I recall a scene from the recent movie, Joy Luck Club, the film adaptation of Amy Tan's best-selling book. In the scene, a Chinese-American mother and her "Americanized" daughter argue in a beauty salon over the minor details in life that seem trivial, but have the capability to cause squabbles and tears. The daughter curses at her mother and the absurdity of parental expectations for their children.

My God, the daughter sacrificed so much for her mother's contentment that she even married a Chinese man to please tradition (be that as it may, the unhappy marriage was resolved by divorce). A desperately hopeless argument that ended in laughs and reconciliation, the characters portrayed the essense of familial relationships (especially those between mothers and their children) -- that every family is in fact dysfunctional, and that what doesn't kill you will make you stronger. But, more specifically, aside from bringing Asian culture to the forefront of American popular cinema, Joy Luck Club evoked deeper revelations for me.

As an Asian-American woman, the film was more than nearly two hours of entertainment in a dark theater with buttered-popcorn floors and tall strangers who always manage to find a seat in front of you. Rather, the film was the cinematic expression of a sort of life that I have lived thus far, and of memories and histories that were not mine, but somehow, through birth and tradition, I inherited. I was being reminded of the vaguely present Asian culture that I was brought up with. Moreover, I was reminded of the fate that the Vietnam War had accorded me, removing me physically from my birthplace to find me growing up in America.

I was born in Saigon, two years before its historic fall. My parents knew that choosing to stay in Saigon would be choosing to die in Saigon. So, we left and somehow we ended up in New Jersey and lived the life of suburbanites in America.

My sister and I were raised in a town where family run corner stores sold candy for a nickel to kids. We were raised in a town where you could ride bikes and jump rope in the streets, and where people had yard sales on Saturday mornings. We were raised in a town where every family had a front porch, and every family was white.

We were one of the few nonwhite residents in Belleville, N.J., and my sister and I were the only Asian kids in its grade school classrooms. But, it didn't always matter to us that we were necessarily physically different -- that we had stick-straight black hair and parents who weren't part of the P.T.A. It didn't irk us that we were the only kids who didn't have grandmothers who knitted us Christmas presents and neighbors we hardly knew.

It didn't make us feel any bit inferior because we had Atari, roller skates, and Jordache jeans. And, because we watched "The Brady Bunch" and "Family Ties," ours was just like any other American family. It didn't feel any different until some mean kid called you "Chink" on the playground or until the boys didn't notice you in junior high because you looked different. Surely, something was missing in our upbringing. Weren't we growing up American just like all the other kids?

Apparently not. My sister and I may have gone to the same schools and worn the same clothes, but when we came home, we ate rice with chopsticks and spoke Vietnamese with our parents. As a child, I thought that I was being deprived of being normal -- just like the other kids.

It wasn't fair that any child be different, when fitting in was the most important thing you could do in elementary school, and being popular was the ultimate goal in high school. Sometimes, I would wish myself white. I would wish myself more "American." But, in retrospect, I realize that what I had wished most of all was to not be Vietnamese; to not be Asian-American. How can you truly be American when you have that prefix attached to you?

What Joy Luck Club reminded me of was that I had not been deprived of being mainstream American, but that I had denied my history and roots. Instead of embracing the language and culture of my parents, I spoke timidly and adopted pop culture. But what makes me saddest now is not the act of denial, but the fact of shame. I was ashamed that I was from Vietnam, and ashamed that I was not like the kids in the neighborhood. I felt shame that my parents were not Americanized and that they spoke English with accents telling others that we were not American.

But, somehow as we "grow up," we learn something in the process. As we all try to be part of a greater something, be it a fraternity, social clique, university population or grade school playground, we lose something in the meanwhile. Granted, there is nothing wrong or superficial about assimilation, for we are all members of a social world. But more importantly, it is a sad reality when we fail to know ourselves, and for some of us, that entails disowning our cultural roots. There's a reason they're called "roots," too. It's because they're the foundation, the source, the origin of our selves.

Put simply, it's all right to be proud of your individuality, regardless of whether or not its fashionable. Forget about the "diversity bandwagon" -- don't jump on it if you don't feel you belong. But, at the same time, challenge yourself and remember what makes you unique, and harness its strength.