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A memoir tucked inside my grandparents’ dusty armoire changed how I understood my own identity. In “The Unwanted,” Kien Nguyen recounts growing up in wartime Vietnam as the son of an American soldier and a Vietnamese woman—and enduring racism because he was mixed-race.

His experiences horrified me, but they also made me recognize how fortunate I was not to face such open hostility over my appearance. My struggle was quieter and largely internal: the fear that relatives or peers might see me as neither American enough nor Asian enough.

That insecurity eventually spread beyond race. I became overly critical of myself, unwilling to allow the same mistakes and imperfections I readily accepted in others.

My mother’s Vietnamese family is large, with aunts, uncles and cousins living in Paris, Switzerland, London, California and the Washington area. My father’s American relatives live in Maine and Connecticut. Growing up with family scattered across so many places exposed me to different cultures early, but understanding those cultures did not always give me a sense of belonging.

As a child, I attended chùa, or temple, with my Ông and Bà—my grandparents. We traveled through the narrow streets of Northwest Washington until the temple’s red turrets came into view.

Its green courtyard was filled with sculpted bonsai and white lotuses that seemed to bloom even during heavy rain. A pale stone Buddha stood at the center. Nearby was the monk’s townhouse, with long patterned carpets and bowls of fruit inside.

During prayer, I sat with my knees folded beneath me, my bare feet brushing a worn rug. Ash fell onto my fingers from the red incense stick held between my hands, while rain striking the tin roof became a soothing rhythm. The temple was where I felt most peaceful.

Afterward, we drove about 30 minutes to Eden Center in Falls Church. The Vietnamese shopping and dining complex became a second home to my grandparents and, eventually, to me.

My childhood memories of Eden Center glow with the smell of bánh bao, illuminated “open” signs and karaoke drifting from deep inside the mall. We often ate at Rice Paper, where I nearly always ordered coconut juice and Bún Chả Hanoi, a dish of vermicelli noodles, rice paper and marinated pork.

Later, as the sun dropped, we bought boba or fish-shaped red bean cakes. I swung between my parents’ hands, made faces with my brother and followed my grandparents through the grocery aisles.

I could not order food in Vietnamese or read the labels inside the stores. Still, Eden Center gave me a feeling of connection that fluency alone could not define.

Because I had never visited Vietnam, Eden Center felt almost like a dream of the country: energetic rows of pho and banh mi restaurants, racks of áo dài, Buddha figurines and businesses offering everything from custom jewelry to dry cleaning. Restaurants, beauty salons, retailers, grocery stores, medical providers and financial services shared the same commercial community.

The center was created shop by shop by business owners who brought their memories of Vietnam to America. But as I grew older, I understood that Eden Center was not a replica of Vietnam. It was its own place—a Vietnamese American community with distinct traditions and a diverse population.

That realization helped me see myself differently. Just as Eden Center developed an identity of its own, my experience of America does not have to match either of my parents’ experiences. It belongs to me and has been shaped by what it means to grow up biracial.

I may never speak Vietnamese fluently or reproduce the intonation of a Northern accent, but I understand much of what I hear. I love the sound of my Bà speaking and the mixture of French, English and Vietnamese my mother uses with my grandparents.

I may not appear fully Vietnamese, but I carry the lessons my mother and grandparents taught me about family, well-being, humility and perseverance. I may not always relate to the American traditions I see in my friends’ homes, but I understand what it means to grow up in a constantly shifting cultural environment. I also treasure the classic American movies and music my father introduced to me.

I no longer believe I must choose one racial box over another. Multicultural identity does not require subtracting one part of myself to make room for another. Being biracial allows me to belong within the cultural world I have always known—both Vietnamese and American.

I am still learning about the cultures that shaped me, and my identity continues to evolve. Being half of each does not make me incomplete. It makes me full of tradition, discovery, family, ancestry and, finally, love for myself.