It’s hard to believe it’s been 50 years since I left Vietnam — 50 springs, 50 winters, each one carrying me further from the life I once knew. I still remember the last moments like a photograph that never fades: the rush, the fear, the silence on the plane as we left everything behind. I was younger then, with little more than the clothes on my back and the weight of memory in my heart — alongside my brother Thomas with ony $10 in my pocket to the destination, Minnesota.
Settling in Minnesota was not easy. The language was foreign, the winters colder than I ever imagined, and the distance — cultural, emotional, spiritual — was something no plane could bridge. But we made a life here. I worked, raised children, and built something out of the unknown. Still, I always carried Vietnam with me — in the food I cooked, the stories I told, the quiet moments when the past came rushing in.
Now, looking back after five decades, I see a Vietnam that is almost unrecognizable. Skyscrapers rise where there were once rice fields. The country has grown, prospered, transformed into a modern economy no longer marked by war or poverty. I see photos of busy cities, young people speaking fluent English, startups and smartphones. It’s no longer the “third world country” it once was.
And yet, my feelings are mixed.
Part of me swells with pride. Vietnam has endured, overcome, and stood tall on the world stage. But another part aches. I wonder what my life would have been had I stayed — what kind of person I would be in that new Vietnam. Would I belong there now? Or has time made me a stranger to the country of my birth?
I am grateful for the life I have made in America, but I am also haunted by the Vietnam I lost — and astonished by the one that rose in its place. As an expat, I live between two homes: one I helped build, and one I can only visit in dreams and headlines.
Time has a strange way of folding in on itself. One moment I am on the tennis court, racket in hand, chasing a ball like it’s the only thing that matters. Next, I’m standing in front of a classroom, guiding students through lessons that reach beyond textbooks — lessons about resilience, respect and the value of effort. Tennis keeps my body moving; teaching keeps my spirit alive. Both have been with me these past 40 years, anchoring me in this chapter of life.
It’s hard to describe the feeling of seeing your impact ripple through generations. A former student brings their son to stop by to my class and says, “You taught me — now you’ll teach my son.” That moment stays with me. I realize my work matters. I have helped build something — confidence, hope, a belief in possibility. Teaching has been more than a job; it’s been a calling. Nearly five decades now, and each lesson is still fresh with purpose.
But before any of this — before tennis, before chalkboards and Zoom calls — I was just a boy. A boy growing up near a U.S. military base, curious and wide-eyed, watching the strange, loud world of American soldiers and jeeps and radios. I remember sneaking near the fences, speaking broken English, and sometimes being handed a candy bar, a can of C-ration ham and beans, even whiskey they didn’t want. I knew all the brands of cigarettes — from Camel to Winston. I knew the brand names of whiskeys. That’s where it started — my fascination with America, with its people, with the rhythm of its language and the promise of something different.
That life feels like a distant film reel now, playing in black and white. But I carry it all with me — the noise of the base, the lessons of the classroom, the crisp thwack of a well-hit serve. These moments, scattered across decades and continents, make up the mosaic of who I am.
I am not only a refugee or a teacher, not only an athlete or a father. I am all of these at once — shaped by war, rooted in education, and still running across the court — chasing that next point, the next set, the next match, and that next life to touch.
Fifty years. So much has changed. And yet, in my heart, the old and the new Vietnam live side by side. I am grateful for the family and friends who support me in this journey and for a good life here in America.
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Francois Nguyen escaped Saigon on April 29, 1975, during the chaos leading up to the fall of the city the next day. He had witnessed the devastating Vietnam War firsthand before fleeing the country. At 19 years old, he came to the United States, sponsored by Catholic Charities, and settled in St. Paul. Today, he teaches math and statistics at Saint Paul College. He is married and has four children. In his free time, he enjoys playing tennis.
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