It begins, as many rebellions do, with something small. A kettle whistles. A hand reaches for a ceramic cup. The clink of porcelain, the scent of bergamot, the hum of conversation at a volume that does not require raising one’s voice. Somewhere in Orange County, a grown woman is hosting a tea party, and it is not ironic.

The return of the tea party among adults may seem, at first glance, like an indulgence in nostalgia: lace doilies, cucumber sandwiches, a brief flirtation with the trappings of an imagined Edwardian leisure. But spend an hour in the hushed, leaf-scented glow of such a gathering, and something else emerges. This is not regression. It’s resistance.

Tea parties have always been about more than tea. In the Victorian era, they were a sanctioned space for women to hold court, discuss politics (obliquely, of course), and perform domestic grace with sharpened edges. In today’s iteration, the performance is gentler, less prescribed. The modern tea party trades status for presence. There is no DJ, no signature cocktail, no pressure to network. Just warm liquids, eye contact, and, occasionally, cake. There is definitely no talk of politics. The hostess once said, “If all my friends talked about politics, I would have no friends left.” So… no politics.

This is not to say tea parties are inherently profound. They can be frivolous, even fussy. But that’s precisely their charm. In a world calibrated for optimization, the act of steeping loose leaves, of ironing napkins, of preparing food too small to be practical—feels like a deliberate reclaiming of the inefficient.

There was no formal menu, no spreadsheet or signup sheet, and yet everything arrived as if preordained. A fancy cake from 85°C Bakery with a smooth lavender fondant. A plate of finger pastries arranged like a constellation. Each guest brought a dish—not out of obligation, but out of care, the kind that says: I thought of you while boiling this jam. The host, meanwhile, had conjured a setting so improbable it felt like a dream remembered from childhood. A table in the garden, draped in linen the color of antique postcards, flanked by thrifted chairs and the rustle of nearby leaves. China cups with gold rims caught the sun in uneven flashes. Everything matched, from the china down to the flowers in the garden. This was not a potluck; it was a quiet choreography of intention. The food was imperfect. The setting was curated. The moment—like the tea—was warm, generous, and wholly unnecessary. Which is to say: perfect.

The adult tea party is not a lifestyle brand or a call to tradition. It is, more often, a soft refusal: of noise, of urgency, of the transactional nature that has come to define so much adult interaction. It is a space where stillness is not awkward, where silence can steep.

Whether it lasts an hour or an afternoon, the tea party offers an elusive intimacy—one that asks only that you show up, sit down, and pour.

Note 1: We forgot garden music! I think that would really add to our ambiance. I love the classical takes on modern songs… like the Bridgerton soundtrack!

Note 2: No images are AI-generated. Yes… that’s really our tea party!

Child Wants a Coffee

If I walked into a Vietnamese café and wanted to order, I wouldn’t know how to say, “May I please get one coffee to-go?” I might say, “Child wants a coffee.”

Generations

On average, it takes 2 to 3 generations for a family to lose strong ties to their homeland and cultural identity—unless active steps are taken to preserve them. Cultural loss is not inevitable, but it is likely without intention. 

First-generation immigrants often hold tightly to their homeland. They speak the language, observe cultural rituals, and maintain close ties.

Their children—the second generation—are usually born or raised in the new country. They might be bilingual and bicultural, but they often feel pressure to assimilate. Cultural practices shift. Traditions are selectively passed down.

By the third generation, many speak only the dominant language and feel distant from ancestral customs.

Sociologists often refer to the “three-generation model” (sometimes called the “third-generation rule”) which observes that:

“What the son wishes to forget, the grandson wishes to remember.”
— Marcus Lee Hansen, historian

Yellow-Americans

You know what’s funny? In Vietnamese, a white United Statesian is called “Mỹ trắng.” A black United Satesian is called “Mỹ đen.” There isn’t a word for a Vietnamese or Asian person born and raised as an American. I once asked my mom, “Wouldn’t I just be Mỹ vàng,’ then?” She laughed knowing that maybe I would be the one who coined this word.

In Vietnamese, a white American is sometimes called “Mỹ trắng” (literally white American) and a Black American “Mỹ đen” (literally black American). But what about someone like me—Vietnamese by ethnicity, but born and raised entirely in the U.S.? One day I asked my mother, “Wouldn’t I be ‘Mỹ vàng’ then?” (literally yellow American) She laughed. I might be the first to coin it.

