Viet Nam Migration

About 10 years ago, a friend of mine started getting manicures at a new
Vietnamese salon in town. She had ditched her casual, post-hippie look, but was still on a hippie budget. The Vietnamese nail salon was cheap, and she didn’t need an
appointment.
Since then, that one salon has mushroomed into five Vietnamese nail salons in Traverse City. The 2000 U.S. Census is outdated in terms of how many Vietnamese live in the region, but Traverse City Area Public Schools show that Vietnamese students make up the third largest ethnic group in the area behind Hispanics and Ukrainians, said Kathy Stratton, the school system’s ESL (English as a Second Language) coordinator.
That first nail salon was tucked away at the former Cherryland Mall (now called the Cherryland Center). In the salon’s early days, manicurists spoke little English. But over the years, their English improved and, once they opened up, wow. They seem to survive so well on so little.
I made it a point to visit Vietnamese nail salons when I traveled and to listen to the stories. Once at the Four Seasons Hotel in Los Angeles, a woman told of her aunt trying to swim ashore after her boat was tossed over in 10-foot waves. She screamed as her 5-year-old floated out of reach, slipped off a board and drowned. I remember another manicurist in New York City, a beautiful woman in her early 20s. She could be a model, and I told her that. But when she got up to take my money, she walked bent over like a 90-year-old grandma. Her 12-hour, 7-day week job had robbed her of a straight spine.

WHY HERE?
The nail salons in Traverse City puzzled me. Why did the Vietnamese choose Traverse City, a cold, snowy place so different than their homeland? And secondly—and much more personally—I was curious about their lives. How could they work seven days a week and remain sane?
The Vietnamese nail salons in the area are tucked in and around malls and mini-malls. They’re easy to pick out with the pictures on the plate glass windows with dramatic looking women who look like they swooped out of a romance novel. Manicures are pretty quick—maybe 10 minutes from start to finish minus the extras you’d get at an upper scale salon. No hand massage or New Age music. Think Sauve hand lotion.
Tracy Nguyen (pronounced Winn) speaks the best English of those I’ve met and she’s been here the longest. Up until recently, she worked at TC Nails near Beaner’s Gourmet Coffee, but just moved to the nail shop near
K-Mart newly opened by her dad, Jimmy Nguyen.
The first time I interviewed her at TC Nails, she and another driver pulled up to the salon and all the manicurists spilled out of the cars.
Those who work at TC Nails live together, carpool, make their food from scratch and take it in for lunch, and drive home together, where Tracy said they sing karaoke for fun. They work seven days a week, 10 a.m. to 8 p.m., except on Sunday when they work a mere five hours.
Nguyen’s 10-year-old son, Arturo, spends all his time at the salon when he’s not in school, and has since he was born. It’s not unusual to see little ones hanging about in the salon, watching the huge TV screen situated among the Buddha statues and fake flowers. (But that isn’t true of all the children of nail salons—some use daycare.)
Nguyen told me that life in Vietnam is even more minimal. Most people earn little money, but don’t need as much. When she grew up, many didn’t own cars, phones, computers, and televisions, although the standard of living has dramatically improved since then.
Nguyen said the fallout from the Vietnam War rocked her early life.
She was born in Saigon on November of 1974, about half a year before the American’s evacuation on April 30, 1975. The Communists swiftly took over and brutalized many of those who were connected to the war effort. They imprisoned and tortured people, and also sent them to “re-education” camps. They seized farmland and forced people from the cities to work in the fields.
Tracy’s father, Jimmy Nguyen—was a former soldier for South Vietnam and was thrown into prison after the war. He didn’t know if, or when he’d ever get out. “The war really messed things up for all families,” Tracy said.
With her father in prison, Tracy spent her first seven years of life at her grandma’s house with her young mother, aunts and
uncle. Her grandma sold things at a flea market to support everyone.
The years flowed by and Tracy’s mom (who now lives in Orange County), was uncertain if she’d ever see her husband again. She began seeing an old friend. They became romantic and started a new family. When Tracy’s dad got out of prison, it was too late to begin where they had left off. He eventually remarried too and started a new family of his own.
Tracy bounced around, living with an English teacher for seven years (her grandma thought it good training since she had planned a move to America). To help support her mom’s family, she began working as a tailor when she was 16.
“All the kids, they have no choice of what they do. Based on the family, poor or rich, they have to accept their life. Even growing up, most of the time, we all stayed in the house until we got married.”
The Vietnamese philosophy stresses very close family dependence. If a family member falters at any time and needs help, the rest of the family is always there to help them.
Tracy was 16 years old when she made the long-planned trip to the United States in 1990. She moved to Orange County (40% of all Vietnamese Americans live there, according to the American Immigration Law Foundation). Tracy lived with her maternal aunt and took care of her three children. “I had to cook, I had to clean. Plus I had to sew at home, plus I had to go to school. I worked without stopping from 6 am to 10 pm. I kept myself busy nonstop. Vietnamese people work really hard because work is so hard to find.”
Tracy went to high school until the age of 18. Schoolwork was challenging, but adjusting to the new culture was harder. Kids treated each other rudely, and teens dressed and acted like grown-ups.
“High school kids getting pregnant? That never, ever happened in Vietnam. Never, not even in college.”
Tracy struggled with social studies; she lacked the innate history most kids take for granted—recognizing a picture of George Washington, for example. She was a pretty good student, she said, but dropped out after enrolling at the local beauty school.
“It was full-time and I just couldn’t keep up with it.”
After graduating from beauty school in 1993, she went to work for her aunt doing nails in Riverside, about an hour away. About the same time, her father, Jimmy, moved to California and the family was reunited.

