Connect 17.2 (Spring 2025)

ISSUE 17.2 SPRING 2025

C

Silicon Valley’s Innovative Silicon Valley’s Innovative and Creative Culture and Creative Culture

CONNECT (kết nối)

CONNECT

Mom and Me

by Vĩ Sơn Trinh

FEATURING:

Binh Danh Hết Sẩy Minhquang Nguyen Viet Thanh Nguyen

CONTENT MAGAZINE, SAN JOSE $14.95

Celebrating The 70th Issue

C CONTENT ISSUE 17.2

“Connect”

Spring 2025 Cultivator Daniel Garcia Editors Elizabeth Sullivan Danae Stahlnecker, Katherine Hypes Katie Shiver, Samantha Hull Virginia Graham, William Jeske Designers Jesse Garcia, Sana Chiang, Trinh Mai Interns Vanessa Lara, Martina Ng

Developer David E. Valdespino Jr. Writers Brandon Roos, David Ma, Demone Carter Dr. Hien Do, Esther Young, Meghan Lee Michelle Rundowitz, Nate LeBlanc Nikoo Parsizadeh, Samantha Hull Taran Escobar-Ausman, Troy Ewers Victor Aquino, William Jeske Photographers Arabela Espinoza, Cyntia Apps Jason Leung, Lauren Locquiao Leopoldo Macaya, Stephanie Barajas

Publisher SVCREATES I am going to boast a little. This is our 70th issue, and it represents a significant accomplishment and a reflection on the talented people who have contributed their skills to keep CONTENT alive. Many of those individuals are listed above, though there have been others over the 13 years. I want to congratulate all contributors; you have made CONTENT a valued record of the creative scene in the South Bay. Thank you for caring about the arts in Santa Clara County. We could not, and cannot, do this without your involvement, and I appreciate all the contributors. Great job! Let’s continue this project, which is already the longest-running arts-focused publication in the history of our region!

In this issue, we exclusively feature local Vietnamese American creatives, which is timely not only because it marks the 50th year of the diaspora following the American War in Vietnam but also because we, as a nation, continue to struggle to act with justice as we assist immigrants and refugees. Ironically, this is not a new topic. Ancient wisdom has long instructed us, “You shall not mistreat or oppress a stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt” (Exodus 22:21). Therefore, I am honored, as a second-generation immigrant American, to amplify the journeys of those who have experienced great sacrifice, trauma, and triumph in this issue. The beauty and complexities of life reveal that many aspects of a situation are not merely contrasts or opposites but paradoxes—a dynamic. This is demonstrated in the unity of our humanity and the diversity of our individuality. So, even though this issue has a specific focus, it aligns with my hope for all 70 issues: for us to connect.

Enjoy, Daniel Garcia THE CULTIVATOR

IN THIS ISSUE Binh Danh | Hết Sẩy | Viet Thanh Nguyen | LOLAH To participate in CONTENT MAGAZINE: daniel@content-magazine.com Membership & sponsorship information available by contacting david@content-magazine.com

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CONTENT MAGAZINE is a quarterly publication about the innovative and creative culture of Silicon Valley, published by

.

Pictured: Esteban Raheem Abdul Raheem Samayoa in his studio | Photographer: Cinque Mubarak

March 22 - August 24, 2025

Blood Be Water

Esteban Raheem Abdul Raheem Samayoa

The Institute of Contemporary Art San José is a non-profit museum located at 560 South First Street, San José, California, 95113. For more information on “Blood Be Water” and other exhibitions and programming, please visit www.icasanjose.org. This museum is ADA compliant, free, and open to the public.

Exhibition Dates January 25, 2025 April 27, 2025 Warburton Gallery Artists Reception January 25, 2025

CONTENT CONNECT 17.2

Spring 2025 March – May San Jose, California

ART & CULTURE 12 Expressions of the Vietnamese American Experience, Dr. Hien Do 14 Cultural Exchange with Dad Bod Rap Pod Nate LeBlanc David Ma Demone Carter 28 Cosplayer, Linda ‘Vampy” Le 32 Director, Actor, Playwright, and Educator, Vinh G. Nguyen 38 Ballet Dancer, Naomi Le 42 Author and Professor, Viet Thanh Nguyen 46 Filmmaker, Anh Le 50 Photographer and Professor, Binh Danh 6o Visual Journalist, Vĩ Sơn Trinh 70 Painter, Minhquang Nguyen 76 Chef/Owners Hết Sẩy, DuyAn & Hieu Le MUSIC & DANCE 80 Musician and Composer, Vân-Ánh Vo 84 LOLAH, Ha Nguyen

Binh Danh, pg. 50

Linda Le, pg. 28

88 Contributors

All materials in CONTENT MAGAZINE are protected by United States copyright law and may not be reproduced, distributed, transmitted, displayed, published, broadcast, or modified in any way without the prior written consent of Silicon Valley Creates, or in the case of third party materials, the owner of that content. You may not alter or remove any trademark, copyright or other notice from copies of this content. For further information, or to participate in the production or distribution, please contact us at editor@content-magazine.com.

CONTENT MAGAZINE is made possible in part by funding from the County of Santa Clara.

Dad Bod Rap Pod, pg. 14

Ha Nguyen, pg. 84

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Since Fifty pril 30, 2025, marks the 50th anniversary of the Fall of Saigon and the end of the Vietnam War.* As we commemorate this important occasion, the day also provides an opportunity to reflect on the journey that brought Vietnamese refugees to the United States, as well as the growth and development of this community.

Since the Vietnam War deeply divided the United States, it is not surprising that the arrival of the Southeast Asian refugees was also highly contested. There were those who did not want to receive them as refugees and those who believed that it was America’s responsibility to admit them because of its role during this conflict. Regardless of the original disagreement, Vietnamese Americans are now a permanent fixture in our society.

The journey for Vietnamese refugees in the first decades in America was often challenging. As refugees who left their country with practically nothing but the clothes on their backs, they found themselves focusing on the need to survive and to keep their families safe. Almost overnight, they found themselves living in a new and different country with a different language, culture, traditions, and customs. As the years went by, we began to see the formation of small yet vibrant communities throughout the country, which allowed the refugees to become “Americans” and create ways to continue to maintain their culture, religions, and traditions. As of this writing, many Little Saigons can be seen throughout the US, including in San Jose, home to the largest Vietnamese American community outside of Vietnam. Along the way, the experiences and hardships of being a displaced person from the first generation were hidden and, at times, intentionally not shared with their children.

As often is the case with immigrants, the *NOTE: While this is oftentimes referred to as the “Vietnam War,” it is important to recognize that it also involved Cambodians and Hmong refugees who were displaced as a result of this conflict.

12 Connect 17.2

Expressions of the Vietnamese American Experience

the Fall Years of A Saigon Written by Dr. Hien Do, professor, San José State University Illustration by Trinh Mai

“Al l are using their med ium and creativit y to incorporate their l ife experiences a s ref ugees and child ren of ref ugees growing up here exposed to t wo d if ferent cultures .” first generation did not have the luxury of contemplation and reflection as their focus was primarily survival. However, as the “knee-high” and second generations come of age, especially those who attended colleges and universities, the need for their history to be unearthed and told begins to unfold.

They wanted to understand more about their families’ history, their journey to the US, and how all these events have shaped them.

Fifty years also provides an adequate passage of time for the second generation to come of age and become professionals in their own right. This collection includes academic, visual, and performance artists, writers, musicians, chefs, and more. All are using their medium and creativity to incorporate their life experiences as refugees and children of refugees growing up here exposed to two different cultures. They are all capturing and expressing an understanding of our society that speaks to the issues that have shaped various aspects of the social and cultural world. In many ways, all are asserting their place and using their “voice” and creativity to help understand and define what it means to be living in a multiracial, multiethnic, diverse country like the United States. They remind us that America is a place that has been built not just by the labor of different communities but also by the tremendous contribution to the arts, literature, music, and culture of our society. C 13

Dad Bod Rap Pod Cultural Exchange

14 Connect 17.2

SJ

VNM

I

n July of 2024, the co-hosts of San Jose–based hip-hop podcast Dad Bod Rap Pod traveled to Saigon, also known as Ho Chi Minh City, in Vietnam. The three longtime friends and collaborators, Demone Carter, David Ma, and Nate LeBlanc, set out to investigate links between the hiphop culture of Saigon and how it relates to the scene in their hometown of San Jose. Carter received a cultural exchange grant from the City of San Jose’s Office of Cultural Affairs that helped fund the trip and provide context for the cultural exchange aspect of the journey.

While in Vietnam, the podcasters met with local b-boys, DJs, and record collectors. The team distilled their adventures into three podcast episodes, a special miniseries entitled “Đặc Biệt Rap Pod.” Đặc Biệt is a common phrase in Vietnamese culture that roughly translates to “special.”

These episodes represent a new direction for the podcast, branching out into lifestyle and travel content, but as always, approached with humor, nuance, and a neverending stream of hip-hop references and puns.

Here, exclusive to Content Magazine, are further reflections written by each Dad Bod Rap Pod co-host on their cultural experiences with food, music, and hiphop. Inspired by this cultural exchange project, Issue 17.2 “Connect,” highlights Vietnamese American creatives who live and work in the South Bay.

Written by Nate LeBlanc Portrait Photography by Stephanie Barajas dadbodrappod.com Instagram dadbodrappod

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A Bánh Mì Huynh Hoa Experience Food

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e arrived in Saigon at 5am on a Monday.

The glow of the sunrise illuminated the baggage claim carousel in a way that was almost pretty, or maybe we were just really tired. After dropping our bags at the hotel, we set out on foot in search of coffee and sandwiches, fuel for the long day ahead. Our only plan was to acclimate and begin exploring the teeming city and its famous street food.

For reasons I still don’t quite understand, we slipped between two buildings, following the unintuitive lines of a winding alleyway. A few turns later, we stopped at a cart for cà phê sữa đá, Vietnamese iced espresso with condensed milk. Urged forward by the sudden rush of caffeine, we emerged from the alley in front of Bánh Mì Xanh, a vegan sandwich shop. We were elated, especially my pescatarian traveling companion. A few doors down there was another shop, Bánh Mì Huynh Hoa, specializing in the traditional cold cuts. We queued up to order a breakfast that would change the course of my life.

I grew up in San Jose and eating bánh mì sandwiches has been a part of my lunch rotation for decades. The basic ingredients are bread, mayo, oftentimes liver pâté, and luncheon meats (or sometimes a fried egg).

The sandwich is garnished with cucumbers, cilantro, pickled carrots, daikon radish, and hot peppers, creating a whole that is more than the sum of its parts. A flawless bánh mì relies on its architecture, as a perfect bite activates

16 Connect 17.2

all five senses on the tongue. As your teeth crash in, your tastebuds are met with extreme savoriness and saltiness from the meat and condiments, heat from the peppers, sourness from the pickles, bitterness from the onions, and sweetness from the carrots and bread. It’s a full meal unto itself.

