I was raised by parents who came from a culture where distance from the land signaled economic progress. In their move from rural Vietnam to Canada, leaving the soil behind became synonymous with survival, dignity, and success. Wealth, stability, and professional achievement were the unquestioned markers of a better life. Only as an adult have I begun to understand the environmental and relational costs of that aspiration and the way it shaped my own habits, values, and blind spots. This awareness has grown into a painful internal conflict: a guilty conscience sharpened by education but immobilized by shame. That shame has crystallized into a fixation on finding a way to apologize to the entire planet. But my capacity for this is limited to xin lỗi. In Vietnamese, xin and lỗi translate to “beg” and “mistake,” forming an apology delivered with crossed arms and a bowed head. It is a small ritual gesture that always feels inadequate.

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As a second‑generation Canadian of Vietnamese immigrants, I live daily within the friction of Eastern and Western value systems. From my family, I inherited a deep discomfort with confronting guilt or shame for fear of losing face. From my Canadian upbringing, I absorbed the Western emphasis on personal responsibility and accountability. Instead of giving me multiple pathways to address wrongdoing, these opposing frameworks cancel each other out, leaving me suspended in inaction. 

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My project explores a guilty conscience caught between knowledge and paralysis. Borrowing from memories, fantasies and folklore, xin lỗi becomes the central motif of each work and acts as a subtle offering of accountability for a lifetime of offenses.

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