These individuals carry a mark of diaspora, silently harboring multiple identities.
After my grandmother Noi passed away, my sister and I stumbled upon some photo albums she had kept in her bedroom. Among them was a small box we had never seen before, containing her precious jewelry and more photos. At the bottom of the box were two delicate pages torn off old calendars, one with March 2 written on it and the other with August 31. On the back of the latter, she had written my name. We wondered if Noi had carried these with her when we escaped Vietnam. It’s a mystery we will never unravel.
This newfound knowledge doesn’t change anything; it’s simply a gift. Like my mother once said, we’re here now. I stopped celebrating my birthday when I was 10, no longer concerned with the date Noi had given me. Instead, I remember April 29, the day we became refugees, and December 21, the day my grandmother passed away. The birth of my own children holds more significance now.
Whenever I have to write down my legal date and place of birth, I feel like I’m entering an alternate identity. It’s a constant struggle between my legal and real birthdates, just as I choose to say “Saigon” instead of “Ho Chi Minh City” when talking about my birthplace. My grandmother offered me the ability to embrace this duality, just like many Vietnamese refugees and immigrants. She looked forward more than back, without regrets but also without forgetting the past.
Looking at that calendar page, serving as my birth certificate with my grandmother’s handwriting, I can’t help but consider the peculiarity of preserving a moment in time. Birthdays are not about age but rather about enduring another year as a person in this world. It’s not an accomplishment to be born, but it is an accomplishment to stay alive. That’s exactly what my family did, regardless of our location. We were constructing our lives while longing for a sense of belonging.
“Owner Of A Lonely Heart – A Memoir” by Beth Nguyen.
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