As we stood in line at Bánh Mì Huynh Hoa, I ventured inside the tiny shop to survey the offerings. It was shockingly busy, considering that it was 6am on a Monday morning (a time when most restaurants in San Jose are not even close to being open). Behind glass panels were piles of freshly sliced ingredients. A vat of mayonnaise caught my eye. The necessary but off-putting condiment was piled high over the edge of its vessel, the inside a creamy white, the uppermost level already turning yellow from the new day’s startling heat and humidity. I also saw the familiar, candy-colored red of char siu pork, a tremendous sandwich filling when sliced thinly. When we reached the register, I ordered a char siu bánh mì. Less than a minute later I was handed a gargantuan sandwich, the size of a Nerf football, but far heavier.

Unwrapping my meal, I could see that the fresh bread was slathered with mayo and pâté.

Under different circumstances, one could argue that two separate but savory components like these, each providing moisture and viscosity to the bread’s newly exposed underside, might cancel each other out. But in this case, they formed a deliciously sloppy barrier that brought

Written by Nate LeBlanc

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“A flawless bánh mì relies on its architecture, as a perfect bite activates all five senses on the tongue.” incredible richness to the experience. The pork must have been taken from the pig’s belly, or perhaps this animal had a tremendously fatty shoulder, because the fat-to-meat ratio was much more indulgent than what we find in the US. Many of the pieces were opaque, off-white shingles with only the barest hint of the red seasoning on an exposed edge. There was also a healthy dusting of dried pork, sometimes referred to as “pork floss.” I’ll admit that I had to pick a few of the pieces off, as my palate was in danger of being overwhelmed by fatty goodness.

The accompaniments really made the sandwich come alive: pickled vegetables; flavorful cucumber, the skin almost bitter (as opposed to the resolutely watery and neutral cucumbers we are used to); deeply green and vegetal chives; thinly sliced and mostly sweet white onion; cilantro; and thin slices of hot peppers. (While jalapeños are the pepper of choice for domestic bánh mì sandwiches, these 18 Connect 17.2

were lighter in color, closer to the yellow hue of a Hungarian wax pepper but with the direct heat of a serrano.) These ingredients, each crucial to the overall balance, were packed into plastic baggies, beckoning the eater to choose their own adventure on a bite-by-bite basis.

We sat down at a short plastic table nearby and indulged in these monstrous sandwiches.

We could not believe our good fortune: less than a block from our temporary home, through what appeared to be a secret passage at the time, we had found exactly what we wanted to eat. I made a serious effort to consume the entire delectable meal, but it was just too much.

Too much unctuousness, too much fat, too much everything. I made liberal use of the herbs and pickled vegetables to cut through the wall of pâté but gave up a little more than halfway through. It was a memorable experience, an auspicious beginning to our adventure in Vietnam, and a gentle reminder that I had been eating excellent but distinctly less flavorful

versions of Vietnamese food for most of my adult life.

I went back to the vegan bánh mì shop later and tried one of their combo sandwiches. It was also extremely good and would be the clear choice if I was going to eat something like this all the time. But nothing will ever compare to that first, deeply carnivorous experience, including the few attempts that I have made to eat Vietnamese sandwiches after we returned home to San Jose.

I was recommended to try a local place back home with a great reputation. They are making strides in the bánh mì field by brushing the baguette with garlic butter to bring even more flavor to the one relatively neutral ingredient of the dish. The sandwich was very good, don’t get me wrong. It had all the proper elements: high-quality ingredients, superb construction, extra flavor from the garlic butter. But it felt a little too straightforward, a little too nice.

There was nothing nice about that first bánh

mì in Saigon. Everything about it was extreme (even the price, comically low) in the best way. Every proverbial dial, especially the most important knob, the flavor, was turned way up. I’m afraid that having eaten such a marvelous thing at such an impressionable time may have ruined all future bánh mìs for me.

After our meal, we slowly made our way back to the hotel, attempting to retrace our steps. Though we had been in the same alley only moments before, we stopped to check in with each other, unsure if we were heading the right way. Our conference was interrupted by a confident, maternal yell. The woman we had bought coffee from had noticed that we were a little lost and pushed us in the right direction with a wave of the hand that was at once caring and dismissive. I don’t speak Vietnamese, but her meaning could not have been more clear: She was telling us, “Keep going.” C 19

The Improbable Resilience of Vietnamese Vinyl Music

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ou quickly sink into Saigon. The cacophony, the sun, the honks, the smells, the density— everything pulsates, and it never ends.

There’s so much activity that you forget it was once a place of awful atrocities. “The American War,” as the Vietnamese call it, was just a blip in the country’s unending struggles for independence. The Chinese, the Japanese, and the French have all forcibly planted flags there. The country was also at war with itself, as well as in ongoing conflicts with neighbors Cambodia and Laos. Vietnam cannot help but be defined by war. But it’s all somehow forgotten when you see resolute seniors in pajamas crossing chaotic streets or wide-eyed students eating lunch together.

It was here, on our fifth day in Saigon— Vietnam’s largest city, the epicenter of epicenters—where we set out for records despite their known scarcity. Eventually, we found ourselves on the outskirts of District 1 at a place called Bluish Records, a small two-story business that’s one-third record shop and twothirds cafe, where we were hoping to source some rarities for our upcoming sets. We were scheduled to DJ an all-vinyl event later in the week at Le Café des Stagiaires, a venue by the Saigon River. It was there we saw for ourselves how the country’s lack of vinyl affected local DJs and collectors.

In Vietnam, music is referred to by a very specific temporal marker. Records are either pre-’75 or post-’75. Of course, Saigon fell in 1975, and the Americans left. When the more conservative North took power, anything resembling Western music was verboten, while more traditional songs were encouraged and

20 Connect 17.2

funded by the state. Locals called upbeat tunes done with Western stylings nhạc kích động— action music. Any record made before 1975 holds the distinction of not only being rare and musically unique in this way, but also implies that it survived the times. This dearth of vinyl is reflected in Saigon’s record community—or lack thereof.

We were lucky enough to have a friend on the ground, a fellow music enthusiast named Thái Bình Dương (DJ Style D) who is a prolific purveyor of vinyl culture in all of Saigon’s different districts. He was responsible for organizing our all-vinyl night and explained the significance of procuring records in his country. “Vietnam doesn’t have old records left,” he said. “I go to Thailand these days when I need records, new or old. If you buy them new online, shipping is too expensive.

It’s not worth it. That is partly why people here are still interested in real vinyl records whenever they see [them].” For perspective: Saigon has a population of about 9.5 million, yet there are only four to six legitimate spots that sell records—or at least claim to. Outside of city areas, there is almost no chance you’ll find anything.

Our friend Style D was not wrong. We left Bluish Records with a paltry sum of LPs and 45s. What was on display was either noticeably tattered or not for sale. The pricing of common American records felt expensive.

We knew this, so as a precautionary measure we had shipped some records to our hotel before f lying to Vietnam. “A very smart idea,” D laughed. In a place where things are famously touted as cheap, and where

Written by David Ma

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“ War may destroy buildings and cities, but culture is hard to suppress.”

the American dollar goes pretty far, it was shipping costs that ironically proved to be the trip’s priciest expense.

The night of the event we wore suits and ties, as if we didn’t already severely stand out. The crowd seemed young, and the music we played was certainly made before they were born.

Earlier that evening, Style D showed off some of his collection, playing an obscure version of “Sài Gòn Ơi” that moved locals and foreigners alike. He has a superb YouTube video titled “Vietnamese Funky Soul 45 Records pre 1975” where he features scarce Vietnamese 45s, some of which he pulled from that evening.

The current interest and fascination over Vietnamese records can be partly traced back to 2007’s Chinoiseries, an acclaimed project by Onra, a producer who constructed beats by exclusively sampling material sourced in Vietnam. He followed up with two more: Chinoiseries 2 and 3. The trilogy brought interest and attention to Vietnamese musical history that hadn’t been really considered prior.

Onra, who doesn’t speak the language despite being of Vietnamese French descent, explained 22 Connect 17.2

how bare the landscape was even back then.

“I was on my first trip to Asia in 2006 and went backpacking to Vietnam. Ho Chi Minh City was my best shot at finding records. I randomly asked a motorbike to take me to a music store, and they were only selling CDs. The seller helped me explain to the driver that I was looking for ‘old records,’ and he only understood because he was an older gentleman in his fifties. So he finally took me to side streets near Bến Thành Market, and there were a few people selling records.”

We, too, had walked through Bến Thành Market earlier in the week. Even among the hundreds of stalls selling everything imaginable, there were no visible records.

Finding ones in good condition was another hurdle. No real collector would leave records in such poor shape, and to some it’s just junk waiting to be sold. “It was very exciting to go through unknown material, but I also wasn’t sure I’d find anything that could even be useable,” Onra lamented.

The rarity of pre-’75 vinyl was corroborated

by Hannah Ha, daughter of Phương Tâm, a Vietnamese singer dubbed “Vietnam’s first rock

star.” Tâm recorded various songs, all with an undeniable Western edge, in the early 1960s before the war intensified. These 45s were the basis for a 2022 compilation called Magical Nights: Saigon Surf Twist & Soul (19641966). Hannah, who journeyed to Vietnam to excavate her mom’s songs, said, “We had record collectors who directed us towards some small shops that might have had records. We didn’t know if they even had records that were pre-’75, let alone my mother’s. And when we did come across any, they would be in dusty piles stacked upon one another.”

Hannah’s musical journey involved Mark Gergis, owner of Sublime Frequencies, a label that focuses on unearthing forgotten international music of all kinds. Together, the two painstakingly assembled Phương Tâm’s historical reissue album. Mark, who is no stranger to the difficulties of reissuing forgotten music, said of the arduous process, “This was among the most immersive projects I’ve been a part of. It was akin to finding a set of books with most of the pages missing and the remaining pages glued together. Sourcing master tapes from the era was out of the question since they

were lost or destroyed after 1975. Locating the music required a global effort, reaching out to a network of music collectors and people who had what it took to begin filling in those gaps.”

That night we felt those gaps Mark alluded to. The crowd’s reaction noticeably included a sense of heightened curiosity. People stopped dancing to ask what song was being played.

Sometimes they would just stare at the spinning record. The positive energy was evident, even to us—three jetlagged, out-of-place, halfsober foreigners running on fumes, playing old songs, and wearing clothes that were not temperature appropriate. War may destroy buildings and cities, but culture is hard to suppress. There was even an unexpected San Jose connection: we met a b-boy and DJ named Thien Phan, who attended SJSU, of all places, and who had a frayed Needle to the Groove sticker on his mixer.

We left grateful for being invited into their space. Grateful to see appreciation for something we sometimes took for granted back home. Grateful for the journey. Grateful for joyous exchanges. C 23

Finding Hip-Hop in Ho Chi Minh City Hip-Hop Culture

S

everal days into our cultural exchange trip to Ho Chi Minh City, the city known colloquially as Saigon, we had seen, smelled, and tasted many new things. However, we still had yet to see how hip-hop culture manifests itself in this bustling metropolis of 9.5 million people. Most of the sounds we heard above the beeping scooters and growling delivery trucks were K-pop-inspired tunes or Vietnamese interpretations of American pop. As we strolled through the maximally designed tourist trap known as Bui Vien or the Backpacking District, we heard Ludacris’s verse on Usher’s mega-hit “Yeah.” This was the closest we came to discovering Saigon’s hip-hop scene on our own.

