Traveling the world was supposed to solidify my direction in life.

But when I set foot in Vietnam, my heritage, for the first time, I became a typical 20-year-old -- I had never been more confused about life.

Growing up, I was what you would call a stereotypical Asian-American student. I got the grades, made the team and overcommitted myself to everything. Being on an academic scholarship at Colorado College was just another milestone on the road towards a career in medicine.

However, becoming the "model minority" poster boy placed a societal noose around me. Every success created a higher level of pressure. If I failed, I'd not only let myself down, but also my parents, teachers, and friends who had such high expectations for me.

My parents were proud, but I was confused. Was this the life I wanted or was it the life my parents wanted for me? I decided to pack my bags and find out for myself. And along the way, meet my Vietnamese grandparents for the first time.

I had high hopes of feeling welcome in Vietnam, but I soon learned that I didn't belong. My tennis shoes seemed like prized possessions compared with the cheap, worn-out sandals they wore. I didn't speak the language. I just smiled and shrugged my shoulders whenever I was spoken to. I was laughed at and mocked for being a "Viet-kieu" -- a derogatory term for foreign-born Vietnamese.

Nobody understood my embarrassment and pain better than my parents.

Escaping war-torn Vietnam (my dad in 1971, my mom in 1973) in search of a better life in America had been a challenge for both of them -- learning English and speaking with an accent, while watching their country's collapse on TV, was something they never imagined. And with relationships strained between America and Vietnam, the racial slurs that ensued during and after the war didn't help either. They didn't want me to feel that same pain.

My parents found themselves in a predicament common to many immigrants. Should they aggressively instill their Vietnamese heritage into their first-generation son, or should they let him assimilate? They mostly chose the latter, hoping I would still embrace their culture -- a culture that emphasized family, education, traditional customs and heritage.

It didn't work that way. I hated being different from other kids. I preferred pizza and burgers to noodles and rice. I valued friends over family. I never learned to speak Vietnamese.

Yet at the same time, I grew up understanding that I was not considered a typical American in the American society. Time and time again I had been asked the same questions: "Where are you from?" Indianapolis. "No, where are you from originally?" My parents are from Vietnam. Only then were people satisfied.

Being Vietnamese-American made me neither Vietnamese nor American.

In search of my roots and identity, I took the 2002 fall semester off and traveled the world with the study abroad program Semester at Sea (administered by the University of Pittsburgh but open to anyone). I knew being in Vietnam for the first time would be an experience of a lifetime. My parents even met me there to introduce me to their homeland. I wanted to learn from them. And I did. I connected with my parents in ways that I never thought were possible.

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My parents swelled up with pride as I took it all in, asking questions about their childhood memories. The world they were raised in was much different from mine. Mobs of children roamed the crowded streets of Ho Chi Minh City (or Saigon, as my parents still call it), preying on flashy tourists to buy their gum or little trinkets. This is how many families made a living, exploiting their children. The poverty level was excruciating to witness. I now understood why they wanted a better life for their children. I could have been begging on the streets.

Meeting my grandparents for the first time was undoubtedly the highlight of my experiences. In the small town of Tay Ninh, northwest of Ho Chi Minh City, I arrived with tears of joy seeing my mom's parents waiting patiently for my arrival. I couldn't explain in words how I felt. Neither could they. Our language barrier kept us distant, but their love kept me close. I realized that the importance of family and relationships seem to get lost in the career-building, money-making lives of so many Americans. My mom knew it was because of me that her parents battled through their long-term bouts with cancer. They wanted to stay alive long enough to see their grandson.

Still, I could feel the heartbreak of my parents. Although our reunion was special, being in Vietnam for them was a swirl of emotions.

My mom missed her family. I thought about how much strength it took for her to leave her parents knowing she would rarely ever see them again. After all, her father, a commander in the South Vietnamese army, barely survived eight years in a so-called "re-education camp" after the South fell. But Vietnam was their home and they couldn't leave.

My dad, a man of few words, was even harder to figure out. This was his first time back since leaving for Southern Illinois University (where he met my mom). I joked about finally meeting the in-laws more than 30 years later, but it wasn't the meeting that scared him the most.

He felt more and more alienated from his homeland. The places where he played as a kid had disappeared. Even Vung Tau, his hometown, was slowly developing into a resort town. In other ways, Vietnam had stayed the same. The symbols of war, of communism made him wince: The red flag (of communism) with the yellow star "of the people," the pictures of "Uncle Ho." I wanted to tear apart the red and yellow flag T-shirts my shipmates bought and wore happily. A souvenir to my friends was a horrible reminder to my parents.

But it was the corruption of the police that sent my dad packing in disgust. During his entire visit in Vietnam, the police monitored him. Phone calls in the middle of the night demanded that he report to the station in the morning for no apparent reason. The U.S. embassy could not even stop the police from trying to track him down and throw him in prison, all because "we want to see his face." There was no judicial system, no fair trial. The police could do what they pleased with him. Bribery was the judge.

Vietnam welcomed tourists with open arms, as long as they weren't Vietnamese influenced with Western ideas. My dad left on a stand-by flight to Korea a week before he had planned. He had had enough. He knew he could never return. He knew the police would think he had something to hide.

"Dad, don't you ever want to come back?" I asked.

"David, times have changed," my dad replied. "I don't belong any more. I have seen enough. Vietnam is your heritage, but America is your home. Be proud of both."

As I left Vietnam, I was proud to be both. And I was proud to be different.