As for Vietnam, it is both familiar and strange. I heard much about it as I grew up in San Jose, Calif., in a Vietnamese enclave where I ate Vietnamese food, went to a Vietnamese church, studied the Vietnamese language, and heard Vietnamese stories, which were always about loss and pain. My parents and everyone I knew had lost homes, wealth, relatives, country and peace of mind. Letters and photographs in Par Avion envelopes, trimmed in red and blue, would arrive bearing words of poverty and hunger and despair. My parents had left behind my older, adopted sister, whom I knew only through one black-and-white photograph, a beautiful girl with a lonely expression. I didn’t remember her at all. I didn’t remember the grandparents who passed away one by one, two of whom I never met because they had stayed in the north while my parents had fled to the south as teenagers in 1954.

My father would never see his mother again, and not see his father for 40 years. My mother would never see her parents again, and not see her sisters for 20 years. And the violence they sought to escape caught up with them. My father and mother opened a grocery store and were shot and wounded in a robbery on Christmas Eve, when I was 10 years old. I was watching cartoons, waiting for them to come home. My brother took the phone call. When he told me what had happened I did not cry, and he shouted at me for not crying.

I would not return to Vietnam for 27 years because I was frightened of it, as so many of the Vietnamese in America were. I found the Vietnamese in America both intimate and alien, but Vietnam itself was simply alien. How I remembered it was through American movies and books, all of them in the English language that I had decided was mine at some unspoken, unconscious level. I heard broken English all around me, spoken by refugees whom I couldn’t help but see through American eyes: fresh off the boat, foreign, laughable, hateful. That was not me. I could not see how I could live a life in two languages equally well, so I decided to master one and ignore the other. But in mastering that language and its culture, I learned too well how Americans viewed the Vietnamese.

I watched “Apocalypse Now” and saw American sailors massacre a sampan full of civilians and Martin Sheen shoot a wounded woman in cold blood. I watched “Platoon” and heard the audience cheering and clapping when the Americans killed Vietnamese soldiers. These scenes, although fictional, left me shaking with rage. I knew that in the American imagination I was the Other, the Gook, the foreigner, no matter how perfect my English, how American my behavior. In my mostly white high school, the handful of Asian students clustered together in one corner for lunch and even called ourselves the Asian Invasion and the Yellow Peril.

Such stories are common among the Vietnamese people I know. For many, like the southern Vietnamese veterans who will not find the names of their more than 200,000 dead comrades on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, the war has not ended. That is because they are not “Vietnam veterans” in the American mind. Our function is to be grateful for being defended and rescued, and many of us indeed are. The United States welcomed hundreds of thousands of refugees from Southeast Asia in the years after the war. You would be hard pressed to find a more patriotic bunch than us, from the law professor who helped write the Patriot Act to the scientist who designed a bunker-buster bomb for the Iraq war. You can also count among our numbers many veterans of the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.