One needs a savvy guide in a place as dynamic and dense as Ho Chi Minh City. While the concierges at Harmony Hotel in District 1 were incredibly helpful—one staff member even went so far as to lend us the belt off his pants—they couldn’t direct us toward local hip-hop culture.

Fortunately, before arriving, our friend and San Jose-to-Saigon frequent flier DJ Quantum connected us with DJ Style D, a Ho Chi Minh City–based breakdancer, vinyl collector, DJ, and hip-hop impresario.

Style D organized a two-night adventure for us. Night one, a visit to his rooftop bar, Cipherz, located on the banks of the Saigon River. Night two, a DJ gig for us at another bar—Le Café des Stagiaires, a little further downstream.

24 Connect 17.2

Cipherz is a narrow, multistory building with a coffee shop on the first floor, a bar on the second, and a small seating area on the roof. As we climbed the steep, almost ladderlike staircase towards the sky-bound patio, I couldn’t help but feel oversized and out of place, a foreigner in unfamiliar territory. That feeling lasted until I reached the top, where I was greeted by a weighted blanket of humidity and a familiar sound—the first bars of “Expansions.”

As the music crept through the speakers, I knew I was home.

To outsiders, hip-hop culture might seem like just another pop music phenomenon, but it’s much more than that. The foundational elements of hip-hop—breakdance, DJing, rapping, and graffiti—are undergirded by countless cultural artifacts, including blaxploitation soundtracks, kung fu movies, Bernard Purdie’s drum solos, ’70s era Saturday morning cartoons, James Brown’s grunts, and semi-obscure jazz/funk records—to name a few. This ever-expanding mosaic is interpreted differently across the world, with different geographies picking and choosing the bits and pieces that make the most sense to them. After five minutes on the roof, I could begin to discern precisely what strand of hip-hop culture resonated here. The cultural signifiers of breaking (or breakdancing) were everywhere, from the patrons’ style of dress to the tunes disseminated from the turntables.

It wasn’t long before Style D approached our table of sore thumbs and introduced himself.

Written by Demone Carter

25

He is a stocky, affable character with an easy smile and charm that transcends the language barrier. His garb perfectly signified a bona fide b-boy: an oversized T-shirt, shell-toe adidas sneakers, and a Kangol-style hat tilted ever so slightly. He started to welcome us in halting English but was relieved when David Ma replied in Vietnamese. After some mild coaxing, we got Style D to give us a 15-minute podcast interview, but not before he insisted we chug complimentary mugs of beer. With Dave as translator, Style D began describing the contours of the local b-boy scene—a small cadre of breakers and DJs, many of whom are the children and mentees of hip-hop heads from the ’90s, a handful of record shops and cafes where these adherents to the culture tended to congregate, including the tiny rooftop at Cipherz.

While any semblance of an alcohol buzz was leeched from us by the stifling heat and humidity, as we left Cipherz, we were already buzzing with excitement for the following evening.

Once the drums kick in, “Expansions” is in full flight. Mesmeric keys and percolating congas propel us upward toward sonic enlightenment while never leaving the dance floor.

In Saigon, getting a tailored suit is almost mandatory, thanks to skilled tailors and a favorable exchange rate—so we did just that at Viet Thanh Silk near the historic Bến Thành 26 Connect 17.2

Market. After a few fittings, we left with sharp new threads, perfect for debuting at our DJ gig the next day.

Le Café des Stagiaires hugs the murky Saigon River and boasts eye-popping rooftop views of skyscrapers across the water. It bills itself as a hot spot for European and American expats, and a quick read of the patio confirmed this description. After soaking up the vibes on the roof, we descended to the 2nd floor, where an all-vinyl DJ night was set to take place.

So, there we were: three podcasters/ journeyman DJs dressed in three very different suits that didn’t match each other but still fit us perfectly. The records we played that night were similarly eclectic and interconnected. Nineties hip-hop classics like the Pharcyde’s “Runnin’ ” and Wu Tang’s “Protect Your Neck” bled into early aught underground rap gems like MF DOOM’s “Doomsday” and Edan’s “I See Colors.”

I exchanged my drink tickets for whiskey and kept my voucher for a free nitrous balloon as a souvenir. Dave played the Excelsiors’ jaunty afrobeat-inspired cover of Debbie Deb’s freestyle classic “Lookout Weekend.”

My face screwed quizzically as I had never heard this version and then shot Dave a knowing look to convey that this selection had indeed blown my mind a little bit. Nate threw on Betty Chung’s cover of Cher’s “Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down),” eliciting great excitement amongst the handful of b-boys

in the room who knew the original song but had never heard the Chinese remake. The records we played were carefully curated in part due to the exorbitant international shipping rates but also our want to “speak” to our Vietnamese hosts through our specific musical dialect.

In this way, Le Café des Stagiaires became a classroom where we both learned and taught.

Cultural exchange via vinyl artifacts. At one point, Style D craned over the turntable to read the labels of the records we were playing. Perhaps the highest praise one vinyl selector can pay another.

The lyrics to “Expansions” are sparse yet rich in meaning. Donald Smith sings the same 23-word 8-bar refrain twice. The last lines of each stanza are a cosmic call to action exhorting us to: Extend your hand To help the plan Of love through all Mankind on Earth As 2am drew near, Style D hopped on the turntables to close out the night. The last record he played was a rare 45 titled “Sài Gòn Ơi,” a local anthem that completed the circle of cultural exchange. This song, in particular, was the perfect way to say “thank you,” “you’re welcome,” and “good night.” C

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Vampy VAMPY Transcendence Through Through Costume Costume Transcendence Transcendence Through Costume

Written by Vanessa Lara Photography Supplied by Vampy Instagram vampybitme

28 Connect 17.2

Linda Le

These pages images by Jaffels Photogprahy.

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W

hen you begin your day, chances are you find yourself in your closet, picking out an outfit that you hope reflects: “this is who I am.” For those like Linda Le, who enjoy being bold, an outfit is not only a tool for self-expression but also a lifeline.

Linda Le, more popularly known as Vampy within the cosplay community, is motivated by a desire to amplify the best version of herself to the world through the way she dresses. Her motivation stems from her discovery that identity exists within self-expression. For Vampy, the avenue of self-expression that aligns most closely with her inner self is cosplay. Through the world of cosplay, Vampy intertwines herself with personas that she believes amplify her personality. Within her community, she is not merely a person in costume but rather a fully realized individual. It is this freedom of self that has made cosplay so meaningful to Vampy. As a woman, she values the ability to “present [herself] in a way that demands respect.”

Vampy grew up as a very shy and awkward kid. She describes the first seven years of her life as both very lonely and her most formative. She recalls, “I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up in Oklahoma as an Asian girl.” Being an Asian girl interested in WWE, gaming, and anime, Vampy struggled to find community in her small town. Since she was so regularly alone, she developed a strong desire for company. She says, “I was very hungry to meet people. But I didn’t have that avenue growing up.” A few years later, she and her family moved to San Jose, California. Vampy recognized that this transition must be her “canon event.” Forced into a new and unfamiliar city, she was determined to actualize herself as the bold, defiant individual she had been too afraid to be. When Vampy was a teen, she discovered San Francisco’s vibrant nightlife by sneaking into drag shows. Watching the queens and kings perform, she became entranced by the spirited nature of queer culture. It was at these shows that she first learned of the

“In the ’80s, w I can’t e embodied recall w s hen sexexuality. y c am e to b e b a d.

Sexy is great.”

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These pages images by Slim Summers.

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healing nature of performance.

While Vampy does not belong to the queer community, she does acknowledge the role it played in the development of her identity. Although extremely shy and isolated in her youth, she is committed as an adult to selfactualization—both her own and others’. Commonly referred to as “Auntie Linda” on her Discord server, Vampy offers advice to the younger generation of cosplayers in her community. She acknowledges the hostility that can exist in the cosplay community, which is why she regularly reminds people to use their voices and demand respect.

Given that her identity blossomed after having entered into the world of queer culture, Vampy also feels very strongly about the power of claiming one’s sexuality. She recalls an era in which this form of self-actualization was much less scrutinized: “In the ’80s, we embodied sexuality. Being sexual wasn’t bad.I [can’t recall when sexy came to be bad. Sexy is great.”

Owning your sexuality, according to Vampy, does not only mean feeling hot in the clothes you wear. Being sexy is also the ability to find solace in your existence as an individual.

It is in the shared moments amongst her community—moments spent in costume—that she can exist wholly as herself. Today, her art form has transitioned to a more behind-thescenes arena. Still cosplaying from time to time, Vampy now focuses most of her attention on the field of video games and toy design. Her mission, she says, is to “change how people view us nerdy people.”

Driven by her bold nature and desire to

stand up for women, Vampy now brings her powerful feminist perspective to the world of game and toy design doing social media management work with brands like Gundam. Through her work, she helps add to the list of characters young cosplayers may choose to portray. By adding more strong and sexy women to the list, she makes it easier for feminine people to actualize the power of their sexuality.

Throughout much of her youth, Vampy struggled to find her voice. Now, after years of cosplaying influential female game characters, she has developed a voice loud enough to speak up for people still searching for their own.

Vampy highly suggests joining a cosplay community as a shy person. She says, “Cosplay is awesome because you’re embracing yourself. You’re not being afraid.” Cosplay is not for everyone.

However, the lesson it teaches is readily apparent to every individual: what you wear on the outside affects the way you feel about yourself on the inside, so wear an outfit you feel powerful in.

Today, cosplay culture is strong, with frequent events occurring around the country, including San Jose’s own FanimeCon. Vampy is still present in the cosplay community today; she enjoys cosplaying her favorite characters and tabling events. However, her true passion now exists in her work of shaping people’s perspectives of cosplayers, especially female cosplayers.

Vampy wants everyone to know that they must use their voice— and they need to be loud. It’s the only way to be. C

VG N V I N H G. N G U Y E N

Written by Esther Young | Photography by Daniel Garcia mrvinhnguyen.com | Instagram vinh_g_nguyen

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G

rowing up in Saigon—now Ho Chi Minh City—Vinh G. Nguyen was the kid who preferred to be alone. He cherished his time painting with watercolors and oils and sketching fashion ideas. When he was 10, he immigrated with his parents to the United States. Despite the challenge of learning English late in elementary school, his daily routines were sweetened by afternoons at the library, where he gathered books on arts and crafts. In the evenings, while his cousins played video games, Vinh drew deeper into his inner world, making sense of it with just a pencil and paper.

The desire to develop his artistry was instinctual.

In high school, he participated in choir and drama for the first time. That’s where he found friends—some of whom he stays in touch with to this day. Yet while at San José State University, Vinh found he was a late bloomer in the world of theater.

