TINA HA GIANG
A persistent concern for immigrant communities worldwide is preserving their original culture while integrating into a new society. The longer one lives in their adopted homeland, the more pronounced the need to safeguard their heritage becomes, often evolving into a deep-seated, quiet worry.
Culture is far from an abstract concept within the overseas Vietnamese community, especially in the heart of Little Saigon. It’s both subtly present and vividly apparent—encapsulated in a bánh chưng (sticky rice cake), infused in the aroma of a steaming bowl of phở (noodle soup), stitched into every delicate seam of an áo dài (traditional long dress), echoing in the soulful voice of Khánh Ly singing Trịnh Công Sơn’s melodies, and lingering in faded photographs striving to capture what time seeks to erase.
This year, as the Vietnamese community across the globe marks the 50th anniversary of the end of the Vietnam War—a painful milestone that also marked the beginning of a refugee journey—the story of preserving culture resonates with a quiet yet profound urgency. Memories of a lost homeland don’t just reside in history books or memorial ceremonies but live on in daily endeavors to keep the culture alive.
Over the past few weeks, I have spoken with two young Vietnamese Americans whose lives and work have become living archives of the community’s memory. Though they have walked different paths, both are artists who have quietly stood alongside the community for many years. Both reminded me of a simple yet profound truth: culture isn’t something to be locked away in a display case; it’s something to be lived in every day.
Nguyen Lap Hau, who arrived in the US in 1993, quietly preserves culture through his art. From designing community event posters and painting portraits of pre-war musicians to recreating an old temple from memory, Hau’s work is a project of preserving memories in the guise of everyday beauty.
Jimmy Nhut Ha, the force behind The Jimmy Show and The Jimmy TV, is a host and content creator with a deep love for pre-1975 Vietnamese music. Through his conversations, memorial programs, and vintage music compilations, Jimmy evokes the sounds and emotions of a bygone era that still lives vividly in the hearts of many exiled Vietnamese.
These two young individuals are pieces in a larger story: how a refugee community, torn from its homeland by war, can still preserve its identity through perseverance, creativity, and the spirit of intergenerational connection.
Exile & the risk of cultural loss
After the fall of Saigon on April 30, 1975, waves of Vietnamese people began arriving in the United States. As one of them, I left my homeland on April 29th, with only my younger brother, without my parents. Two teenagers adrift in a suddenly overturned world.
The first wave of arrivals included military personnel, intellectuals, and former government officials, evacuated through operations like Operation New Life and Operation Babylift. Though fortunate to be evacuated quickly, they still carried deep wounds. Subsequent waves fled by boat, through forests, escaping and living in refugee camps in the Philippines, Malaysia, or Thailand before being resettled in the US—many finding their way to California, Texas, or Virginia.
America welcomed us with a degree of caution. Most of us arrived with nothing but the clothes on our backs, without English, without direction. The future was uncertain, and the return to our homeland seemed an impossible dream.
Though we had no material wealth, we carried with us a sacred treasure: our culture—language, cuisine, music, rituals, ethics. We were not just immigrants but also the keepers of our heritage’s flame.
Little Saigon: The heart of the community
In the 1980s, the Vietnamese population in Westminster and Garden Grove grew steadily, creating a vibrant commercial district known as Little Saigon.
Little Saigon wasn’t planned by any government. It formed step by step—out of necessity, out of longing. When Vietnamese food couldn’t be found in American supermarkets, people opened grocery stores like Hoa Binh Market and Que Huong Market. Without stable employment, Vietnamese seamstresses worked from their garages or small shops. Yearning for Vietnamese books, Tu Quynh Bookstore opened its doors. Vietnamese newspapers, television, and radio emerged. Churches and temples became spiritual hubs.
By the mid-1990s, Little Saigon boasted dozens of phở restaurants like Pho 79 and Pho Hoa; the iconic Paris By Night entertainment shows; Brodard Restaurant, famous for its grilled pork patties (nem nướng); and the Phước Lộc Thọ commercial center, a cultural gathering place. Radio Little Saigon and Saigon TV helped Vietnamese stay updated on news and maintain connections.
My journey into journalism stemmed from a deep desire to understand the events I had witnessed. I remember the massive and prolonged protests in front of Hi-Tek Video when the store owner displayed the red and yellow-starred flag. The community’s fierce reaction showed that the wounds of war, after so many years, remained raw. I remember the Tet parades, reminiscent of Saigon—the lion dances and the flowing áo dài amidst the sounds of Spring music. I remember the comforting feeling of inhaling the aroma of grilled meat wafting from restaurants, the lively chatter in the crowded Vietnamese market, the warmth of attending cultural events, and the pride in fellow countrymen’s photography and painting exhibitions.
Hope & lingering concerns
Not everyone who preserves culture is famous. Many work quietly behind the scenes, driven by love more than a desire for recognition.
Nguyen Lap Hau is one such person. For many years, Hau has designed hundreds of event posters, Tet calendars, and community flyers, each piece a small act of remembrance. The portraits Hau paints of Vietnamese singers, writers, and elders are displayed in numerous community centers across the United States. Hau’s art is not merely evocative—it’s a form of documentation. It says: We were here. And we are still here.
