My mom was my first teacher, and then I became hers.

Like all the children who grew up on that narrow working class neighborhood street in the heart of Biên Hoà, Vietnam, my first “ABC” was taught by my mother, the neighborhood’s only other educator besides my father.

While Dad’s clientele were mainly highly paid business professionals who were seeking to improve their English skills in the new global economy, Mom tutored 1st grade to high school. For some who could not afford more, and for those whose kids had learning disabilities, my mother was the only thing standing between their children and illiteracy.

When we moved to the US in 1997, my young brain quickly adapted to English, but for my 45-year-old mother, 23 years of educator experience were rendered useless when stared down by the barrel of language barrier.

“I am stupid!” - Mom sobbed in defeated frustration many times over her late night ESOL homework, just as her young students once did as she patiently helped them navigate their learning disabilities under dim flickering florescent light - forgetting that her thick accent in a foreign land is a shining badge of courage and bravery.

Most of us will know the full-circle experience of changing our parents’ diapers in their old age, but only children of immigrants know the awkward dilemma of being thrusted into the position of being a language lifeline for the same caretakers who once taught us our first words.

Suddenly, I found myself translating everything from supermarket receipts to legal documents to the woman who taught me how to read. I am no teacher, but I spent the first decade of my life observing Mom and Dad guiding the most difficult students through their unique learning curves.

And I can only hope as I accept this lifelong duty, that I assume half the grace and patience my mother carried as when she walked me and my friends through our first “Ah Beh Ceh.”