He remembered talking to a friend and sharing, “I always felt like I’m one step behind all of my peers in the audition room who had been training since they were like two.” But Vinh’s friend pointed out that his passion to catch up was what drove Vinh’s career forward.

And his friend’s words were true. Vinh took enough classes in the musical theater department that he was only a few upperdivision courses from majoring in it. So, along with his major in hospitality, Vinh graduated with a BA in musical theater.

For a few years afterward, Vinh worked as a freelance actor and an elementary school drama teacher. His discovery of theater informed his approach. Growing up in an Asian household, making a living as an artist had never been in the picture. But his goal was clear. He stated: “Number one, do more of this art stuff, and then two, share it with the world.”

He continued to share that he wanted to do whatever he could “to spread that joy with the next generation.”

He wanted to take his passion further. Showing his family that he could make a living while also making a big impact, he pursued an MFA in musical theater at San Diego State University and then taught collegiate-level drama. When the pandemic pushed everyone online, his unique pathway became vital.

In 2020, as the world contended with injustice and change, the theater community pushed for better practices as well. “The We See You White American Theater movement came out of the Black Lives Matter [movement],” Vinh explained. “We called out all the white theater companies that [were] not doing the work.”

To support the changes for anti-racist theater systems, Vinh became an equality, diversity, and inclusion (EDI) consultant and helped local theaters rebuild from the ground up. These initiatives informed how companies should treat actors, pay their staff, and facilitate conflicts.

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“

I FEEL LIKE MY

CULTURAL

IDENTITY IS NOW

MY SUPERPOWER. 35

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Vinh also worked as a casting director. “That’s where I felt I was able to go in and make a direct impact in my community,” he emphasized. He sat on plenty of boards and EDI committees, but casting allowed him to influence the process directly.

“Instead of bringing in what the director [wanted], I would also present three other actors whom they wouldn’t even think of,” he explained. “You challenge the director with, ‘Well, they did great. Why didn’t you pick them?’ ” He set specific goals for each show, aiming to have a certain percentage of the cast be from marginalized communities.

As live theater returned, Vinh continued his EDI consulting work, which was in high demand. But the downside was being pigeonholed and losing out on work as an artist. So Vinh adjusted his strategy. He marketed himself as a director with EDI experience. “If you want me for my EDI [experience], then just hire me as a director and everything will come with it,” he said.

Leading with that intention, Vinh began to direct for local theaters. Directing was as fulfilling as he had hoped, because it was relational and relied on a clear vision. He shared, “All the theaters that I have directed for are theaters that I have acted for. And it has to be a show that I have a very strong artistic vision for, where I come in and say, ‘This is why I want to do the show now and at your theater.’ ” In 2023, Vinh became the managing director of Chopsticks Alley Art, which is a southeast Asian arts organization that commissioned him for the play Tales of Ancient Vietnam. This play examines the ideal of cultural authenticity through the lens of a second-generation Vietnamese American and debuted as a staged reading in 2024.

This was not just about his success as a playwright, but also as an artist taking power in his identity. As a young actor, he used to intentionally stray away from “cultural” work such as this play. “I wanted to prove that I could do the ‘normal work,’ ” he remembered. “I had to fight to be in the same room as five other white actors to read for a role that I didn’t even care much for.” The stories he did care about were being told by the wrong people in the American theater landscape, well-intentioned as they may have been.

At this point in his career and life, Vinh has the triplethreat ability to tell these stories himself through his vision as the director or through his own creation as a playwright.

In his own words: “I feel like my cultural identity is now my superpower.” C

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“Every year, there’s a new side of myself that unlocks into ballet. I’m achieving more and more despite getting older.”

Written by Meghan Lee Portrait Photography by Daniel Garcia newballet.com Instagram naomi_tk_l 38 Connect 17.2

Le Naomi I

n high school, ballet dancer Naomi Thien Kim Le’s father, Chinh Le, told her something pivotal: “If you can’t live without it, don’t live without it.” She took his words to heart.

Naomi has now danced professionally with San Jose’s New Ballet Company since 2020. At 23, she feels she still has more to accomplish. “Every year, there’s a new side of myself that unlocks into ballet. I’m achieving more and more despite getting older.”

Chinh Le instructs by example. Both he and Naomi’s mother, Anatasia, are from Vietnam and immigrated to the US in 1980.

Their journeys to America, however, were quite different. “In short, she came on the airplane, I came on the boat,” Chinh explains. He attempted to leave Vietnam multiple times before he was successful. The only thing he took with him was his violin. Without a standard American education or fluency in English, he struggled to find musical education opportunities.

Despite this, he was determined to become a professional musician. He eventually earned a scholarship at Indiana University.

He’s now a violin teacher and a violinist with the San Jose Symphony, which accompanies New Ballet productions.

Chinh passed his passion for music and the arts on to his children. Naomi and her siblings all play instruments and dance with New Ballet. The family even formed a string quartet during the lockdown phase of the COVID-19 pandemic. “We need the normal things to sustain a life. But art gives people a reason to live,” Naomi says. Her mother echoed this importance in her approach to parenting. “What we were taught as [children] is that art is one of the rare gifts that one can possess. We want our children to explore their gifts.”

Naomi is grateful for her family’s support of her ballet career.

“They always made sure I could have food on the table, no matter what,” she remembers, “so that I could comfortably choose and put a strong foot forward with what I wanted to do with my life.” Her connection with her heritage is strong.

“My work ethic is from my family and my Vietnamese cul-

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ture,” she explains. “The food that I eat to have the energy to go throughout my day, to dance, and to teach is really influenced by my culture.”

Naomi originally began studying ballet at five years old to help with her coordination. Her parents homeschooled Naomi and her siblings and had them try out many different physical activities. Naomi began dancing as a student with New Ballet’s founder, artistic director, and executive director Dalia Rawson. She’s mentored Naomi’s development from a young student to a professional dancer. Naomi always took her classes seriously, but it took time for her to hone her skills as a true performer. “She was almost a little introverted,” Rawson remembers. “She has been a series of little revelations over

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the years.” When Naomi was 10, Rawson told her she had the discipline and the body to dance at a higher level.

She’s now danced in hundreds of professional New Ballet shows.

Naomi’s approach to ballet is a joyful one. “It’s a human experience. I want to get into that kind of carnal state where, truly, I’m dancing because I’m enjoying life, I’m enjoying what I do,” she explains. “I don’t want to spend my career in dancing stressed all the time.”

This approach runs parallel to Rawson’s mission with New Ballet, which prioritizes dancers’ mental health.

Naomi herself majored in psychology at Santa Clara State University. She attributes this partially to her mother, who got her master’s in psychology after working as a pharmacist. She says that New

Le would like to acknowledge her grandfather, who passed away in January: “Thank you, Ông, for believing in me even when I didn’t.”

Ballet’s emphasis on mental health was also an influence on her decision. “I think I was just surrounded by a lot of people who cared about other people’s well-being and success, and I just wanted to carry that on.”

According to Rawson, there are two things a ballet dancer needs to elevate their practice: a solid control of classical technique and the ability to embody different roles with that technique. Naomi has both. “She brings moments out of choreography that I’ve seen her dance many, many times,” Rawson shares. “She is on the path to becoming San Jose’s first home-grown,

home-trained, and hometeam ‘Ballerina.’ ” “Ballerina” as a title has a specific meaning within the dancing world.

The dancer needs to have had at least three main ballerina roles, and one of them must be Giselle, which New Ballet will be doing a production of in 2025. Naomi has already danced main roles in Swan Lake and Sleeping Beauty. “It’s like Hamlet for a female ballet dancer,” Rawson explains. “There’s a very good chance that she will dance that role.” C

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Viet Thanh Nguyen {

A Writer’s Journey Shaped

by Identit y and Memor y Written by Samantha Hull Photography by David FactorBebe Jacobs vietnguyen.info Instagram viet.thanh.nguyen.writer

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{

V

iet Thanh Nguyen’s first recognition as a writer happened when he was eight years old as a student at Lowell Elementary School in San Jose. “Lester the Cat” is a story about an urban cat who, stricken with ennui and bored with city life, flees and falls in love with a country cat. Viet’s childhood story was selected for a prize at the former Martin Luther King Jr. Library located on W. San Carlos Street (now located at 150 San Fernando).

As an eight-year-old, the experience left a big impression, both as a very public and private experience—publicly, because he received recognition from the very library where he absorbed literature throughout his childhood and, privately, because his parents weren’t able to take him to the award ceremony. His school’s librarian took him, while no one in his family knew. To Viet, it was his little secret, and although he did not make a conscious decision to become a writer, he found that writing books could be fun and interesting.

Viet was born in Ban Mê Thuột, Viet Nam (now Buôn Mê Thuột) and came to the United States as a refugee in 1975. His family settled in San Jose in the late 1970s, opening one of the first Vietnamese grocery stores, Sàigòn Mới (later demolished to make room for the Miro Luxury Apartments on East Santa Clara Street). His path to becoming a writer dates back to being eight years old, dabbling with journaling, poetry, short fiction, and drama through high school and into college. This period, according to Viet, was the “first of many disasters in aspirations to being a writer.” He adds, “I think all writers have to make all kinds of mistakes.”

His ambition to be a serious writer and scholar solidified while he was a student at UC Berkeley. Not only did his education further his interest in literature and writing, but he also developed awareness as an Asian American and an English and ethnic studies major. The opportunity to read beyond canonical Western writers—including women, BIPOC, and decolonizing writers—was crucial in that it gave him a sense that there is a serious purpose to literature. Viet’s time at Berkeley developed his understanding of literature, both in his approach as a scholar and as a writer. Before then, according to Viet, “I think I had a very romantic idea of literature,” he says, adding, “From 19 to 20 years of age, I began to think of literature as a political, theoretical, and eventually philosophical issue.”

Fast forward to the present and Viet is a celebrated scholar, author, and essayist. His novel, The Sympathizer, is a New York Times Bestseller, winner of the Pulitzer Prize, and has debuted on over thirty bookof-the-year lists. His writing (although not a complete list) includes the sequel, The Committed, A Man of Two Faces, The Refugees, two children’s books, (Chicken of the Sea and Simone), and his next book, slated for 2025, To Save and to Destroy: Writing as an Other.

Viet is thinking about writing even when he’s not physically writing—a process that involves thinking, planning, and revising, in addition to writing. He states, “There is something mysterious about inspiration and where that comes from, but you have to do the work to get to the inspiration, and to do the work just means you have to be doing something every single day, whether that’s the thinking, planning, writing, or revising.”

“From 19 to 20 years of age, I began to think of literature a s a politic al, theoretic al, and eventually philosophic al issue.”

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“My personal identit y could never be separated from the identit y of being V ietnamese and eventually A sian Americ an.”

