After 27 years of separation, I am about to be reunited with my former-self. Reunion might be the wrong term, introduction may be more fitting. Back in the final days of 1976, the communists came and conquered the south. While they were setting up camp, my family quickly packed up for South-East India. With barely six months of living under my belt, Vietnam became more fairy tale than reality, a faint memory constructed by whispered stories told by my mother and father. In most cases, six months can’t be really considered a serious relationship, but this one was special. Child and place of birth holds a special bond, it means something.

It was near the end of winter, and the year 1981.

After a brief dalliance with India, we moved to Ottawa, Canada. France, Germany, Australia, and the US were all in the running, but a little known frozen patch of land was our choice. My father, my mother, my brother, my sister and my aunt. We came to Canada to start over, in the very serious sense of that term. So, we struggled, learned and lived. A funny thing happened along the way, we became Canadians, and this land became home.

Now, it’s time to go back.

In 3 days, my father, my mother, my brother, my sister and my aunt and I (along with some new additions to the caravan) are all going back. 3 days! Back to Vietnam, the place where my formal knowledge was cultivated by a handful of family stories and a collection of Hollywood movies. All preconceived notions will be challenged. Many things have changed since we have left, but this is still the land where my ancestors roamed. I will share the same air that they once breathed.

It will be the first time that I would meet my mother’s family. I will hold them for the first time, share food with them, and hear stories straight from their mouths. Make no mistake, this is a monumental moment in my life. I do not take this lightly, this is big. It will act as a pivotal time in my own history, a necessary event that will propel me towards the next stage of my life.