My aunt handed me a rough, mustard-yellow dress made of coarse stiff polyester and told me I was wearing it to the Senior Heritage Gala.
Aunt Coi sat across from Mrs. Dao, the head of the Houston Vietnamese Community Center’s youth committee, her smile a little too wide, her voice a little too sweet. The clatter of ceramic teacups echoed faintly in the background from the main hall.
“Chloe,” Aunt Coi said, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from her tea. “She means well, but she’s always been… a touch rebellious.”
Mrs. Dao nodded slowly, her expression unreadable.
“So immersed in Western ways, you see,” Aunt Coi continued, patting Mrs. Dao’s hand. “She finds our traditional clothing rather… restrictive. Not like my Tiffany, who embraces her heritage with such grace.”
She leaned in conspiratorially. “I truly worry she might even make a statement at the Gala. Perhaps wear something completely inappropriate to mock our traditions.”
A faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound for a moment.
“I tried to find her a modest, traditional garment,” Aunt Coi sighed, a performative look of weariness crossing her face. “Something humble, truly from our past. But I fear she’ll scorn it.”
The news traveled faster than the scent of fresh pho through the center. When I walked into the high school auditorium for the Gala dress rehearsal later that week, a knot tightened in my stomach.
The usual friendly chatter died down slightly. Girls who normally greeted me with hugs now offered curt nods, their eyes flicking to the mustard dress I wore.
I shifted my weight, the coarse fabric scratching my skin. Tiffany, however, glided past me, her own silk gown shimmering, a small, almost imperceptible dip of her head my way.
During the opening procession practice, a few of the boys purposefully stumbled, creating a wider gap between me and the other girls on stage. The girl next to me, Kim, usually my friend, kept her eyes straight ahead, her face carefully blank.
“What’s wrong?” I whispered, my throat dry.
Kim didn’t turn.
“Just focus on your walk, Chloe,” she mumbled, her voice stiff. “Don’t want to disrespect our culture, do we?”
Her words hit me with the force of a physical blow. It wasn’t just my aunt’s cruelty anymore; it was the whole community. I felt a cold, isolating wall rising around me.
Later that evening, Kevin called me.
“Aunt Coi’s garage,” he said without preamble. His voice was tight, like he was holding back a storm. “Remember when she said she packed away all of Mom’s old things?”
“Yes, after she moved into that bigger house last year,” I replied, tracing the rough seam of my dress. “Why?”
“I think Mom kept a lot of her important papers in a lockbox down there,” Kevin said. “Aunt Coi mentioned needing the old holiday lights for her porch. I’m going over to ‘help’ her find them tomorrow.”
He didn’t need to say more. I knew he was looking for answers, even if I didn’t yet understand what they were. My heart hammered, a flicker of hope in the quiet, suffocating isolation.
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