THE MIGRATION TO THE MIDWEST
Nguyen’s aunt decided a couple of years later to leave California and set up a nail salon in the Midwest, an open market, so to speak. She did no marketing research here. She simply got in her car and drove around city to city. She wanted a town that didn’t yet have a salon for nails only. She first found Midland, where she opened a salon in 1996. Tracy and her dad, Jimmy, joined her, and then Jimmy opened Traverse City’s first salon later that same year in the former Cherryland Mall.
Tracy said that she wasn’t overly lonely after moving up here to help her dad. The family hangs tight and keeps each other company.
Her three-year marriage, though, ended in Midland. Divorce was a complete break from Vietnamese tradition and also the Catholic church, to which she belonged.
“Way back in Vietnam, not a lot of people get a divorce. It doesn’t matter how unhappy they live, it doesn’t matter if they’re beating up their wife or abusing alcohol. They have to stay in their marriage. But I figured if life is so unhappy, why should I stick with it?”
Tracy first opened her own nail salon next to the Formal Fashion Bridal shop in Traverse City. She then moved to a better location in the mini-mall across from Meijer, borrowing money from a bank and credit card companies.
“That’s why I have to work so hard. I work my butt off,” she said.
Her salon employs five or six employees. Business is good, and when she needs to add another employee, she advertises in Vietnamese newspapers, published in Seattle, Houston, and Los Angeles. Employees live with her and her husband, Denny, until they get on their feet.

MORE THAN YOU WISH FOR
Nguyen’s grandma wanted her family to move to America so they’d have a chance at a comfortable life and respectable career. Tracy has achieved that with a loyal following of customers. Customer Laura McCarthy of Beulah gladly makes the drive for an appointment with Tracy, whom she considers the best manicurist of all she’s tried.
Nguyen and her husband are building a 5-bedroom home at Chum’s Corners. They own a computer, phone, and a car. The employees live simply, so they can take three-month trips to Vietnam and send money home to their families. Many have spouses and even children who have lived in Vietnam for years. (Gaining U.S. citizenship or green cards doesn’t seem to be a problem with the Vietnamese because of Congressional acts in 1975 and 1980 to reduce restrictions on U.S. entry for Cambodians and Vietnamese).
Trinh Thi Phung and her husband, for example, have a 5-month-old girl living with grandma in Vietnam—they carry her picture on their cell phone. Dung Tuynguyen, 33, has lived here for 10 years and has a 5-year-old boy and wife back in Vietnam. He goes back every year for three months around the Vietnamese New Year.
And they seem happy, despite the fact that most don’t see movies, play sports, or get involved in the community. Anh Ha, who originally immigrated to Texas, said that people are friendlier here. She goes to church, raises her daughter alone, and takes classes at Northwestern Michigan College to become a dental assistant. And that is enough.

