Twenty-one years ago, my father guided my mother, who was two months pregnant, through makeshift tunnels amid the ruins of Saigon.

My mother described her fear as she saw the smoke that curled in the distance as bombs whistled by, shaking the ground.

Exactly 21 years ago today, from aboard a ship that would sail them away from Vietnam's communist regime, my parents heard via radio that their country was gone.

They have told me that by escaping by ship, the threat of Thai pirate invasions loomed. Worse yet was the fear of being found by the Viet Cong.

In the evacuation, they left their house, sugarcane fields, my father's position as professor at a prestigious university, friends, a wedding dress, a mother and brothers.

They abandoned everything they knew for a better life in a foreign country, one that had clean houses, big stores and better education.

Born in New Hampshire in late 1975, I escaped all of this. Except for a few traditional practices, I have been reared American.

All I know is what I hear at family reunions, with oral vignettes describing the horrors of their escape.

I hear about the sugarcubes they used to sustain their vitality on the ship where water and rice were scarce. I hear about how they struggled to carry one suitcase apiece filled with their tangible lives in photographs, clothing and a gold necklace. These would only be left behind or exchanged for currency or food once they arrived in America.

But 21 years later, my parents and other relatives, who also left in 1975, have resettled in the United States.

I couldn't help but feel apprehensive this weekend as I drove home to Phoenix to meet my paternal uncle who just arrived in America last Tuesday, 21 years after my father, his brother, did. He is the last of my family to leave Vietnam.

For all of my 20 years, he has always been known to me as "Ch£ Ti in Vietnam." I wasn't sure how he would react to a niece who is practically all-American at heart.

It's odd finding my uncle's family, my parents, siblings and myself, all at varying levels of assimilation when we all share the same blood.

While my aunt struggles with a Windex spray bottle and English, and my uncle balks at my coming home "late" at 12:15 a.m., my parents have just come to terms with my career choice as a reporter and interracial dating.

While I consider myself fully American, I cannot ignore my distinctly Asian features that constantly remind me of my heritage, and my parents' and relatives' lives in Vietnam.

Facing my "new" relatives, I felt I was coming face-to-face with my roots - my heritage in its purest form - rather than the 14-karat, Americanized Vietnamese my parents have become.

I wondered what my parents had been like before America became a part of their lives. I wondered if they had been like my uncle.

I cannot imagine the lost feeling my mother describes - the helplessness and frustration of starting over in a new country.

Growing up, I watched my proud, intellectual father read volumes and volumes of English grammar books and listen to English lessons on tape. Although his English is virtually flawless, I know he regrets having a slight accent.

I remember the store clerks who drummed their fingers and rolled their eyes when my mother could not correctly pronounce a word.

"It's frustrate. I know the word, but I cannot say it right," my mother tells me, half in Vietnamese, half in English.

I admire my parents for their resilience.

Now, 21 years later, I can see the cycle begin again with my uncle.

Ch£ Ti was a doctor in Vietnam. He must shed that title here. Approaching 50, it is too late for him to relearn Western medical practices. Instead, he must save college money for his three children, who are 19, 14 and 11 years old.

My mother and father sacrificed everything for me, my sister and young brother to "fit into" American culture. I have no doubt that my uncle will give that much also.

My 19-year-old cousin, who is still in Vietnam recovering from tuberculosis, will take the Test of English as a Second Language when he arrives later this year. Afterward, he will enroll in college.

To me, his opportunities have grown. But perhaps to him, leaving home - and the language, teaching style, culture and life that he has known for 19 years - may mean his options have shrunk dramatically.

I look at my life: born and raised American and Vietnamese. Although there are still times when I question my identity, I feel lucky to know my heritage, to understand Vietnamese and the customs.

I am proud that my parents raised me with their values, those I hope to pass on to my children.

I am glad to be straddling a cultural fence, where the grass is green on both sides.

Hanh Quach is a news reporter for the Arizona Daily Wildcat and a journalism and women's studies junior.