Similarly, Jimmy Nhut Ha began collecting cassette tapes and radio recordings from a very young age, an act born from his deep affection for his parents’ generation’s music. Jimmy’s programs don’t just play old songs—they contextualize the era in which this music was created. Through interviews with older artists, themed memorial programs, and his emotionally resonant narration, Jimmy invites younger generations to discover why a lyric from 1963 can still stir hearts today.
Jimmy says: “I do this so that the next generation can understand how their grandparents and parents lived, loved, and suffered.”
Yet, amidst the joy of seeing the younger generation step forward, I can’t help but feel a sense of unease. Not everyone has the opportunity to deepen their connection with Vietnamese culture. Many young people grow up between two worlds, and sometimes, both feel foreign to them. Some find the Vietnamese language a barrier. Others consider Vietnamese music, rituals, or history “irrelevant” to their current lives.
Cultural preservation doesn’t happen naturally in a multicultural society with a busy pace of life. It requires proactivity; it needs to be passed down. If the first generation doesn’t continue to tell their stories, they don’t create spaces for memories to come alive; those values will fade.
Inheritance and reinvention
Today, the torch of cultural preservation is passed from the first generation—those who had to leave their homeland—to their children and grandchildren, whether born and raised in the United States or arriving here at a young age. This generation inherits family recipes and speaks Vietnamese with an American accent. They inherit a mission: to safeguard their culture.
And they are not just safeguarding it. They are reinventing it!
Young Vietnamese Americans blend tradition and modernity in ways their parents might have never imagined. After years of pressure to assimilate, a new generation of artists, musicians, chefs, and content creators is gradually asserting their identity.
Some study Vietnamese in college, volunteer at Tet festivals, perform lion dances, or create videos explaining Vietnamese customs on TikTok. Some bands fuse traditional musical instruments with hip-hop, and modern coffee shops are inspired by the streets of Saigon.
I once visited the Phin Smith coffee shop on Main Street in Garden Grove. Founded in 2018, Phin Smith brings a fresh breath to Vietnamese coffee culture. They import green coffee beans directly from the Central Highlands of Vietnam, roasting them in-house to ensure authentic flavor. The menu features classics like cà phê sữa đá (iced milk coffee) alongside innovative creations like coconut coffee smoothies and rose-flavored lattes. The minimalist design and modern branding reflect contemporary aesthetics, but the love for Vietnamese identity is unmistakable.
Culture, ultimately, is not a museum. It’s a dialogue across time, and the younger generation, whether consciously or not—is keeping the rhythm of that dialogue going.
We choose what to remember
There was a time when I worried that Vietnamese culture would fade away in America. I worried that our grandchildren would only know Netflix, not Paris By Night; would only eat hamburgers and not phở; would speak English and forget their mother tongue. But now, I sense something deeper. Identity is not static; it moves and expands.
My son, born and raised in California, doesn’t read Vietnamese fluently but can speak and understand it quite well. He knows the smell of nước mắm (fish sauce). A few weeks ago, he brought his new bride to visit me, his mother, and learn how to make chicken phở from scratch. The two of them went into the kitchen, asked for my guidance, did the cooking themselves, and took careful notes as they worked. He asked me about my childhood and encouraged me to write my memoirs in English—“for the next generation,” he said. For me, that’s enough; it’s a good start.
Looking back at the journey from Saigon to Little Saigon, I realize we didn’t just bring food, music, and language. We brought an entire worldview, with a spirit of community, resilience, and gratitude for the past to build the future.
That spirit still lives. You can hear it in the chopsticks clinking in a crowded phở restaurant. You see it in the paintings created by young artists. You feel it in the respectful bows exchanged between elders at the Tet market.
We are still here. And our story is still being told.
The preservation of Vietnamese culture in America is not accidental. It results from millions of conscious choices—small and large. A person like Nguyen Lap Hau painting an old temple from memory. A host like Jimmy Nhut Ha, collecting and uploading cassette tapes from 1972. A child asking their grandparents about life before the war. A parent packing xôi gấc (red sticky rice) for their child to take to school, even knowing their child’s friends might look at it curiously. A designer printing the verse “homeland is a cluster of sweet starfruit” on a hoodie.
Those choices have value.
Ultimately, Vietnamese culture in America is not just something to be preserved. It is something to be lived. Every dish we cook, every story we tell, every old song we hum is a reminder that this is who we are.
Culture is not just what we inherit. It’s what we choose to carry with us every day. And if people like Nguyen Lap Hau continue to paint, Jimmy Nhut Ha continues to tell stories, and young people continue to ask, listen, recreate, and remember, Vietnamese culture will not disappear. But it also won’t survive without the continued effort from each of us.
I carry hope, but I also have a question. That question doesn’t have a definitive answer yet, but it lives with me, in every story I tell and article like this.
We are still here. The future of Vietnamese culture in America is still waiting for us to write about it together.
From the same author: https://www.toiyeutiengnuoctoi.com/category/tac-gia/a-to-h/ha-giang/
