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Viet Thanh Nguyen’s newest work, “A Man of Two Faces: A Memoir, A History, A Memorial,” delves into memory and its connection to identity and history. The Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist’s unconventional memoir expands on his personal experiences as a son, father, and writer and the theme of how refugees are perceived in the United States. Nguyen’s iconic prose and deep understanding of the self creates a touching read, but the memoir’s irregular form and wandering focus ultimately distract from its unique take on memory.

The most moving parts of the memoir focus on Nguyen’s relationship with his parents, especially with his mother, who recently passed away. Nguyen recounts his parents’ sacrifices but also his complicated relationship with their rush to conform to what he calls the “AMERICAN DREAM.™” He expands on how refugees are more than just pre-packaged sob stories, and how they can contain contradictory stories and opinions. When reflecting on his own life, Nguyen also describes how selective one’s recording of the past may seem. The unreliable haze that clouds his recollections is remarkably similar to how memorizes commonly glaze over certain traumatic events while simultaneously highlighting other moments. Nguyen’s memories of family are deeply personal and ground the memoir’s narrative in a compelling story.

Besides Nguyen’s familial relationships, the memoir focuses on America’s larger relationship with immigrants and refugees, and how anti-Asian sentiment seeps into the smallest corners of America’s films, books, and culture. Nguyen recalls his early fascination with popular war films, such as “Apocalypse Now,” and how they affected his identity as an Asian American. He also reflects on his family’s experience with anti-Asian violence. Besides concentrating on the Asian-American experience, the book also discusses the ways that different groups of refugees are viewed: for example, Nguyen explores the recent reception of white, Ukrainian refugees compared to hostile attitudes surrounding Latin American refugees. Nguyen’s wide range of reflection on recent immigration allows his memoir to expand beyond the boundaries of personal memory.

Nguyen’s memories, ideas on otherness, and critical reflections on refugee perspectives are intriguing and important. Yet his narrative loses its edge when he digresses into political tangents. For example, he uses one section of the work to discuss former president Donald Trump and his labeling of Covid-19 as the “Kung Flu.” While this piece of hateful stereotyping is rightfully condemned, Nguyen repeatedly continues to reference Trump throughout the book. In fact, he refers to Trump seventeen times throughout the memoir, making him a prominent character who gets almost as many references as Nguyen’s own daughter. When referring to the former president, Nguyen also dramatically blacks out his name. While this may be an attempt to diminish Trump’s hateful legacy, the choice instead brings more attention to the erased words. Additionally, Nguyen makes rapid-fire references to Ukrainian refugees, Putin, and George Floyd, but does not devote enough time to any of these subjects to warrant their inclusion. Nguyen’s personal reflections on family and refugeeism are stunning, but his entanglement in post Covid-19 politics threatens to bog down his overall narrative.

The memoir’s unconventional form also threatens to cloud Nguyen’s poignant stories. Nguyen’s words sometimes shift in font size, float in a poetry-like fashion, or stand as singular lines floating across the page. While this stylistic choice may be an attempt to give the reader an impression of wading through Nguyen’s mind, the choice instead forces the eye to uncomfortably dance around the page. The erratic form of the memoir gives the book an unjustifiably flashy look instead of allowing the reader to hone in on Nguyen’s prose.

Overall, Nguyen’s work offers a fresh take on the classic, personal memoir while reflecting on a myriad of pressing topics, such as Asian-American discrimination and the refugee experience. However, the experimental form of the memoir and attachment to current political trends keep the memoir from reaching a fuller potential.

—Staff writer Hannah E. Gadway can be reached at hannah.gadway@thecrimson.com.