When you see me in my áo dài, know that I'm proud to be queer and Vietnamese

This First Person article is the experience of Tony Bui, a public servant in Ottawa. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

When I tried on my áo dài a few days before Tết, the Vietnamese Lunar New Year, I felt a rush of joy and sense of relief. I'd never worn a piece like this before, and didn't expect the cultural pride it would bring when I put it on.

It fit like a glove.

Pronounced "ow-yai," it's our traditional garment, which we wear for special occasions and holidays while celebrating elegance, beauty and Vietnamese culture.

Wanting it to fit on the first try, I sent my measurements to a Vietnamese tailor in California. 

I didn't know anyone in Ottawa who made them, because up until recently, I didn't have a strong connection to the Vietnamese community in the city I've called home for the last decade.

I'm the second child of Vietnamese refugees, born and raised in Hamilton. My mom fled to Canada after the Vietnam War. My dad, who is of Vietnamese and Chinese lineage, also immigrated. I don't know much about his past; he died suddenly while we were on a father-and-son trip to China to visit family. I was 10.

I lost my father, and with him, my connection to his history.

But in the years since, mom told me more about her story of how in the summer of 1984 she endured pirates and dangerous seas before landing at an Indonesian refugee camp. She spent months there before being accepted to Canada and then meeting my father in Hamilton.

My parents wanted to instill pride in our culture through family, language and food. I have fond memories of lì xì (red envelopes) during Tết.

I remember visits to Vietnam to see family and our homeland, particularly the coastal city of Quy Nhon where much of my extended family still lives. My parents wanted their sons to understand where we came from. But for me as a kid, that pride in being Vietnamese wasn't always there.

Growing up in a neighbourhood with few Asian families, I was mocked for my "weird" lunch, like mom's Đậu Sốt Cà Chua (fried tofu with tomato sauce).

Bullies joked about my "small eyes." I was the nerdy Asian kid pigeonholed into stereotypes like math geek or obsessed with anime. I rarely invited friends over.

Split between two worlds, I felt ashamed and frustrated with my heritage that was inherently me yet made me so different from others.

As a young man, I moved to Ottawa to pursue school and a career. Beyond the few times I spoke Vietnamese — at my hairdresser in Chinatown, at phở restaurants or calling my mom and brother— my heritage had faded into the background. 

As I was finding my place in the world, I grappled with something new: reconciling being both Asian and gay. 

Accepting my sexuality took years. When I first came out to my best friend, I couldn't even say it out loud. I literally wrote "I'm gay" on my phone and showed it to her.

Fearing the worst, and anticipating shame and outrage, I didn't come out to my family until years later. Thankfully, those fears weren't realized; they loved me as I am.

But I haven't always found that same acceptance in the gay community where Asian queer people can sometimes experience dehumanizing and extreme perceptions.

Being Asian and gay sometimes made me feel undesirable and invisible, unworthy of even being acknowledged. It hurts to see "No fats, fems, or Asians" on a gay dating profile. On the other hand, as a gay Asian man I've also been objectified, reduced to nothing more than fulfilling a racial fetish. 

For me, that took a toll on my ability to accept and love all facets of who I am. I felt lost in both queer and Asian communities.

I decided I wanted to change that, to find my place and who I was. I started working to learn more about my history and roots, including attending the annual Journey to Freedom Day on April 30 that a Vietnamese friend invited me to.

But then, the pandemic hit, bringing stories of anti-Asian racism and brazen violence: from slurs like "Kung flu," to a rise in hate crimes and attacks on Asian women and seniors. After eight people were killed in the 2021 Atlanta spa shootings, I feared for mine and my family's safety. The Asian identity I'd begun to embrace again became a target of hate. 

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But it also helped me take action. I was determined to take pride in my Asian identity, to unlearn that once-felt shame.

I joined Facebook groups like Subtle Asian Traits, Subtle Viet Traits and Subtle Queer Asian Traits, where fellow Asian diaspora share collective experiences. Like others, I posted my photo and story of my áo dài in these groups in the days after Tết, sharing collective pride in our outfits and culture.

I've attended events for the Vietnamese diaspora to help me mend my cultural gap with my community.

I've also had long video chats with my mom to hear her stories about her journey to Canada and about our heritage. And it's meant sharing my story with my community here — friends who've made space for me to share, embrace my queerness and explore my full identity.

At a small party on the eve of Tết, I revealed my áo dài for the first time to friends, describing how important it was to me. 

It's more than just an outfit; my áo dài is a symbol and milestone in my journey to reclaim my heritage. It's important to me, so I'm planning to buy another one — this time made in Ottawa, thanks to a local tailor my Vietnamese friend introduced me to.

My Asian and Vietnamese identities are me, and wholly me: it is my skin, my blood, my being. It is me from birth to when I die. My identity is something I'm learning over time to not only accept, but embrace and love.

When you see me in my áo dài, know that I'm proud to be Vietnamese and queer. 

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