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Understanding the inside and outside of language was key to Viet’s growth as a writer, “For me, I immersed myself as deeply as I could into the English-language literature,” he says. This absorption allowed Viet to understand how language works, not just as a tool, but how it works internally. Knowing some Vietnamese also allowed Viet to look at his writing both as an insider and an outsider. He shared, “One of the best compliments I got about The Sympathizer was a Vietnamese author coming up to me saying, ‘I can hear the rhythms of Vietnamese in your writing.’ And I don’t think I intended to do that, but the fact that it’s there because I have an inside and outside relationship with the language was really helpful.” In addition, Viet believes that all writers develop their own voice by finding whatever is authentic within themselves as a driver for their writing. To Viet, speaking your truth is crucial to being a successful writer.

Viet’s work as a writer, critic, and essayist is undeniably tied to issues of identity and memory. Growing up in San Jose, he was exposed to the notion of the collective identity at a young age because of the existence of racism and his own awareness of how the Vietnam War impacted Vietnamese refugees and Americans as a whole. Stories have power, and to Viet, the complexity of power as it relates to his individual and collective identity gave him the authority to write about his own story and the Vietnamese American experience. “I believed in the idea that stories had the power to transport me out of San Jose, my parent’s house, the grocery store that was our reality, but then I realized that stories have the power to destroy as well, the power to save as well as destroy. And that’s the complexity within power that also made me convinced I wanted to become a writer.”

Viet’s body of work through this lens of identity and memory is deeply personal. He shares, “My personal identity could never be separated from the identity of being Vietnamese and eventually Asian American. Those

identities were inevitably tied in with memory, because how we think about the past, our individual past, but also the collective past of our cultures and nations is going to impact our sense of identity. There’s always been this dynamic between individual and collective memory for me that has been tied to issues of my racial identity but also to America’s national identity as well.”

Viet’s drive to speak to identity and memory, to write the stories that have brought him success, has been partly shaped by his upbringing in San Jose.

He recalls, “I grew up in a very edgy part of San Jose’s downtown by the 280 access ramp on South 10th Street, and it was a tough environment to grow up in. But it was that friction between the beautiful diversities but also the economic struggle of so many people in that area that taught me so much about human nature and provided me with the stories that would eventually be really important to my motivation as a writer, scholar, and essayist.”

Viet Thanh Nguyen was raised in San Jose, educated in the East Bay at UC Berkeley, and now resides in Los Angeles as the Aerol Arnold Chair of English and professor of English, American studies and ethnicity, and comparative literature at the University of Southern California. “What’s important to me about being a writer is just writing,” he states. The Bay Area provided Viet with an environment where stories—including his individual and collective identity—his complicated relationship with San Jose–could take root and shape his craft. “[Growing up in San Jose has] always been so much more complex, because it’s the difference between the comforting parts of San Jose and the difficult parts for my family and myself that generated the emotional friction that turned me into a writer.” C

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Anh Le

Education Through Perspective

Written by Troy Ewers Photography by Jason Leung Instagram anhimation

“I intend to make use of my education to support the voiceless in our community.”

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Scenes from Aroma Cafe.

Scenes from Light the Way.

W

e all have our own perspectives. Some people educate and tell stories through their personal perspectives.

These personal points of view may be different due to cultural differences, religious beliefs, generational patterns, or a multitude of other factors. Perspective is how we see the world and culture. For Vietnamese filmmaker Anh Le, perspective is a tool in her arsenal she uses to tell stories and educate people, to heal the wounds of society. Anh Le has chosen to look through a literal lens in order to document the wounds of society, that documentation draped in commentary that is here to educate and entertain.

Anh Le is based in San Jose, California. She loves sharing stories with her friends and family and helping those in need with her fundraising initiatives, one currently focused on helping out kids in the foster care system, supplying them with resources. Having graduated with a bachelor’s degree in radio, film, and television at San José State University, her passion for music, writing, photography, and film led her to become a storyteller. Anh received a California Arts Council Individual Artists Fellowship and has used the funding to create her latest documentary project.

Anh’s latest documntary, Call Me Harry, explores why Vietnamese Americans change their names once they’re in America. According to Anh, it comes from the aspirations of Asian Americans to become “American,” contrary to some people’s belief that the change is an erasure of culture. “I want to educate people on what happened before and what’s in a name,” Anh says. Anh got the idea for Call Me Harry when thinking about her dad’s name, “Calvin”—like Calvin Klein—when her dad actually wanted to be called “Kevin”—like Kevin Costner—but immigration misheard it as “Calvin,” and her dad kept it. The name “Harry” is used for the title not just because it’s a common American name, but also because it’s a reference to the film When Harry Met Sally, a movie she watched with her family growing up. An element of this film is for an older demographic, but Anh wants this to be seen by Asian Americans ages 18 to 35, because it’s a perspective that younger people will understand. When asked what her dream billboard for this film would be, Anh says, “A collage of three people made up of torn up newspaper that says: ‘CALL ME HARRY…What’s Your Name?’ ”.

This isn’t the first time Anh has been inspired by her family.

She once made a documentary about her grandma for her family. Her grandma was a great poet, but it wasn’t culturally accepted for women to have that level of education in Vietnam.

Because of this, her grandma got a job early and focused less on poetry. “I want people to interact and learn about their families,” Anh says. She has come across many people who have a disconnect with their families, and she sees it’s necessary to start a discussion within families, so they can become closer.

Anh sees filmmaking holistically. “Treat film as an entrepreneurship,” Anh says. She respects the business and process of filmmaking and has the goal of taking her talents to Pixar. Anh cares about how prepared her productions are and cares about the people she works with. She encourages film students to get into producing. Anh loves seeing people succeed. “I’m always observing what people who worked for me have learned from their time being there.”

“I intend to make use of my education to support the voiceless in our community,” Anh says. Using film as a medium to tell stories helps Anh share her perspective with an audience and bring forth a discussion.

When an artist can present their perspective to the public, that’s already something special, but when an artist can display something that has the power to educate and change views, then you get what makes Anh’s work special. The ability to teach is a gift that not every artist possesses, and that’s just a matter of perspective. C

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BinhDanh Fragments of Time B

Written by Nikoo Parsizadeh Photography by Daniel Garcia binhdanh.com Instagram Binhtdanh

orn in 1977, Binh Danh was among the many refugees who fled Vietnam after the fall of Saigon and the rise of communism. With the hope of escaping the new regime, his family made the dangerous journey by boat, crossing treacherous seas before being rescued by Malaysian authorities. They were taken to the Pulau Bidong Refugee Camp in Malaysia, where they spent nine long months waiting for asylum. Binh’s father, skilled in television repair, leveraged his technical background to secure asylum for his family in the United States. In 1979, they resettled in San Jose, where they began a new chapter in their lives.

Growing up around TVs always on, Binh was fascinated by the screen’s moving images. He would also lose himself in calendars, catalogs, and magazines, playing with these images to transcend time and space. For most people of his generation in Vietnam, photography was not a big part of life; photos were taken only on special occasions.

It wasn’t until the fifth grade that Binh found his interest in photography. He brought a camera on a school camping trip, and from then on, he knew how to create strong images that narrated a story and touched on a viewer’s emotions. For Binh, photographs were different—a powerful fabrication of memories, pieces of time hand-picked and preserved. This early passion led him to pursue art during high school and later receive his BFA in photography at San José State University. “I didn’t learn about traditional photography and the big names until I went to college, but I knew when I was looking at these pictures of landscapes, I was just falling in love with them,” recalled Binh.

Early into his studies, Binh knew commercial and fashion photography was not the path for him; instead, he believed himself to be an artist who uses photography as a means to find deeper themes and ideas. One of Binh’s first experimentations using photography to explore deeper themes and ideas began with his BFA thesis show, inspired by the time he spent in his mother’s garden. It was there that he perfected his famous chlorophyll prints, which is a process of printing images directly onto plant leaves. These prints bring back memories of Binh’s 51

Manzanar National Historic Site, 2016, from the National Parks and Historical Sites series. daguerreotype, 8” x 10”

“ I feel like my work is about history, memories, and trauma. When you think of history you think of something in the past, but I think of it as something in the future.”

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Above: Trinity Site, White Sand National Park , 2016, from the National Parks and Historical Sites series, daguerreotype, 8” x 10”

travels to Vietnam, where, even decades later, the scars of war were still etched into its landscape. “Photography and art keep me going and even if the recognitions that I have received weren’t there, I would still do what I do. I am fortunate to have a job as an artist that allows me to teach making art, while having an income through it, allowing my studio practice on the side too,” Binh said.

Binh attended Stanford University for his MFA, continuing to perfect his craft and artistic voice. From 2004 to 2012, Binh taught as an adjunct professor at a few different community colleges while continuing to exhibit his photographs. In 2012, Binh’s hard work put into teaching and art began to pay off when he landed his first tenure-track position at the University of Arizona. In 2018, he returned to San José State University, where he continues to teach and create.

As a professor, Binh encourages his students to embrace the wide and multifarious possibilities of photography, including the use of artificial intelligence as a creative tool.

Rather than viewing AI as some sort of threat to traditional photography, he sees it instead as a new extension of the medium that offers

new ways to enhance and manipulate images.

Binh doesn’t put tight constraints on his students—instead he lets them play with AI, believing only freedom can give the fertile ground needed for their artistic development and experimentation.

Binh’s expectations for his students are to not be afraid of, or discouraged by, the uncertainty of an art degree, but to see it instead as a part of the beauty of following a creative path. In the end he is trying to instill in them a commitment to creativity for the sake of using it to give back meaningfully to their own communities.

Binh wants his students to have pride in their work, give the best they can, and graduate with the confidence in knowing they have grown as artists, ready to take on the world with a truly unique creative vision.

Binh’s relationship with Vietnam plays a big role in his life and artistic view. It wasn’t until the 2000s that he returned to his country of birth, and the experience was completely incomparable to those who had grown up in it.

As a Vietnamese American, the country was both proximal and distal to him. “I didn’t think that I was coming home. I am Vietnamese, but I didn’t really connect to the land the way 53

Gary McCollough, 20 years old, 2008, from the Life: One Week’s Dead series, chlorophyll print and resin, 17” x 14” 54 Connect 17.2

Top: The Leaf Effect: Study for transmission # 10, 2005, from the In the Shadow of Angkor series, chlorophyll print and resin, 13 3/7” x 12” Bottom: Ambush in the Leaf #4, 2007, from the Immortality: The Remnants of the Vietnam and American War series, chlorophyll print and resin, 17.5” x 13.5” 55

Above: Two Brothers and a Mom, 2024, archival pigment print, 12.75” x 14.5” 56 Connect 17.2

Above: Lower Yosemite Falls, Yosemite, California, 2014, from the National Parks and Historical Sites series, daguerreotype 12” x 10” 57

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Above: Yosemite Falls, Yosemite, California, 2012, from the National Parks and Historical Sites series, daguerreotype, 6.5” x 8.5”

my parents did. Of course, I am connected through being a Vietnamese American and learning about the history of the war from which the influence is seen in my photography,” Binh said.

