If you were to open my LinkedIn profile, you’d see it begins with, “As a proud Vietnamese American, my identity is at the heart of everything I do.” I blur the line between personal and professional because my Vietnamese American identity shapes every part of me. Declaring it openly pushes back against a system that molds us into a uniform professional image—where whiteness is the norm and anything else is erased. Demanding you see my identity is a political act, it is an act of defiance against spaces that silence our stories to uphold this white standard. For me, stating I am Vietnamese American is claiming visibility, asserting agency, and centering my love for family, community, and students.
I see the power of visibility and agency in the youngest members of my family. My 11-year-old niece, Mya, recently ran for treasurer at her middle school, and in the week leading up to her election, she spent hours on Facetime with her cousins—my two kids, ages 10 and 12—debating what kind of candidate she should be. Should she focus on fixing the problems at school, or celebrate its strengths? (They decided a positive celebratory platform was the way to go.) I smiled as they applauded her slogan, “Bank on me. I’ll treasure your vote!” and felt a deep sense of pride as they collaborated on several revisions of her speech. On election day, our extended family group chat exploded with joy when she announced her victory.
Watching Mya engage confidently in her school’s political process reminds me how visibility, agency, and empowerment are intertwined. Just as Mya claimed her voice in her election, I strive to foster that same sense of confidence in my students. This commitment to helping students find their voice is rooted in my childhood experiences of invisibility in the K-12 system. Vietnamese people are rarely acknowledged, except as burdens or reminders of an ‘embarrassing” chapter in U.S. history. When the Vietnam War was mentioned, it was framed around domino theory, American protests, and U.S. losses. The Vietnamese refugee story—our losses, hope, resilience, and rich community life-our humanity—was completely invisible. Even my name, Hằng, was erased when my 3rd grade teacher decided my middle name Virginia would be better because it is “easier.” These experiences taught me the weight of erasure and showed me that true liberation is impossible when our existence is denied. I became a history teacher because I carry the collective memory of my refugee community—stories too often erased in the K-12 system. By centering these marginalized narratives, I ensure that my students—especially those from underrepresented backgrounds—see themselves reflected in history. They will not experience the pain of invisibility that I felt as a student. Instead, their identities are affirmed, their stories celebrated, and their voices encouraged to contribute meaningfully to the world.
One way I make this happen is through the Story Project, an oral history assignment that centers visibility, agency, and love for the community. Instead of following the California History-Social Science standards and starting the school year with ancient Greece and Rome, I begin Modern World History with the stories found in our classroom. Students become oral historians, interviewing community elders—parents, grandparents, and others—and asking them, “What is a historical event that has impacted your life?” This process is grounded in visibility, as students bring our community’s lived experiences into the classroom, and in agency, as they take ownership of researching these histories. The final products—whether a video, podcast, or children’s storybook—reflect not just research but the love they have for their families and communities.
Our introduction to world history becomes a journey through the stories within our classroom. Students have uncovered histories that were previously invisible to them, such as the Japanese incarceration, the Armenian Genocide, the Holocaust, and the Cultural Revolution. One student, reflecting on her father’s experience during the Iranian Revolution, said, “I used to think history had nothing to do with me, but now I realize it’s a big part of who I am. I feel closer to my parents and grandparents, and stronger knowing what our family has overcome.” This project not only connects students to their personal histories but transforms them to see their place in the broader historical narrative—as creators and community caretakers responsible for preserving and honoring their community’s stories.
Through the Story Project, my students claim visibility for themselves and their communities, experience agency and power as historians, and act with love as they preserve the stories that shape who they are. While I created the project independently, I later deepened my understanding of these themes through the work of my friend and thought partner, Dr. Thúy Võ Đặng, and her “refugee archival praxis”—a practice of documenting and honoring the lives, resilience, and histories of refugee communities. Her insights, along with bell hooks’ vision of radical transformation, have helped me see how powerful it is when students not just learn history but also create it—becoming agents of change and community caretakers strengthened by their identities.
I hope students leave my classroom feeling loved, celebrated, and capable of shaping the world around them. Through the Story Project, they gain a deeper understanding of their histories and identities, seeing the strength in both. My cousin Derek Tran exemplifies how empowering it can be when you embrace the power of your identity and history. He’s running for Congress in California’s 45th District, fondly known as Little Saigon, home to the largest population of Vietnamese Americans in the U.S. Both Derek’s and Mya’s campaigns show that it is impossible to separate our identity from our politics. Being Vietnamese American, visibility and agency are no longer something we only dream about—we now demand it. Whether in a middle school election or a congressional race, we belong in every political, civic, and leadership arena.
Although I’m not running for office, I exercise my political agency daily, especially as we approach November 5th. When I step into the voting booth, I’ll carry the history and hopes of the Vietnamese American community, my family, and my students. Like the classroom, the voting booth is a space for radical transformation—where we claim our voices and power. They are places of love, ensuring our communities and stories shape the future. My identity will be in the booth, just as it is with me in the classroom and on LinkedIn.
Looking back, I realize the most political work I do now is in the classroom. As a young Vietnamese American driven by a desire for change, I majored in political science, protested for human rights and against wars, volunteered on political campaigns, and traveled to state and national capitals to lobby government officials. Today, my activism looks different. It’s not in protests or campaigns, but in teaching history—empowering my students to claim their stories and identities. This journey from young activist to teacher has shown me that being political doesn’t always mean loud resistance. Sometimes, the most radical act is to live authentically and create spaces where others can do the same.
Virginia Nguyễn is the daughter of Vietnamese refugees, a mom, partner, educator, and radical dreamer who embraces writing as an intimate act of tâm sự—a way to share deeply from the heart and connect across lived experiences. Guided by the transformative power of love, she amplifies the stories of the Vietnamese diaspora and other marginalized communities, using education as her path to liberation, joy, and transformation. Virginia is dedicated to making visible the voices of those often silenced, carrying the collective memory of her community, and cultivating spaces of love, justice, and solidarity in K-12 and beyond.
