LOS ANGELES -- The nightmares came toward the end of 1975. They appeared stubbornly, rudely, in the middle of the night, robbing me of rest and quiet.
Otherwise my days were normal, filled with the extraordinary and none-too-extraordinary doings of a 17-year-old new to America. I'd skip breakfast but still manage to be late for first period. I'd pay attention to Mrs. Wilson, the English teacher, or Ms. Bellonby, the art teacher - when no girl occupied my mind. I'd ride home in John Turner's Mustang at 2, embarrassed when he said that after six months in the United States, I still put the accent on the wrong syllable when I said ''uncomfortable.''
Arriving at home, I'd wolf down a salami sandwich then rush off to further my Americanization by flipping hamburgers for $2.10 an hour at the local Roy Rogers. I'd put on my red-checkered shirt, my plastic white cowboy hat, and greet customers with an accented, ''Hooowdee, paaardner!'' Then I'd smell like a bucket of grease and oil for the next five hours. Home by 9, I'd shower and tend to my homework for a couple of hours, then fall asleep, somehow forgetting that the nightmares would come in a few hours.
The nightmares, as it happened, were about another life, another place. About my mother and sister left behind in South Vietnam, my place of birth. About my father, in prison somewhere in North Vietnam. I was old enough to know how guilt is manifested into bad dreams, but when I allowed myself to think about it, it was more a sense of shame that always came over me. And then more terrifying than the nightmares or the shame was the thought that I was in no position to do anything about it. So life in America seemed to be a series of uneventful, bleak days with neither promise nor fulfillment.
In April 1975, relatives in Saigon had taken me out of Vietnam, fearing a bloodbath at the hands of the communist North. My mother was stuck in central Vietnam, where we'd been living in the years before. My father, a provincial governor in South Vietnam, had been captured by communist soldiers during the Tet offensive in 1968 and had disappeared into the jungles. We'd had no news from him.
By the time I arrived in the United States in May 1975, more than 100,000 people from South Vietnam had joined the exodus. We became refugees scattered across the States and other nations, learning a new language and working at odd jobs, surviving as best we could. I suspect that for many of us, particularly the adults, the nightmares were frequent features of the night.
Twenty-five years later, the nightmares seem to have given way to largely fulfilled American dreams. Across the United States, Vietnamese-Americans are making their mark as doctors, engineers, and educators. Our young people are emerging from brand-name universities to turn into savvy entrepreneurs and professionals. In places like San Jose and Westminster, Calif., Houston and Boston, Vietnamese shops and restaurants are reviving entire neighborhoods, improving economic life. Like many immigrants before us, we are renewing America. What's been more vexing for us is readjusting attitudes toward both Vietnam and America. The earlier refugees began life here with the notion that they would one day return to live in their homeland once it was free. But as time passes, there has come the recognition that while the regime in Hanoi is changing, it's not going away.
In the 1990s, visits home became possible. For those who returned, as I did throughout the decade, the trips alleviated nostalgia. They also curbed fears that Vietnam today is a police state where a Vietnamese-American might get arrested. The rediscovery of ancient temples, quaint villages, idyllic beaches, and long hours sharing tropical fruits and gifts with friends and relatives fueled a new sense of comfort with the country. At the same time, the trips made us realize we had changed. We wanted bottled water and street lights that worked. We couldn't sit idle for hours without bemoaning lost opportunities. We'd become Americans.
Painful memories of the war will always remain in our hearts. But for many families, such as mine, the separations have ended. My father was released from prison in 1980, and in 1984 my parents were able to come to the United States. They've come to accept the peace and comfort America has offered. The cultural differences and homesickness they endure seem a fair price to be free.
Once in a while, events will stir up hurtful emotions. A visit by a Communist delegation from Vietnam to San Francisco. A friendly decision by the US government toward Vietnam. An exhibition of works by Hanoi artists. At such times, many in the community will be angry again over the issues that used to divide North and South Vietnam, and demonstrators will appear in the streets. I've even been subjected to allegations that I'm a communist sympathizer because I believe we need to build bridges to Hanoi.
I think change in Vietnam will happen more quickly with dialogues, contacts, and trade. As part of a younger generation, I am less colored by anger than by a desire to turn the page. Now the challenge is how to guide a new Vietnamese-American generation to succeed while still being of help to Vietnam despite the lingering wounds of war.
Fully healing those wounds may take another five, 10 years. But it's been 25 years already. My nights, and surely those of most other Vietnamese living in America, are no longer filled with nightmares from a difficult past. We sleep better now.
Nguyen Qui Duc is the author of ''Where the Ashes Are: The Odyssey of a Vietnamese Family.'' He lives in Los Angeles, where he runs Omely.com, a Web s ite for Vietnamese and those interested in Vietnamese culture.