Binh’s notion of Vietnam was one of war— an idea that followed him all his life and into his career. While others drew upon personal recollections of the country, his knowledge of Vietnam emanated from the collective memory of conflict, loss, and survival through stories provided in photographs and history books.

When visiting places such as the War Remnants Museum, where the history of the war is told through a government lens, Binh was struck by narratives of survival and rebirth. These stories deeply changed his art, building layers on top of his identity as both an American and Vietnamese artist.

Simultaneously, it is not easy to address these themes of war, death, and trauma in his work, but Binh thinks that discomfort with history is necessary. For Binh, history is not simply confined to the past but is a living agent shaping the present and future. The combination of nature and history within his work reflects Binh’s ongoing exploration of the themes of memory, trauma, and the passage of time. “I feel like my work is about history, memories, and trauma. When you think of history you think of something in the past, but I think of it

as something in the future,” Binh said.

The artistic practices of Binh vary from digital photography using film, to the daguerreotype. The daguerreotype is a 19th-century photographic process that prints images on silver plates, offering an extremely tactile and reflective quality. With his mix of historical techniques through modern technology, Binh offers work that feels timeless, in which past and present blend into one frame. This innovative approach he extends to his students.

Blending historical techniques with the most modern technologies, he allows his students to practice photography without restrictions in its ever-changing landscape.

Photography for Binh is also a journey of always discovering and reflecting. Fresh from a trip to the Grand Canyon and about to embark on another one to Alabama, Binh has loads of work to process and research to perform. In Binh’s view, his legacy revolves around his photographs of national parks, which showcase the beauty of nature they preserve. From the scars of war and the beauty of national parks, to the delicate imprint of nature itself, his work speaks to the deep connections between memory, history, and the present. For Binh, photography is more than a profession, it’s a lifelong journey of discovery, storytelling, and reflection. C 59

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VI SON TRINH At an early age, Vĩ Sơn Trinh learned of his parents’ journey

as

refugees

escaping

Communist-ruled

Vietnam. They spent seven days and nights at sea, eventually arriving in Galang, Indonesia, where his mom promptly gave birth to Vĩ Sơn. While his parents’ story illuminated his own journey to find his identity as a second-generation immigrant, Vĩ Sơn realized his experience was one among many and became inspired to use visual storytelling to give voice to other similar narratives of immigrant families.

Written by Taran Escobar-Ausman Portrait Photography by Daniel Garcia visontrinh.com Instagram visontrinh

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ĩ Sơn’s different projects, such as Silk Rise, Chinatown, and The Stories We Carry, aim to preserve everyday moments that explore cultural identity among second and third generation immigrants. His photography immediately draws you in to small, nuanced moments that carry a weightless glow of compassion and gratitude. The soft, faded, dream-like tone of his images feels like long-forgotten memories that unexpectedly visit you, almost like déjà vu. His images are comforting in their reassurance, giving order to the disorder that arises from intergenerational trauma.

As a visual journalist, photographer, and full-time cardiac nurse, Vĩ Sơn Trịnh uses his photography and filmmaking to uncover stories of resilience, the perseverance of familial bonds, and identity among refugees and immigrants.

Can you tell me a little about yourself and your journey to becoming a visual journalist? I’m currently based in Mountain View, California. My family is from Vietnam, and I was born in a refugee camp in Indonesia after the Vietnam War. What first drew me to photography was watching my father. He used both an old Sony camcorder and his Minolta film camera to document family events from the late ’80s through the mid’90s. There was something tender and deliberate in the way he captured moments—those fleeting instances stitched into the permanence of film. Since then, I’ve been fascinated with how photography keeps those moments alive, giving them weight, even after they’ve slipped through the fingers of time.

Photography gave me a language when words fell short—a way to speak truths that felt too heavy or fragile to utter aloud.

It became both a compass and a mirror, a means to make sense of my family’s unspoken traumas and to illuminate narratives that deserve space. In popular media, stories told by those from refugee backgrounds are still rare. You have to search for them in the crevices, where light rarely reaches. My story is just one among thousands, but if I can remain part of a growing movement of storytellers, perhaps it will serve as a reminder: representation matters. And perhaps it will encourage other young, emerging storytellers to pick up the camera and say, “I was here, too.”

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“

I n a s e n s e , t h at ’s m y m i s s i o n : to h o l d

”

o n to w h at ’s t ra n s i e n t , e ve n a s i t f a d e s , l e av i n g t ra c e s b e h i n d .

Your images communicate a quiet, emotional depth, even out of context. Are there other elements in your life that influence your work? My influences are like waves—each one carrying fragments of memory, connecting the past to the present in ways that feel both vivid and elusive.

Some inspirations are simple moments, like the hum of tires on the road when I drive alone. It reminds me of family road trips, my dad guiding us to visit relatives in Los Angeles, those long hours becoming my first experience of quiet spaces, where my thoughts could wander freely. There’s a kind of longing to capture those fleeting moments, to preserve the simplicity of what once was. This is why I’m drawn to photographers like Rinko Kawauchi; her work feels like visual haikus that honor small, often overlooked details. Her images remind me to pause, to see the truth in the subtleties, to find beauty in what others might overlook.

Do other art forms inspire you as well? Music also plays a crucial role in my creative process, adapting with my environment and mood. When I’m out on the streets, blending into the rhythm of city life, I listen to Shigeto. The intensity of his beats fuels my energy, pushing me to navigate crowds, cars, and alleyways with purpose. In contrast, when I’m seeking something introspective, I turn to the calming compositions of Olafur Arnalds or Ryuichi Sakamoto. Their music has a way of evoking nostalgia, allowing me to connect with fragments of memory that need space to breathe and take form.

Grief, too, influences my work. Creating has become a way to process loss, to transform pain into something tangible. It’s an attempt to find beauty in absence, to honor what’s slipping away by capturing it.

In a sense, that’s my mission: to hold onto what’s transient, even as it fades, leaving traces behind.

There is a quiet tenderness to your photos with an emphasis on small moments, often up close. When you shoot, do you have a vision of what you want already in mind or are you simply paying attention to those moments as they unfold naturally? When I first began, there was no map, no destination—just the pull to capture everything under the sun, as if each moment could somehow fill an emptiness I hadn’t yet named. I was chasing a high, really, capturing whatever caught my eye, drawn to the sheer wonder of it. The camera became a net for everything fleeting, everything that seemed to slip away as soon as I looked at it. These 63

days, when I work on a project, I carry that same innocence, that same sense of wonder, but there’s a steadiness to it now, a direction. I still find myself searching for that pure feeling, that unfiltered connection. I might start with a goal, an idea of where I’m headed, but once I’m in it, once the subject and I begin to share a kind of quiet understanding, that’s when things start to bloom on their own. The moments become softer, truer. It’s as if the image decides to reveal itself, layered and deep, only once we’ve learned to be still enough to listen.

I recently came across a wonderful explanation of how poetry, in particular, can be this improbable portal, or backdoor, into the cosmos by sneaking ideas into our subconscious, ultimately changing the way we perceive the external world.

I realized how photography, likewise, can do the same thing…a visual poem, if you will. With that said, how did The Stories We Carry project change your perspective and the way you relate to the world? That’s such a beautiful way to put it, Taran—“poetry as a portal,” a doorway into other lives and experiences, ways of seeing we might never have considered. The Stories We Carry project felt like stepping into that portal, and through it, I was able to witness the inner worlds of first- and second-generation immigrant families, each one carrying their own histories and memories, held in everyday objects and stories. While I’m part of this community through my own family’s journey, the project gave me something rare: a deeper, more intimate sense of what it means to walk in someone else’s shoes, to feel their joys, their struggles, their resilience. Photography, for me, became a way to bridge that space, to capture glimpses of lives that are both familiar and vastly different. Each person I photographed gave me a doorway into their reality—a chance to see not just the visible details, but the weight of their histories, the layers of their identities. The project reshaped my own understanding of belonging and displacement; it reminded me how nuanced these experiences are, even within a community I thought

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Images on these pages are from The Stories We Carry, 2017.

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“

I t ’s o n e t h i n g to k n o w t h at e a c h i m m i g ra n t s to r y i s u n i q u e , b u t i t ’s a n o t h e r to w i t n e s s i t , to b e i n v i te d i n to t h o s e s p a c e s , a n d to c o m e awa y c h a n g e d , w i t h a b ro a d e r c o m p a s s i o n a n d a n e w wa y o f s e e i n g t h e l i ve s a ro u n d m e .

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I knew well. It’s one thing to know that each immigrant story is unique, but it’s another to witness it, to be invited into those spaces and to come away changed, with a broader compassion and a new way of seeing the lives around me.

Your journey to become a nurse, and the job itself, seems to play a big part in your identity and, likewise, your approach to your projects. Would you say there are any relative parallels to your visual journalist work and your day-to-day profession? Nursing and visual journalism share a surprising intimacy—both are grounded in careful observation, empathy, and the power of listening. My work as a nurse has shaped me into a more attentive photographer, just as my background in photojournalism has helped me to see my patients in greater depth. Nursing calls for a sensitivity to detail, a watchfulness that allows me to notice the smallest changes in a patient’s health or demeanor, knowing that these subtle shifts can mean everything. It’s a skill rooted in close observation, much like photography, where one frame can hold a world of unspoken truths.

In both fields, there’s an art to asking the right questions.

As a nurse, I ask patients about their symptoms, their medications, their financial and emotional well-being, their homes and support systems—each answer adding another layer to their story, much like a journalist drawing out a narrative. It’s not just about gathering information; it’s about understanding how each piece of their life impacts their health, their journey.

And when I’m photographing, that same curiosity shapes how I approach people. I’m attuned to the layers beneath their expressions, their gestures, the environment they inhabit.

Perhaps the deepest similarity is the sense of compassion each role demands. Nursing has taught me to look beyond the immediate—to see my patients not as cases, but as individuals with stories, histories, and vulnerabilities. That awareness has changed how I approach photography, too, infusing my images with a tenderness and empathy that only comes from bearing witness to both the fragility and resilience of others. In both nursing and photography, I’m reminded that what I capture or care for is not just a single moment or person, but a piece of a much larger, intricate story.

Do you have any projects on the horizon or ideas ruminating? Some days, the weight of picking up the camera feels heavier than I remember, like the lens has grown distant, more elusive. The everyday currents of work, the quiet exhaustion of life—it all leaves me feeling like creating is both a refuge and a labor. But I often find myself drifting into a daydream, imagining a project I haven’t yet begun: an archive of my father’s old Hi-8 footage and old photos from his visits to Vietnam in the ’90s, woven with scenes of our family’s early days here in the States. I want to tell our story, to trace our family’s path, the way memory lingers in old tapes, how it shapes us in ways we’re still learning to name.