There is actually another word, “Việt Kiều,” which means “Overseas Vietnamese.” I have been told it is an outdated word.

There isn’t actually a term—no tidy phrase for Vietnamese Americans born here— and that says something. It reflects the tension between being “from” somewhere and being seen as always a bit foreign.

I lean just a bit more American than Vietnamese. (Actually, a lot more). My dad once told me, “Your grandma is Vietnamese, you’re just American.” It was in a joking kind of way, but I think somewhere in the back of his mind, there would be some time in my life that I would lose my Vietnamese identity completely.

This search for a word—any word—that captures who I am linguistically and culturally, reveals the bigger question: what happens when language can’t catch up with identity?

Note: “Yellow-American” is not an appropriate phrase in English. 

Hay quá! Hay quá!

Any non-Vietnamese speaker who married into my family would do their best to learn a few polite phrases in Vietnamese. And the response they would always get is “Hay quá! Hay quá!” (“So good! So good!). But here’s the thing—Vietnamese has no exact word for “good” the way English does. A child being obedient, a person doing well in school, a magical performance—these all require different descriptors. When someone says “Hay quá!” after hearing you attempt Vietnamese, it’s like clapping for a great performance. It recognizes effort, not perfection. And it always makes me smile.

Pronouns, Titles and Third-Person

What I learned in Vietnamese is that everyone has a title. I don’t mean for it to sound fancy, but I was never taught to use pronouns. In English, whomever I am speaking to is “you,” and I would always refer to myself as “me.” That really isn’t a part of the Vietnamese vocabulary. There is “toi,” which is kind of formal, kind of informal, but definitely not familiar. And a really funny thing I learned watching Vietnamese Masterchef… “you” is “bạn” …which literally means “friend,” whether or not you’re friends. That’s always bugged me, because being a worldly traveler myself, I’ve come to learn that whenever you start hearing someone call you, “My friend! My friend!” Run.

So, I learned that we speak in 3rd person and everyone has a title (kind of). I don’t mean a title like Sir Elton John. But we all get some sort of title. For example, I am my parents’ child, so they call me “child,” and they would call themselves “mom” and “dad.” There is no “you” or “me.” Here’s an example (if my mom and I spoke Vietnamese with each other):

Mom: Hello, Child! Is Child hungry?

Me: No Mom, Child is not hungry.

Mom: Are you sure, Child? Mom can make Child something to eat.

Me: Child does not need Mom to make anything. Child is not hungry.

Yes… you read that right. No matter how old I get, I will still call myself “child” when speaking to my mom…

It sounds absurd in English. But in Vietnamese, it’s natural. The structure reflects hierarchy, respect, and relationships. You always know where you stand with someone—literally, by the word you use for them.

How Fluent is Fluent?

In my opinion, true fluency in a language goes far beyond everyday conversation. You aren’t truly fluent until you can understand legal jargon, follow a president’s State of the Union address—whether it’s inspiring or laced with propaganda—or make sense of a scientific report or complex medical terminology. By that standard, the only person I know who is truly fluent is my mom.

Generation 2.5

I will probably never be fluent in Vietnamese. I can speak bits of it, but I don’t consider myself bilingual. I can’t read legal documents, I can’t follow debates, and I can’t switch registers the way fluent speakers can. I don’t even speak “Vietlish,” the casual mix of Vietnamese and English some families use. Mine didn’t teach me slang or informal speech. I learned phrases for meals, birthdays, and ceremonies—not for daily life.

So when someone asks, “Do you speak Vietnamese?” I say, “Not really.” I know words. I don’t know jokes. I know titles. I don’t know the language the way it lives and breathes.

And yet, I feel tied to it. I’m part of that in-between generation. Not quite second-generation, not quite third. Maybe 2.5. We exist in a gap—not fluent in the language of our ancestors, and never fully embraced by the country they left behind. But we carry the sounds. The laughter. The echo of what was almost lost.

That’s the funny thing about being 2.5 generations removed: you feel both close and far, fluent and frozen, local and foreign—all at once.

And sometimes, you just want a coffee. Even if you have to ask for it like a child.

*The image of a woman with a coffee is AI-generated