Last night, I had the privilege of being invited to watch New Wave, a documentary by Elizabeth Ai, and it left me deeply moved in ways I never expected. What began as a story about the Vietnamese American New Wave music scene of the 1980s quickly evolved into something much more profound—an excavation of generational trauma, survival, and the unseen burdens our families carry.
At its core, New Wave is a film about music, rebellion, and cultural identity. But it is also about the weight of unspoken histories. The uncles and aunts who snuck out to underground clubs, drowning out the echoes of war with synthesized beats, weren’t just rebellious teenagers—they were survivors. They were young people navigating adolescence while carrying the invisible scars of their parents’ sacrifices. Ai’s journey to document this vibrant subculture ultimately leads her to confront her own family’s wounds, particularly her estrangement from her mother.
Watching this film, I found myself unraveling emotions I didn’t even realize I had. I had long forgiven and granted grace to my father before he passed, though I regret never telling him that I had. I understood that he was not his sickness—alcoholism—but I never considered the depth of trauma and survivor’s guilt he must have carried. He was the only one in his family who escaped the Vietnam War, a fate determined simply because he was the only son. His family feared he would be drafted, so they sent him away. That thought never fully occurred to me until Ai said in the film, “I grew up in a house full of people with undiagnosed PTSD from surviving the war.” That line hit me like a gut punch.
Another moment that broke me was Ian Nguyen’s reflection on his father, expressing that he felt like his dad hated him. While I always believed my dad loved me, I never thought he liked me much. That quiet ache of seeking approval, of wanting to be seen beyond the weight of expectations and unspoken pains, resonated so strongly. New Wave ripped me apart, not in a way that left me empty, but in a way that forced me to sit with a truth I had never fully acknowledged: my parents were also just trying to survive.
Growing up as a young Vietnamese girl in a predominantly white small town, I was preoccupied with my own survival, my own need to assimilate. I never had the bandwidth to consider that my parents were doing the same—except they were young adults who had fled war, arrived in a foreign country, and had to start over with nothing. I used to think they had it all figured out, but now that I’m older than they were when they immigrated, I have so much more grace for the fact that they were winging it, too.
There’s also a bittersweet irony that makes me smile. I know if my mom watched New Wave, she would see Elizabeth Ai’s strained relationship with her mother and joke, “At least I’m not that bad,” using humour to deflect, to cope. And to be clear—my mom was always present. She is the best person I know. But still, the echoes of generational pain linger in ways that are both deeply personal and eerily universal.
I find myself torn between wanting to recommend this film to my mom and wanting to protect her from the emotional weight of reflecting on her own experience as a boat person. It’s a beautiful, devastating, necessary film—one I may never watch again because I cried too hard. But I am grateful for it, for the way it made me more empathetic to my parents, for the way it forced me to hold space for their struggles in a way I never had before.
I once heard a saying that stuck with me: It ran in my family until it ran into me.
New Wave reminded me of that truth. And for that, I’ll carry it with me forever.
