I don’t remember exactly when it happened. But I do remember exactly how I felt when it did.

I was about 7 years old as I sat in the passenger seat of a car, while a relative was driving me somewhere. Suddenly, another car drove next to us. The driver and passenger appeared to be teenage boys. Possibly, they were in their early 20’s. I suppose their age wasn’t important. What was very important were the two words I was about to hear, words that would change my life.

“F*****g gooks!” they yelled. Their smiles, vicious.

At first I didn’t understand what those words meant, and I certainly did not understand why the boys seemed to be so angry with us. But the boys continued the profanities with even more fervor.

What I deciphered from their sneers was that their intentions were nowhere near anything good. Instantly I felt humiliated, ashamed. Blood rushed to my face as I began to understand that I was a “gook” and the expletive preceding “gook” meant that was a very bad thing.

Eventually, they drove off into the distance, but what remained of them was a feeling inside me of being completely insignificant.

Even before this incident, I had long carried a general feeling that I did not belong in the country in which I lived. Being a foreigner, I simply did not fit in. I was so terribly different from the kids who attended my elementary school in Orange. Often I was teased and misunderstood. But as I sat in the car, I started to put two and two together – not knowing then that my math was inherently flawed.

The answer I came to was that those boys had delivered a message from the rest of the world. And this message told me I should be ashamed of who I was.

From that point on, I was.

I started to loathe being Vietnamese. I hated the weird sound of my name, Mai. I hated the sound of my native language. I hated how different my food was. I hated what I now saw as my greasy black hair, unflattering jaundiced skin, and narrow eyes which seemed to taunt me whenever I smiled.

I often accompanied my mother on her grocery shopping trips. These stores frequently carried personalized novelty items, such as mugs with various first names imprinted on them.

Many times, I looked for a “Mai” mug.

Many times, I was disappointed.

There were plenty of “Mary” mugs, but “Mai” mugs simply did not exist. Whenever I failed to find a mug with my name imprinted on it, that confirmed I wasn’t good enough, that I didn’t belong, adding further fuel to the fire already lit by those teenage boys.

Years passed. Although my general confidence grew, my sense of cultural identity did not. All my friends were Caucasian. I only spoke Vietnamese when absolutely necessary. And 95 percent of the food I ate was American – for good reason. Once, someone had quipped that the banh cuon (rice noodle roll) I ate resembled a “translucent turd.” Being the outsider was so embarrassing. Overcompensating, I tried to fit in even more. A man once commented that I spoke like the quintessential American valley girl. Mission accomplished!

In high school, I was finally given the opportunity to relinquish my green card when I obtained coveted U.S. citizenship. At long last, I had the chance to discard my birth name, Mai, the one that didn’t exist in the American lexicon.

Prior to the citizenship ceremony, I pondered many new names, the more American sounding the better. I entertained several candidates, finally selecting Kristen. Kristen just happened to be a popular, blond, blue-eyed cheerleader who ruled our high school class along with her prom-king, football-playing boyfriend. She was the epitome of everything I wanted to be.

With my new name, I could officially begin a new life, a new identity, a new me. I was ecstatic. With excitement, I began to introduce myself as Kristen. I could leave the old Vietnamese me far behind, in favor of a new and “improved” American me – a me who would finally fit in.

And yet.

Something indiscernible lingered. Something felt strangely incomplete.

Soon after I gained U.S. citizenship, I met a new friend. She was lively, confident, and she was definitely Vietnamese. I remember the first time I heard her speak Vietnamese in the midst of our American classmates. She spoke without an ounce of embarrassment, but rather with a sense of pride. I marveled at her. Over the next few months, we spent a significant amount of time together. I observed her closely, much like a student observes a teacher. She comfortably balanced both of her worlds, living in the present, but honoring her past. With each interaction, her sense of self-love rubbed off on me and nourished me like a salve to my parched skin.

With her help, I made other Vietnamese friends. While I already had many kind American friends, it was my Vietnamese friends who provided me with a new sense of empathy for myself. They understood the emotional complexities of being a refugee in a world that wasn’t always trying to understand exactly what it meant to be a refugee. They accepted me for everything that I was and everything that I wasn’t. Finally, I truly belonged to a community that made me feel completely understood.

My new friends took me on a journey through which I was reminded of the beauty of my birthplace, as well as the tremendous resilience, strength, and perseverance of my people. I dined at local Vietnamese restaurants and listened to Vietnamese music. I even started to speak Vietnamese again. Gradually, the sound of my native language became comforting. The taste of my native food became sumptuous. The sound of my native music became ethereal. The knowledge of my ancestors became fascinating. My eyes were re-opened to a mystical world I left behind, years ago, sitting in that car.

I no longer felt like I had to fit inside someone else’s world. Finding mugs with “Mai” imprinted on them wasn’t important anymore, because I finally knew I belonged. Being different was no longer a reason to be ashamed. Now, it was something to embrace.

Now I realize that these were profoundly pivotal moments in my life that forever altered my perception of myself, turning self-loathing into self-loving. I stopped looking for validation from others by simply seeing my birth name in print, and learned to accept myself completely. I was no longer the Vietnamese person who lived as a foreigner in her new homeland, nor was I the American who desperately tried to shun her roots. Rather, I was content to be a complex and evolving amalgamation of the two countries and cultures that shaped my uniqueness and values. At last, the “gook” I shamefully thought I was disappeared, and the self-assured Vietnamese-American inside me emerged in its place.

Because I had legally changed my first name and all my official documents reflected such, everyone I met called me Kristen. Ironically, the new name I had waited so long for now sounded oddly unnatural.

One night, I met a boy at a high school party. He introduced himself and asked me what my name was. With a new pride I replied, “Mai.” Years after I allowed two complete strangers and two insignificant words to redefine my sense of self-worth and identity, I had finally taken the power to love myself back into my own hands.

Today I still introduce myself as Mai because I am proud of who I am and what I am. Like many explorers, I uncovered a buried treasure I never expected to stumble upon. The person I had lost years ago was finally found. And I will make sure to never lose her, ever again.