Growing Up Half Cambodian

By Megan Walter

The only memory I have of speaking Khmer as a child is when my grandpa taught my brother and I a swear word to tease my mom. I remember laughing and laughing, repeating the word with my brother while my mom scolded my grandpa. My grandparents and my aunt were the only members of my family who actively spoke the language. Unfortunately, before I got a chance to learn much, my grandparents passed away when I was quite young and due to family issues, I wasn’t able to see my aunt much. My mother came to America with her parents and little sister in the seventies — because my grandfather had served in the Khmer military, most of my family was fortunate enough to be able to come to America prior to much of the events of the Khmer Rouge. However, much of my family was split apart, and my mom and her parents had to travel from refugee camps to unfamiliar lands. I don’t know if I have any family left in Cambodia.

            Being only four years old, my mom quickly adapted to American life. In exchange for fitting in, she gave up her Khmer culture — a classic immigrant experience. Although she loved her mother’s cooking, she exchanged it for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and KFC. Her parents encouraged it. Speaking English was preferred. Both working multiple English-speaking jobs, her parents wanted to practice the language too. Her familiarity with the Khmer tongue wavered. Growing up in Randolph, Massachusetts she wasn’t surrounded by a Cambodian community like in Lowell. In fact, there were hardly any Asian kids at her school. When my grandparents asked her to visit Cambodia with them, she refused because she wanted to focus on her American life. She already had white American friends, an American boyfriend, and was pursuing a college degree. By the time she had my brother and I, she had nearly forgotten the language in its entirety.

            My aunt, my mom’s older sister, came to America when my mom was in college. It’s hard to imagine coming to America after living through a genocide and reuniting with your sister only to discover you no longer speak the same language. My mom helped my aunt find her footing in America. While my mom attended college courses, my aunt took English classes. It was then that, to my mom’s shock and surprise, my aunt told her that she had a husband and child back in Cambodia. With time, they were able to bring my oldest cousin and my aunt’s husband, my uncle, to America.

            As of now, because their parents speak Khmer, my cousins have more knowledge of Khmer than my mom who was born in Cambodia. Even still, they only understand it and do not speak it. Being half white, with very little family that speak Khmer, I hardly know the language. Even further, I grew up and went to school in a primarily white community. My brother and I were always the only Cambodian kids at school. I found a community with the Asian American kids at school, but it wasn’t quite enough. I very frequently felt a gap between us — their families didn’t have the lasting effects of genocide looming over them. Much of my childhood felt like I was trying to figure out how Cambodia fit into my life. I felt like I hardly understood anything about Cambodia. I felt like an outsider.

            Not knowing the language and only barely eating the food, when my grandmother and aunt had made it for me, I had only had the tiniest taste of being Cambodian. There are many dishes that I miss eating at my grandparents' house but have a hard time finding because I don’t know what they’re called. Other Cambodian people often didn’t recognize I was Cambodian because of my looks. My American name, with my dad’s American last name, made me feel even further disconnected from Cambodia. Even though my family had told me what they could about their experiences, I wanted to learn more. I knew about the genocide, but I craved knowledge about the food, language, and culture. Whenever and however, I could, I tried to find information about what people wore in Cambodia or what Cambodian dance and music was like or anything that I could get my hands on. It gave me a sense of belonging to learn. It felt like I was finding a missing piece of myself.

            I don’t blame my mom for trying to fit into America. Even so, I’ve always regretted that I wasn’t able to grow up learning the Khmer language. Even though I knew it would be hard, learning a new language with no foundation in it, I felt like learning Khmer would give me a new connection to my culture. I felt like I would find a new connection with my late grandparents as I would be able to speak their mother tongue. I hoped that it would encourage my family to learn Khmer along with me. Above all, educating myself felt like a way to get in touch with myself. To learn Khmer, to me, was to be recognized as Cambodian, to remember the food I had eaten as a child, and to connect myself to a culture that I felt like I had lost, or rather, never had. Even though I am struggling to learn simple words, to learn the language feels almost like a redemption, a rebirth.