Recently, I’ve felt a pull from others in my generation, other creatives using art to reach into their own histories, to confront the weight of intergenerational trauma and shape it into something tangible, something that heals. There’s a kind of solace in that, a shared language. I hope to make space for this work, to find my own way of piecing together fragments of that story, connecting with others who carry a similar thread of resilience and memory. Maybe, in time, these fragments will take form—a new project, a way to honor what’s been both lost and found. C

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MINHQUANG NGUYEN ART REINCARNATED Written by Victor Aquino Photography by Leopoldo Macaya bit.ly/MinhquangPaintings Instagram nguyentriminhquang

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Red Fish Dream, 2000, oil on canvas, 50”x 50”

T

here is no scientific evidence reincarnation exists, but some with keen perception can feel it. There is science to prove that two particles can be perfectly in sync, even when separated by the vastness of the universe.

There are bonds of humanity that transcend time through love or dominance. And there is art and creativity that exist and manifest from all of the above.

Perhaps this is metaphysics or existentialism 101. It is simpler to say love, empathy, and compassion are enough to experience a higher meaning.

Enter Minhquang Nguyen, a product of talented, artistic parents who knew nothing else but to purely love their children and give them freedom and guidance. By happenstance or circumstance, they passed down great creative genetics to Nguyen, so she may live a life that looks rudderless to many, but, in fact, is her birthright to a fluid existence.

That may sound like some people we might know, but when both parents are and were prolific artists, you’re in rarified air. “Both my

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parents were pillars of Vietnamese contemporary arts, and thanks to them, it’s in my blood, and it makes it so easy to know what to do,” said a humbly shy Nguyen. “Ask any Vietnamese artist, and they would know my mother, Truong Thi Thinh, and especially my father, Nguyen Tri Minh.”

A simple online search returns art from each of Nguyen’s parents that is somehow simple and subtle, yet deep and stunning—even to the most pedestrian eyes. “I always saw them so happy when they were painting,” said Nguyen of the impression still deeply ingrained in her today.

“Since my childhood to now, I consider myself lucky to have such a happy life because of how they led their lives.”

After Nguyen emigrated to North America in 1986, well after her father had already escaped Vietnam with the fall of Saigon in 1975, Nguyen earned her computer graphics degree from the prestigious Pratt Institute in New York.

“I first took up computer programming, because in our society we’re supposed to, right?” said Nguyen on the

The Note of Existence, 2000, oil on canvas, 50”x 50”

continuing stereotype. “But it was very hard. Luckily, my counselors asked me, ‘What do you love?’ and I switched to computer graphics.”

Even separated by time and distance, Nguyen’s father was an invisible force throughout her life. “I wish my father was always there, but as a professional artist in Vietnam, my father had to leave,” said Nguyen, whose father passed away in 2010. “He had many foreign friends, and, being a free thinker, would not fit in well after Saigon fell.”

As a fully functioning byproduct of her father and mother, Nguyen free-flowed through life, effortlessly and with no expectations. “It was always fun and not like work at all to be an artist,” said Nguyen, who carries the same open, modern soul as her forward-thinking parents.

“When I want to paint, I paint.

There’s no meaning at first.

You just paint, and it might be that I’m visually attracted to something. Simple as that.”

Simple, too, was Ngyuen’s 20-plus year corporate life as a graphic designer, where creativity and governance do not often mix. “Whenever they

needed something, I always understood it quickly and did it faster than they needed.

Many times they didn’t have enough work for me because of it,” said Nguyen, who enjoyed this phase of formal work life. “I had time to learn many other things like [how to use] a laser machine and AutoCAD, which I would learn quickly too.”

After the company she had worked at for so long went out of business, Nguyen returned to a freelance life. “Things were easier with a steady job, but I’m fine without a corporate job,” said Nguyen, looking around at her many personal belongings. “I have Buddhist belief that you should not have a lot of materialistic things, but these attachments are my weakness.”

Whether Nguyen is materialistic is relative, as a view within her modest abode displays countless children’s books and miniature stuffed animals, and, of course, Nguyen’s paintings. “My father loved children’s books, and he thought it was a great way to expose me to art and illustration. I remember he started to take me to get these 73

Top: Blue Dream, 1994, oil on canvas, 50”x 50” Bottom: Metamorphosis, 2003, oil on canvas, 50”x 50”

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Rousseau’s Desert Dream, 2001, oil on canvas, diptych, each 38”x 50”

detailed books when I was five or six years old in Vietnam. He kept track of each book, so it would always be something different.”

Continuing to share her memories, Nguyen’s eyes and expressions transported her back to the impressionable times with her father. “I do still have the attachment of those memories, and sometimes I want to go back,” shared Nguyen. “When I open the pages of these books or see these stuffed animals, I do feel like I’m going back.”

Nguyen has tracked down many of the English versions of her childhood books, since she no longer had the ones from Vietnam, which, because Vietnam had been a French colony, included French versions. Connecting the dots of her past reveals Nguyen’s flow and style.

“I love ambiguity in paintings,” said Nguyen, getting up to move to one of her pieces.

“There’s no rhyme or reason needed. You don’t even have to

be Vietnamese to appreciate paintings. We can all see and feel something different, as it should be.”

A large painting that adorns Nguyen’s main living area juxtaposes whimsical flowing colors, female energy, and an animal spirit that all blend together as in a dream state. “I love colors and space and ambiguity and how things don’t belong together,” said Nguyen.

“But they do all belong together in a painting.”

Though she lives through this current space and time, there is a sense of her father’s presence. She carries on a seemingly telepathic conversation that leads to one last thought: “Growing up, I saw my father’s fame and success to the point that I knew I didn’t want or need to chase after fame or money. I knew my life would still be fulfilling, because I am returning back again to the life I was gifted.” C

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Hết Sẩy

A New Flavor of Southern Vietnamese Cooking

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Hết Sẩy Awesome “Hết Sẩy” means “awesome” and is

used as slang to describe food and all things delicious.

W

hile it may be easy to find a bowl of hot phở or a refreshing bánh mì, it’s not every day you find cutting-edge Southern Vietnamese flavors created by chefs who grew up in that region. Enter wife and husband DuyAn and Hieu Le, chef/owners of Hết Sẩy, with a mission to cook, eat, dance, and dress in a way that honors their shared Southern Vietnamese heritage with their own unique flair. “Hết Sẩy” means “awesome” and is used as slang to describe food and all things delicious.

DuyAn and Hieu met in Toronto, where

Written by Michelle Rundowitz Photography by Cyntia Apps hetsaycali.com Instagram _hetsay_

DuyAn was going to school when Hieu was visiting the city. They married almost immediately, and soon DuyAn moved to California where Hieu was living at the time.

They later relocated to the Bay Area, living in various cities before settling in San Jose’s Little Saigon neighborhood in 2019. “Not everyone knows that [Little Saigon] has the second largest Vietnamese population outside of Vietnam,” said Hieu. They originally moved so DuyAn’s mother, who lived in Vietnam and was one of their biggest supporters, could live with them. But her mother suffered a stroke and stayed in Vietnam. “She was very positive about [our vision]… pushing us on, like ‘Just find your passion and just do this,’ ” said Hieu.

Soon after moving, they

were inspired to try their hand at opening a small pop-up within another restaurant, featuring their shared passion for food from the Mekong Delta. Opening day was a mixture of excitement and chaos. “We screwed up so much,” laughed Hieu. Despite the stress, the local community inspired them, so they continued with pop-ups within other restaurants up until the pandemic closed things down. After that, they began cooking out of their home kitchen, but despite that challenge, they were featured in a top restaurant review. “During that time, we felt very proud,” said DuyAn. “The regional food that we are doing, the culture that we are representing— people are listening, people are looking. It feels amazing.”

As with any entrepreneurial venture, DuyAn and Hieu have had ups and downs balancing the creative cooking side with the challenges of establishing a small business. When they decided to relocate from their home kitchen, they began working closely with the city of San Jose to find the right venue but found they were often priced out. “How do you incubate a small business in this area?” said Hieu.

“You need [more] steps for you to grow.” They decided to sell at farmers markets as a steppingstone, but continued to encounter obstacles in finding a commercial venue. Eventually they found 77

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“The regional food that we are doing, the culture that we are representing— people are listening, people are looking. It feels amazing”.

a small space on The Alameda on weekends for a food trailer, which proved more flexible to move between locations and without a traditional food truck’s overhead. While it may not be their permanent home, for now it’s another steppingstone.

The flavors of Hết Sẩy are a creative blend of the Mekong Delta with DuyAn and Hieu’s own style. “When we opened this pop-up business, we realized the type of Vietnamese food that we do is a little bit different than what is normally [available] in Little Saigon,” said Hieu. Patrons who expect a certain set of well-known Vietnamese menu items may be surprised to see more hyper-regional dishes or something familiar with a unique twist. “We’re not saying that we’re doing phở, we’re saying we’re doing flavors of that region based on what we think—as creatives—to build something new,” Hieu clarified.

He emphasized that despite their creativity with the menu, their dishes shouldn’t be taken as cavalier or as fusion. “We take Vietnamese food very seriously…I think the idea is that we understand Southern Vietnamese flavor and the Mekong Delta flavor profile of Vietnamese food. And I think we have a good understanding of the flavor based upon growing up in those regions.”

While the menu varies based on the week and location, patrons can look out for savory dishes such as bún cá ri gà (grilled chicken served over bún curry noodle soup with roasted sweet potato) and bánh mì thịt kho tàu (braised pork belly and shoulder bánh mì with vegetables), and sweet bites such as bánh bò nước cốt dừa (steam coconut rice cake with toasted sesame seeds.) DuyAn and Hieu take pride in using local produce in many of their dishes, bringing a taste of California while still respecting the authentic regional flavors. They are excited to continue growing their following and finding innovative ways to serve the flavors of their home. C 79

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Vân-Ánh Võ Music is more of a crusade than a career

T

he world’s preeminent virtuoso of Southeast Asia’s most exotic musical instruments lives in your backyard; a career spanning 25 years culminated in January when she invited fellow virtuosos of Asia’s exotic instruments for a firstever showcase.

An El Cerrito resident, wife, and mother to two college-age daughters, Vân-Ánh Võ has dedicated her life to mastering the đàn tranh (a distinctly Vietnamese 16-string zither), which has taken her around the world and garnered an Emmy Award, an Oscar nomination, collaborations with world-class musicians, an appearance on NPR’s Tiny Desk, and a TEDx talk.

Vân-Ánh says, with all humility, that she was quite the celebrity, a media darling in Vietnam, trained and groomed in Western and

traditional Southeast Asian music when she was sent as a cultural ambassador to a more diplomatically agreeable United States in 1995. “I still had a big cultural shock from being [well-known] in Vietnam as the number one champion of Vietnamese instruments, but [upon arriving in America], I was zero. I was no one.”

Vân-Ánh studied and mastered scales, chords, notes, and theory between ages 4 and 15. She spent years studying Western classical luminaries such as Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and Haydn, but nothing about traditional Vietnamese music or instruments. She sought masters of traditional Vietnamese music and instruments, but the first obstacle was that she wasn’t from any master’s family.

