What am I?

My name is Vibol. I was born in a little village, near a city you’ve probably never heard of - Battambang - but I was adopted by parents who you probably have: Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie.

I am Khmer (said like K’mai). People who don’t know anything would call me “Koo-mare,” and people who know less than nothing would call me “Cambodian.”

Well, I was Khmer. My parents are rich and famous - so famous that I probably don’t even need to explain to you who they are. I would just be explaining what you already know.

I live in California, where a lot of the famous Americans live. Some say that living in California is like living in Kampuchea. A lot of Khmer people chose to live here after they fled their home country years ago. But I don’t think it’s the same.

I should stop for a second and explain that word. In English, most people call the country “Cambodia,” but I don’t. In the actual country, in the actual language, it’s called “Kampuchea,” so that’s what I call it - even if I don’t live there.

The only reason it’s called “Cambodia” is because the French rulers came and couldn’t pronounce the name, so they just called it “Cambodge,” and then a hundred years later the dumb Americans came and couldn’t pronounce the French name, so they just called it, “Cambodia.” Just like that CAM-BOW-DIYA. You can imagine their dumb accent, I’m sure: “HOWDOOYADOO?

Kampuchea’s not that hard to say, so let’s just call it that, yeah? Living in America, I can tell you, they can sure as hell pronounce Vietnam.

Maybe I’m taking this naming thing too personally. I actually lied to you. We’re not even done with the first page of this, and I lied to you. My name isn’t Vibol. It was Vibol, and then it was changed, without my permission, to another name: Maddox.

Perhaps the history of Vibol and the history of Kampuchea have something in common.

I know, I know. Almost all people tell me to feel lucky I was taken away from Kampuchea, by a rich and famous family. Feeling lucky isn’t as simple as that, though.

When a man on the other side of the world goes to a funeral, it affects me the same as if he went to a party. All that any of us ever feel is our own feelings. We never get to feel another person’s feelings. Or I don’t know - maybe we do.

My parents both make movies, and they’ve called movies “empathy machines,” because they tell me they allow us to feel another person’s feelings. I’m not so sure. It could be another trick, just like everything else in movies: fake guns, fake hair, fake accents, fake explosions, CGI dinosaurs.

So, when people call me, Maddox, and tell me I should feel lucky - of course they’re right. On the whole, I am lucky. Of course, the people back where I was born work much harder than I have ever had to work, and of course they have less opportunities than I have. However, when I visit Kampuchea, I feel a deep relief in seeing all these faces that look like mine, but I also feel a deep terror from the disconnect I feel to them.

I return to America, feeling less Khmer and less American.

Do you know what should also make you feel lucky? Not having to wonder about the question: “What am I?”

Ask someone in Kampuchea, and they give me an answer in no time: Chônchéatĕ Khmêr Amérĭkăng (ជនជាតិខ្មែរអាមេរិកាំង). Asking someone in America, they’ll give me an answer just as fast: Cambodian American.

Neither answer makes me happy. “So, Vibol / Maddox, to make you happy, what would have to happen?” I can hear you ask. The truth is that I don’t know what making me happy would truly look like. But, I think, at the core of it: I just don’t want to have to think about it. I don’t want to have to think about the whole thing - about what I ‘am.’

You there! Yes, you, reading this sentence now: have you ever asked yourself, “what am I?” or do you just live in a country where your race and culture dominates the whole place, and have never had to think about it?

That’s what I want - an empty head. Trust me, I see plenty of those in America.

People like to give me advice. They say, “Maddox, just don’t think about it. Your race doesn’t define you!” Yeah, that thought had never occurred to me before.

What’s going on in my head is only half the struggle, anyhow. Even if I ‘fixed’ my thinking, the rest of the world is going to see what they see. In America, where less than 0.1% of the people are of Khmer ancestry: they just call me “Asian” - “Southeast Asian” if they’re feeling generous. And in Kampuchea, I might as well be a barang (បារាំង), which is the word in Khmer used to refer to foreigners.

Speaking of stupid words, like “Cambodia,” “barang” is equally stupid. It literally just means “French person,” and since for a long time the only white people that Khmer people saw were French, they just call anyone with white skin “French.” Like I said: stupid.

But, this is what you deal with: people see what they see. You don’t get to change that. Some ‘barang’ could have grown up in Phnom Penh (perhaps he was adopted by a famous movie star like me), with Khmer as his native language - and never spoken a word of French in his life - but he’s still just a barang in Kampuchea. He doesn’t get to decide.

Just like that Khmer ‘barang,’ I don’t get to decide. In America, I’m “Cambodian.” In Kampuchea, I’m “American.” And that’s it.

I can hear you now: “Okay, Vibol - Maddox - whatever your name is - what do you want to be seen as?” Oh, you dumb, dumb reader. You are so dumb for asking such a silly question. I don’t care what I’m seen as: I just want to belong. I want my community to accept me - to say that I’m one of them, just like the rest. I want my community to stop making me ask myself the question, “what am I,” because when I ask myself that question, of course what I am really asking myself is: “where do I belong?” – and anytime you stop and ask yourself that question, the answer is: “probably not here.”