Ngo arrived in the United States in 2019 to attend UNC-Chapel Hill, driven by a desire for stronger academic opportunities. Before moving to North Carolina, she had spent 18 years in Saigon, now formally known as Ho Chi Minh City, a densely populated and fast-moving metropolis in southern Vietnam that once served as the capital of South Vietnam during the Vietnam War.

Growing up in a city defined by constant motion, she was used to the rhythm of motorbikes, overlapping voices, and a pace that rarely slowed. Arriving in Chapel Hill, the contrast was immediate. Everything felt quieter, more spread out, and at times, almost still.

Even everyday moments made the distance from home more tangible. Not hearing Vietnamese spoken around her, or struggling to find ingredients she had always taken for granted, turned routine tasks into reminders that she was far from what she knew.

For her, the shift was not only environmental, but cultural. In Saigon, she was surrounded by people who shared her background. In North Carolina, which she experienced as largely White-dominant, she had to learn how to navigate new expectations, social norms, and ways of interacting, all while adjusting to a different sense of belonging.

At the same time, she began to recognize that Vietnamese communities in North Carolina, though smaller, were steadily growing. In cities like Charlotte, Raleigh, and Greensboro, increasing numbers of Vietnamese residents have built lives through businesses, cultural events, and community organizations. Through these spaces, she slowly began to reconstruct a sense of familiarity, even if it never fully mirrored what she had left behind.

Ngo’s transition into the United States was shaped not only by place, but also by language.

Her first exposure to English came through a private “half-international” primary school. However, it was not until her secondary education in a public school that she began to approach English more deliberately, particularly during her sophomore year, as she set her sights on studying abroad.

In structured academic settings, she adapted quickly. Classroom English felt manageable, and she did not face significant challenges keeping up with coursework. However, outside of that structure, language became more complex.

She described how everyday conversations moved quickly, often shaped by slang, informal phrasing, and cultural references she had not encountered before. Unlike many of her peers, she had not grown up watching American television, which made these gaps more noticeable.

Over time, she learned through immersion. Through daily interaction, she began to recognize patterns in speech, gradually building both comprehension and confidence. The process was incremental, shaped less by formal instruction and more by lived experience.

By the time she began her first year in Chapel Hill, those challenges became more layered.

Ngo described gravitating toward other international students, not as a deliberate decision, but because it felt natural. Within those spaces, communication required less effort, and shared experiences reduced the need for explanation. Speaking in English was still difficult, and expressing her full sense of self felt even more so. Homesickness and culture shock reinforced that tendency, making it harder to step beyond what felt comfortable.

Then came COVID-19.

She recalled attending classes across time zones, often late at night or early in the morning. The lack of flexibility from the university made the experience especially difficult, adding logistical strain to an already challenging transition.

Her experience also reflects a broader difference in educational systems. In Vietnam, students who do not pursue international education typically take a national exam that determines which universities they can attend. By choosing to study abroad, she entered a system that required navigating new academic expectations, institutional structures, and forms of independence.

Looking back, Ngo reflected that she wishes she had pushed herself further, explored more, and engaged more fully with unfamiliar experiences. At the same time, she recognized that those early challenges were formative, shaping both her resilience and her sense of independence.

As she adjusted to life in North Carolina, community became something Ngo had to actively build.

Although the Vietnamese population in the state is relatively small, she found connection through organizations like the Vietnamese Student Association. What surprised her most was not just the existence of this community, but the sense of familiarity it offered in a place that initially felt unfamiliar.

That sense of scale became more apparent during her visits to California. In areas such as Orange County’s Little Saigon, San Jose, and the greater Los Angeles region, Vietnamese communities are larger, more visible, and more deeply established, shaped in part by refugee resettlement following the Vietnam War.

In Orange County, Ngo experienced a version of the United States that felt closer to home.

“You can go to the bank and hear Vietnamese. It’s an American bank… people talk in Vietnamese everywhere… you feel like you’re in Saigon for a little bit. But here you’ll never get that.” 

Returning to North Carolina made that absence more noticeable. Cultural familiarity was not embedded in daily life, but something she had to navigate without.

She also became more aware of how place shaped perception. In North Carolina, particularly during COVID-19, she experienced moments of racial tension toward Asians that felt more pronounced. Quynh recalled a racist encounter on a bus that remained vivid in her memory, reinforcing how differently she experienced belonging depending on where she was.

Even everyday interactions reflected this contrast. In her experience, Vietnamese culture tends to be more conversational and outwardly expressive, while interactions in North Carolina could feel more reserved.

These experiences shaped how Ngo understood cultural awareness around her.

In Chapel Hill, familiarity with Vietnamese culture often appeared in limited forms. Among many White Americans, recognition tended to center around phở and Lunar New Year.

Among East Asian communities, Quynh observed slightly broader familiarity. Some people recognized dishes like bánh mì and bún bò Huế, and there was occasional awareness of traditional clothing such as the áo dài. Still, phở remained the most widely recognized dish.

While these points of recognition were meaningful, she felt that they rarely extended beyond the surface.

Ngo expressed a desire for more opportunities for deeper cultural exchange, not only to share Vietnamese culture more fully, but also to learn about others. For her, cultural understanding is reciprocal, built through curiosity and shared experience.

“It takes a lot of labor to make bánh xèo. Phở takes a lot of labor too, but it can be done overnight… for bánh xèo, you actually need to stay in there.” 

Across all of these transitions, food remained one of the most consistent points of connection.

For Ngo, bánh xèo carries a strong sense of memory. Although she grew up in Ho Chi Minh City, her family roots are in Central Vietnam, where bánh xèo tôm nhảy is a regional specialty.

She recalled her grandmother making it at home, but her most vivid memories were tied to the coast. After long days at the beach, she would stop at a small roadside stand, where the smell of shrimp and pork filled the air and the sound of batter crisping against a hot pan was constant.

Sitting by the sea with a freshly made bánh xèo in hand is what she remembers most clearly.

In North Carolina, that experience is difficult to recreate. She has never seen bánh xèo on a menu in Chapel Hill and instead associates places like Texas and California with better access to Vietnamese cuisine.

When she craves it, Ngo makes it herself, even though it is a labor-intensive process.

She described preferring the Central Vietnamese style, where the batter is slightly thicker, crisp on the outside but still soft inside. Her preferred fillings include shrimp, pork belly, sometimes beef, and bean sprouts.

Whether made at home or remembered from the coast, bánh xèo remains one of her strongest connections to home.

Cooking, in Ngo's daily life, reflects both necessity and continuity.

It is a way to care for herself while maintaining a connection to home, but it is also shaped by practical constraints. Without a car, access to Asian grocery stores is limited, and many essential ingredients are not readily available in standard American supermarkets.

Items such as bean sprouts, certain mushrooms, and the herbs known as rau thơm are especially difficult to find.

“I buy all my ‘Vietnamese vitamins of the month.”

When she is able to visit stores like H Mart or Quê Hương, she stocks up. Some ingredients are still difficult to source locally, so her aunt in California sends key spices to help maintain continuity in her cooking.

At the same time, her approach to food is not limited to tradition. Influenced by Korean and Japanese cuisines and cooking online, she experiments and adapts.

Even when cooking dishes outside of Vietnamese cuisine, she incorporates familiar elements.

 “...[added a] touch of Vietnamese to it by adding fish sauce.” 

Her cooking reflects both continuity and change, shaped by memory, adaptation, and curiosity.