The master/apprentice

Written by William Jeske Photography Supplied by Vân-Ánh Võ vananhvo.com Instagram vanessavananhvo

Opposite page image by Nguyen Nhat Hoang 81

system in Vietnam is traditionally reserved for immediate family. The first master she approached declined. “He said he didn’t want to teach me, but he didn’t say I couldn’t come to his home. So, every few days I would come to his house and stay to listen to him play music with his friends. But I couldn’t touch the instruments; he wouldn’t teach me anything whatsoever. I just did some chores at his home and just like that, three years passed and he accepted me.”

Ultimately, other masters taught her the đàn bầu (a one-stringed, or monochord, zither) and the đàn t’rung (an upright bamboo xylophone she nicknamed “the skeleton”).

Though Vân-Ánh, an American citizen, is now a master, she says she wouldn’t place such austere restrictions on any pupil that possessed “a heart to learn,” even if she lived in Vietnam.

Vân-Ánh admits she arrived in America under more agreeable conditions— political, cultural, and economical—than the refugees, the “boat people,” who arrived in the late 1970s. “They had to leave their country to avoid the

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consequences of war, and I came here with everything that my husband already had: the house, the good job.”

Vân-Ánh isn’t particularly interested in telling her story; she’d rather tell your family’s story, especially if they’ve lost and fought and struggled and survived the seemingly insurmountable.

At the invitation to compose for San Francisco’s Kronos Quartet in 2011, she spent four months in Vietnam traveling the entire country’s width interviewing survivors about how war affected them. Then for two years, beginning in 2014, Vân-Ánh interviewed Vietnamese “boat people.” She says, “I found out, just hearing stories from friends—and their stories were so inspiring—I found out their strength and resilience and hope to surpass the most difficult time in [their] life. They survived storms, pirates, starvation.”

Many of the people she interviewed came out of that to become successful contributors to America. They came here with nothing, some losing their families at sea.

They created a new home and a new life and contributed to a stronger America. “Stories like that should be heard,” VânÁnh says. “I feel like whatever

“There was one elderly woman who came to me after the concert, sobbing. She said that she thought she would never hear the đàn tranh and other traditional instruments live again after 20 years.”

difficulties that I might have are nothing compared to what they already went through. If they could make it, then I had better [make it], stand up and find strength; and if that helps me, then maybe it can help others.” This became her 2016 multimedia suite Odyssey: From Vietnam to America.

Recently, Vân-Ánh and her Blood Moon Orchestra performed at Stanford for the world premiere, firstof-its-kind, all Asian zither performance. “When you talk about [the] zither of Asia, then you have to talk about all four of them.”

Harps of Asia involved her đàn tranh, a Japanese Koto, a Korean Gayagum, and a Chinese Guzheng.

Harps of Asia is a decadesoverdue love letter to her homeland’s traditional instruments; their sounds evoke history and heritage.

The đàn tranh’s true effect became Vân-Ánh’s calling when she met those who almost forgot what they lost—a calling to reunite the exiled with their home. “After one of my performances at the Oakland Museum in 1995, there was one elderly woman who came to me after the concert, sobbing. She said that she thought she would never hear the đàn tranh and other traditional instruments live again after 20 years.” C

Background image by Nguyen Nhat Hoang.

Oppsite page and upper right images by Le Tuan.

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Lolah

After a musical restart stateside, Ha Nguyen admits that full-time musicianship and motherhood have brought new clarity to her craft.

Written by Brandon Roos Photography by Arabela Espinoza lolahentertainment.com Instagram lolahentertainment

Musician Ha Nguyen, aka “LOLAH”

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“Before I was a mother, it was about me. ‘I want to share my story, and I want people to hear my feelings.’ Now, I want my songs to be helpful.”

I

n her earliest musical memory, Ha Nguyen felt like a rock star, foreshadowing the adoring crowds to come. Standing atop her bed, holding a broom like a guitar, she closed her eyes and was instantly on stage, performing in front of thousands.

From that moment, she knew she wanted to be a performer.

For nearly a decade, she toured her native Vietnam, pursuing that dream as part of two female-centric rock bands. She arrived in America unsure if she’d ever perform again but has been methodically building the next phase of her career stateside. Since 2021, she’s released a steady flow of singles under the moniker LOLAH. In mid-2024, Ha launched a new band, LOLAH and the Travelers, and admits she loves returning to a more communal creative experience.

“I love that we have three songwriters. I love the fact that we all want to do big shows, and we have a vision for the band,” she says. “Echos of Deception,” released digitally in early November, is evidence of a new-found cohesion, crunchy guitars, and a driving backbeat carrying into an anthem-like chorus. It may have taken years, but she’s back on stage sharing her love for rock music.

Growing up in Long Xuyên, a town of nearly 300,000 in south-western Vietnam, Ha first saw concert footage at the tail end of Hong Kong soap operas on VHS tapes her family rented.

She took piano and vocal lessons as a child, but finally realized her dream of learning guitar when she moved to Saigon to go to dental school. She was the only female student under the tutelage of “Master Chau,” who opened a new world to Ha when he called Vietnamese pop music cheesy and began teaching her iconic rock songs like Deep Purple’s “Smoke on the Water” and “I Hate Myself For Loving You” by Joan Jett & the Blackhearts.

Soon, Ha was all rock and roll.

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In search of more rock music, she began frequenting a Saigon music store owned by the bassist of UnlimiteD, one of the biggest rock bands in the city. He wanted to start an all-girl rock band and invited Ha to join. In 2006, Lazee Dolls was formed.

“The first show [we played] was an audience of 3,000. We would play for colleges. We played for TV shows, and we joined contests,” she shares of her time in the band. A personnel shakeup a few years later led the band to change its name to White Noiz. At the height of their success, the band built a circuit of club gigs scattered throughout the country. But juggling the band with her dental practice post-graduation proved difficult.

“We went through a lot of member changes. I burned bridges.

I got mad. I lost control. I got depressed,” she remembers of the final days of White Noiz in the mid-2010s. At the time, she was also dealing with her first stint of writer’s block and was scared she’d never be able to write music again. While it took years to be at peace with the band dissolving, she says writing the lyrics to her 2021 single “Back in Time” helped her process her feelings: “Time flies, several years gone by / not too long to forget, but enough to believe that it’s over.”

By this time, her entire family had immigrated to the US. They urged her to join them. “I was the last one in Vietnam. I had so much fun in Saigon, until it wasn’t fun anymore,” she recalls with a laugh. She moved to San Jose in 2017. “I forgot about everything. I missed playing music, but on the other side, I had my family.”

As fate would have it, her music career got an unexpected re-start during a job interview. “[The interviewer] found out I was a singer and said, ‘This job is not for you, but I used to do shows, so I’m going to sponsor you to play at this show,’ ” she recalls. Her first American performance was inside the Chùa Di Lặc Buddhist Temple on Story Road. Performances started to pick up, but it was hard not comparing the crowds to the larger rooms she played in Vietnam. She remembers busking at San Jose Jazz Summer Fest, earning only the tips she received from passers-by. “It taught me to let go of ego,” she notes of the experience, adding that being a full-time musician has brought a new sense of humility to every opportunity to perform.

Another shift for her music? Motherhood. “Before I was a mother, it was about me. ‘I want to share my story, and I want people to hear my feelings.’ Now, I want my songs to be helpful.”

Despite the starts and stops to her career, she has a quick answer when asked why she plays music: “I love it.” After a beat, she elaborates. “When you play music, it’s healing. When you write a song, you get to say things that would be weird to say, and you can share your feelings in a creative way. When I play for people and I see that I make them happy, I feel great too.” C

86 Connect 17.2

“When you play music, it’s healing. When you write a song, you get to say things that would be weird to say, and you can share your feelings in a creative way. When I play for people and I see that I make them happy, I feel great too.”

87

CONTRIBUTORS The production of CONTENT MAGAZINE would not be possible without the talented writers, editors, graphic artists, and photographers who contribute to each issue. We thank you and are proud to provide a publication to display your work. We are also thankful for the sponsors and readers who have supported this magazine through sponsorships and memberships.

Be a part of the CONTENT community.

Contact us at:

editor@content-magazine.com

NATE LEBLANC Nate is a music writer, podcaster, and regular guy rap enthusiast from San Jose, California.

DR. HIEN DO Dr. Do is a professor of sociology and interdisciplinary social sciences specializing in Asian American Studies at San José State University.

MEGHAN LEE Meghan is a writer based in the Bay Area.

Her work spans a range of topics, from education and politics to arts and culture.

TRINH MAI Trinh is a Bay Area–based illustrator and graphic designer, originally from Vietnam.

She has enjoyed drawing since a young age and continues to love it to this day. She is now working toward turning her passion into a career as a packaging designer.

DEMONE CARTER Demone is an award-winning hip-hop artist, podcaster, and creative catalyst who works to foster inclusion within the Bay Area’s arts ecosystem.

Instagram: meghanlee.pdf

Instagram: dadbodrappod

Instagram: trixiedestyle

COVER ART This issue’s cover image is Mom and Me by Vĩ Sơn Trinh. Read Taran Escobar-Ausman’s inteview with Vĩ Sơn on page 60.

DAVID MA David is a longtime music journalist whose work has been featured in Rolling Stone, NPR, The Paris Review, Complex, Wax Poetics and more. He’s a professor at San José State University, co-hosts Dad Bod Rap Pod, and is part owner of Needle to the Groove Records. He writes from the Bay. Instagram: nerdtorious__

STEPHANIE BARAJAS Stephanie is a San Jose-based Mexican immigrant, performer, photographer, and arts administrator. She holds a BA in Theatre from USC and is a proud alum of the NALAC Leadership Institute and the Multicultural Arts Leadership Institute.

Instagram: stephroars

C 88 Connect 17.2

creativityiscontagious, pass it on.

THROUGH JUNE 1, 2025

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Museum admission is FREE for youth, students, and teachers with ID

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Join the 30-day creative challenge every day in April

Our Creativity

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wecreate408.org @sjculture

#WECREATE408 Create & Share #WeCreate408 is an initiative of the San José Office of Cultural Affairs Giveaways for participation while supplies last. Terms and Conditions apply.

Photo credit: CreaTV, Ani & Cat Designs, and Suhita Shirodkar

CITY LIGHTS THEATER: INNOVATIVE. INTIMATE. INSPIRING.

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firstfridaysantacruz.com @firstfridaysantacruz pottery by Liz Mazurek

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A community gathering for SVCREATES grantee partners, designed and co-presented by SVCREATES and Collaborative Commons TUESDAY, APRIL 1 FROM 9:00AM - 2:00PM

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a view of the community art auction 2024 at works/san josé

make a bid for local art!

works/san josé’s community art auction! march 7 to april 5, 2025 hours: fridays 12-6 saturday sunday 12-4 auction gala april 5, 5pm 38 south 2nd street preview and register: www.workssanjose.org find us on ig and fb: @workssanjose build your collection and support community art!

a view of the community art auction 2023 at works/san josé works is nonprofit and is supported by individual donors and volunteers, and is funded, in part, by a grant from city of san josé office of cultural affairs, by sv creates, in partnership with the county of santa clara, by applied materials foundation, and eternally by the ray ashley trust. ad design by joe miller’s company.

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