Born of two lands, belonging to neither

Children of wars hoping to enact citizenship bill

Randy Tran, a pop singer, spoke with a fan backstage. Tran is working to pass a bill that would grant automatic citizenship to Amerasians born during the Korean and Vietnamese wars. (RANDI LYNN BEACH/LOS ANGELES TIMES)

WASHINGTON - Randy Tran walked quickly past the majestic domes and marble statues of Capitol Hill, looking for the Cannon House Office building and the people he believed could help him.

Tran, a Vietnamese pop singer who lives in a San Francisco Bay Area suburb and sleeps on a friend's couch, flew 2,900 miles to be in Washington. He rehearsed what he wanted to say. His English was not perfect. He was afraid he would have just a few minutes to make his case.

He had a 3 p.m. appointment in the office of a Wisconsin representative. He was not exactly sure what Representative F. James Sensenbrenner did, but he was certain that he could help untangle a political process that had ensnared him and thousands like him.

Tran came to Washington on behalf of abandoned children of American soldiers and Vietnamese women, born during the Vietnam War and, like him, seeking citizenship in the country their fathers fought for.

Called Amerasians, many were left to grow up in the rough streets and rural rice fields of Vietnam where they stood out, looked different, were taunted as "dust of life."

Most were brought to the United States 20 years ago after Congress passed the Amerasian Homecoming Act, which allowed the children of American soldiers living in Vietnam to immigrate. But citizenship was not guaranteed, and today about half of the estimated 25,000 Amerasians living in the United States are resident aliens.

Tran and 21 other Amerasians flew to Washington this summer to lobby for the Amerasian Paternity Act. It would give Amerasians born during the Vietnam and Korean wars automatic citizenship, rather than requiring them to pass tests in English.

Tran lives in Hayward, Calif., and travels the country crooning pop songs to Vietnamese fans at restaurants and concert halls. But he feels unsettled.

"I feel like I belong nowhere," said Tran, whose father was a black man whose name he probably never will know, but who gave him the mocha-colored skin so different from other Vietnamese.

"If I go to Little Saigon, they say, 'Are you Vietnamese? You look black.' If I go to the American community, they say, 'You're not one of us. You're Vietnamese.' "

But most wrenching for Tran is his lack of citizenship, a constant reminder of being an outsider in what he considers his fatherland. "Our fathers served for the country, fought for freedom," Tran said. "I am not a refugee, but I am being treated as one. We are Americans."

Tran does not know his age. On paper he is 34, but he guesses he is closer to 37.

His mother left him in an orphanage in Da Nang when he was days old. A few years later, a woman in a nearby village adopted him to help care for her cows. She refused to let him call her "mother."

The neighbors gawked at his dark skin; the village children yanked his curly hair.

"They looked at us like we were wild animals, not people," Tran said.

When the Homecoming Act passed in 1988, thousands of Vietnamese who wanted to escape the Communist government used the Amerasians as a device to flee. At 17, Tran was sold to a family for three gold bars. When the family got to America, they asked Tran to leave their home. He moved in with a friend's family.

Like Tran, many Amerasians lacked the English skills, education, and family connections that had helped other Vietnamese refugees assimilate. Many did not attend school in Vietnam and arrived in America illiterate. Many migrated to Vietnamese communities where they once again were shunned. Some turned to drugs or gangs.

They received eight months of government assistance, including healthcare, English lessons, and some job training. But the government did not help Amerasians locate their fathers, and funding ended in 1995.

In Washington, Tran and the other Amerasians met at a friend's house. Tran urged them to lobby for the citizenship bill, sponsored by Representative Zoe Lofgren, Democrat of California. In 2007, they formed the Amerasian Fellowship Association, which now has 5,000 members.

The meeting in Sensenbrenner's office lasted less than 25 minutes. The man Tran spoke with promised to do what he could to help. It wasn't until the man handed out his business card that Tran realized he wasn't talking to the Republican representative from Wisconsin. He was talking to a staffer.

There is a lot Tran does not understand about Washington. He's not sure which of the two houses of Congress the bill is stuck in or why it is taking so long to become law.

Lofgren warned the group that it was unlikely the bill would pass this year. But she promised to reintroduce it next year.

Tran later wrote to the staffer. He has yet to hear back, but he has faith that America will come through, eventually.