My dad gave up on me one time, and it was exactly what I needed. When we moved to the US from Vietnam in 1997, dad took on three minimum wage jobs to support our family of five. Despite the drastic demotion from his prestigious role in Vietnam as an English teacher to the country’s richest professionals, dad never complained and immediately took to cleaning hotel toilets and bussing restaurant tables with pride.

When he came home exhausted at 9:00pm on his rickety flea market bicycle, his weathered hands cracking from the frigid Oklahoma winter, dad also had to take on the role of being our school tutor, as he was the only one in our family who was fluent in English.

I was a spoiled ten-year-old, was struggling to learn English, and was resentful of the culture shock of this new life, and I placed the blame on my parents. I consistently resisted assimilation simply because I did not want to try.

And then, one cold January night, after two frustrating hours of 5th grade English homework and my repugnant preteen attitude, dad finally drooped his tired, bloodshot eyes with resignation. “You can do whatever you want. I give up,” the stubborn man who never surrendered through war, poverty, and Communist oppression exhaled a defeated sigh.

That night, two important lessons were learned over elementary school assignments and cold, half-eaten dinner: 1) sometimes, we have to acknowledge that we are the problem and we are the toxic ones, and 2) sometimes, after we’ve done everything we could in our power, we have to let go for our own peace.

When the man who could never give up gave up on me, it was the splash of ice water I needed. And five years later, in front of my parents and a high school class of almost 1000 students, I received the award for English student of the year.