My mom came to the U.S. when she was 19, and changed her named from “Trang” to “Jennifer”. Coming from Vietnam, my mom endured beatings from her family members, poverty, crop failure, and just pure emotional hardship. Changing her name, enrolling in High School, and starting her own family and business here, she sought to shake away all the negativity from the past and start anew. When she tells me stories, I can see the dirt floor and the rats and the bomb shells as if they were from my own memories. When I see my mom’s face and her saddened eyes, they tell the story of a life that could break most people I know. But when I see her hands roughened by dishes or the demanding work of being a seamstress, they seem to say “it’s all for them, don’t give up”. My mom always says that my hands look like hers, that none of my siblings have our hands, and I’m glad.