“It’s pronounced v-oo-uh-ng, not v-oo-ahw-ng” Hot, boiling blood rushed towards my ears as I silently stared at the group of giggling Vietnamese girls who surrounded my small desk. I horridly glanced at my last name on the bleached sheet of paper, closely examining it. Vuong.
The five letter word written in graphite appeared tiny and meaningless on the vast space of the english paper; each stroke lost in a sea of lines and curves. Embarrassed, I gripped my essay, slightly wrinkling the edges of the paper.
“Are you sure?” I replied, unconvinced.
I was baffled. For the past 17 years of my life, I had been pronouncing my last name incorrectly. Ironically, I had also wasted the past 17 years, wrongly correcting people, mostly teachers, of their mispronunciation. Graduations, birthdays, and ceremonial rituals transpired, yet each one dedicated towards the wrong person, the wrong girl. A subtle mistake indeed, however, a significant one nevertheless. Vương.…show more content… It was a surname left behind by my biological father whom I have not contacted in nearly 14 years. Little was known about him, and much less was spoken of him. His face remains unrecognizable, voice unheard, and touch undetectable. He was no different from a stranger and yet a part of him never failed to appear in my life. It was as if he was haunting me.
His name brewed a foreboding omen. After all, he neglected to fulfill his filial piety, surrendering himself to an addictive routine submerged in gambling, adultery and alcohol; ultimately, leaving behind a pathetic name for himself. The name Vương held no worth. Regardless, I maintained my curiosity. Who exactly was this man?
Unbeknownst to me, I would later learn within the following