MORE THAN JUST MONEY
Tracy and those who work in the salon have no problem holding onto their Vietnamese culture. But it’s different with teens.
“The whole goal for most all teens is to be like everybody else, and it isn’t until most get into their 20s that they realize that you’ll never be like everybody else and that’s actually a good thing,” said Karen Malofy, a social worker and teacher who has had experience teaching immigrants at Traverse City High School.
“Think about the way you grew up and the values you held—religion, the way you treat your parents, all those things. It’s hard to please your parents at home and try to fit in at school.”
For teenage immigrants, it’s even more difficult because the differences are dramatic. Their family tells them to work hard, save money, and don’t wear make-up. The media tells them to buy stuff, look sexy, and goof off.
Tracy has seen the challenge firsthand with her younger half-sister, Bao Nguyen, 17. Bao moved to Traverse City at the age of six and moved through the public school
system. She is a beautiful young woman, loves shopping, and wears make-up and
Abercrombie clothes.
She’s enrolled in Traverse City High School, an alternative school for kids having difficulty. “I was missing credits. I had trouble staying in school. I just like to have fun and go out,” she explained.
“I lived with my mom (her parents are separated) and she didn’t really care, so I went out at night. My parents would say I was Americanized. But here, it’s hard not to be Americanized. You’re influenced by what goes on every day. It’s also a part of me. I just like clubbing.”

A WAKE-UP CALL
But Bao had a wake-up call with the tragic car crash in late April. Bao was riding in a silver Mazda with four other friends. One of them, Justin Nguyen (no relation), was behind the wheel, according to press reports. He was driving crazy, chasing another car. Nguyen drove across the center line and hit a delivery truck. There were no charges involving alcohol, but investigators did find broken bottles of alcohol in the aftermath, according to Grand Traverse County Sheriff Scott Fewins. Bao’s boyfriend, Dath Keovongkoth, and his two Laotian cousins were killed in the crash.
“It was really hard. To be gone in the blink of an eye. I didn’t believe it for the first couple of days.”
Dath’s parents work at the Asian Market, and his father, Naly Keovongkoth, still weeps at losing his only son. He encouraged his wife to quit her job at the Traverse City Record-Eagle to keep him company at the store like his son used to. Dath was a good boy, he said.
“He was just 16. In one more week, he would get qualified for his driver’s license. He was a really nice boy, no hard time for me. If he wanted a stereo, I buy him a stereo. I bought everything for him.”
The accident on South Airport happened close to the store—if only Dath would have been dropped off first, Naly said.
Naly wonders if he has the strength to tolerate any more sorrow than life has handed him. He grew up in Laos, and ran away from the country in 1974. “People scared, people run away.” He lived in the jungle and almost starved to death. At one point, he fought another man for an AK-47, shot a deer, and ate it raw. He made it to a refugee camp in Thailand, but he remembers it as a terrible place. “Fighting, cutting, killing. You’d fight for work.”
Naly’s saving grace right now is the constant presence of his wife and his daughter’s family who help at the store. The Vietnamese and Laotian community seem to be suffering a rift, with deep pain on both sides.
Bao Nguyen said the car accident shook her up. She decided to take school more seriously and stop partying. She has moved in with Tracy, her half-sister, who is far stricter than her mom.
Tracy has definite ideas about children and how they must respect parents: “The kids really behave in Vietnam because they know they have to be in the family for a long time. If Arturo asks for something, I just say no to him. I don’t want him to make too many choices. I just tell him, one time. No. They know they have to be in place, they know their position.”
Now that Bao lives with her, things will be different. Tracy said she took her cell phone away and Bao no longer goes out at night. She knows the rules. “Whoever lives around me, works for me, they know I make the rules.”

WHAT THE FUTURE HOLDS
Bao isn’t sure what she wants to do with the rest of her life, but she knows it isn’t painting nails full-time. She’s thinking she’ll go to college in a far-away city where there’s more diversity—something she really misses here. She has the support of her family and will always have nails to fall back on.
Tracy Nguyen, a gifted cook, plays around with the idea of starting a Vietnamese restaurant, but isn’t sure whether the Traverse City area can support it. Her nail business is thriving—a blend of American capitalism and Vietnamese family support.
Naly Keovongkoth is slowly attracting new customers to his Asian Market, while keeping a second job in tool and die. The TV set plays tapes of Laotian television shows, while his grandkids run in and out of the store. Keovongkoth is just looking to get through these heavy days of sorrow, but someday he’d like to write a book of all he’s been through. View On Our Website