Stories about coming out are everywhere now, but few of them feel as tangled and beautiful as The Magic Fish. Written and illustrated by Trung Le Nguyen (also known as Trungles), this graphic novel didn't just land on shelves in 2020; it sort of carved out its own space in the hearts of anyone who grew up between two cultures. It's a heavy book. But it’s also light.
You’ve got Tiến, a young Vietnamese-American boy struggling to find the right words to tell his parents he’s gay. The catch? He doesn’t even know if those words exist in Vietnamese. It’s a linguistic wall. Honestly, it's a situation that feels claustrophobic and deeply relatable for children of immigrants.
The Fairy Tales Within the Frame
Nguyen does something brilliant here. He weaves together three distinct layers of storytelling, using color palettes to keep us from getting lost. There’s the present day (rendered in soft reds and oranges), the memories of Tiến’s mother in Vietnam (bathed in yellow), and the fairy tales they read together (splashed in deep blues and purples).
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These aren't just random stories.
They are versions of Alionushka and Ivanushka, Cinderella, and The Little Mermaid. But they aren't the Disney versions. They’re older, sharper, and more melancholic. When Tiến and his mother, Hiền, read these stories, they aren't just killing time. They are communicating. They’re using the language of "once upon a time" to bridge a gap that literal translation can’t touch.
It’s about the "magic fish" of the title—a recurring motif of transformation and the high cost of change. In many ways, the fish represents the immigrant experience. You leave the water, you grow legs, and every step feels like walking on glass.
Why the Art Style Matters More Than You Think
If you look closely at Trung Le Nguyen’s line work, you’ll see the influence of 19th-century illustrators and classic shoujo manga. It’s intricate. The fashion, especially in the fairy tale sequences, is breathtaking. Nguyen has spoken in interviews about how he used fashion to denote status and character growth, drawing from his own interest in historical costuming.
The art isn't just "pretty." It’s functional.
Because Tiến and his mom are struggling with language, the visual cues do the heavy lifting. You see the hesitation in a hand gesture. You see the grief in the way Hiền’s shoulders slump when she learns her mother has passed away back in Vietnam. The book relies on the reader’s ability to "read" emotions when the characters literally don't have the vocabulary to speak them.
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Breaking Down the Language Barrier
One of the most profound sections of The Magic Fish deals with the word "gay" itself. Tiến looks for it in a Vietnamese dictionary and comes up short. He finds words that are clinical or words that are slurs, but nothing that captures his heart.
This is a real-world struggle.
Many Southeast Asian languages have evolved rapidly in the diaspora. The way Vietnamese is spoken in Westminster, California, or Houston, Texas, is often a "frozen" version of the language from the 1970s, missing the modern LGBTQ+ terminology that has developed in contemporary Vietnam. Nguyen captures this specific, painful nuance perfectly.
Hiền’s journey is just as vital as Tiến’s. She’s grieving a mother she couldn't say goodbye to. She’s living in a country that feels like a beautiful, strange dream. Her primary connection to her son is through these books. When she finally realizes what Tiến is trying to tell her, she doesn't use a dictionary. She uses a story. She changes the ending of a fairy tale to let him know he's accepted.
It’s a masterclass in "show, don't tell."
The Cultural Impact of The Magic Fish
Since its release, the book has swept through awards circuits, winning two Eisner Awards and being named a Best Graphic Novel for Young Adults by the American Library Association. But its real impact is in schools and libraries. It has become a staple for educators looking to discuss intersectionality without being preachy.
People often get it wrong, thinking this is just a "kids' book." It isn’t. While it’s accessible for middle-grade readers, the themes of colonial displacement and the loss of heritage are deeply sophisticated. It challenges the "Model Minority" myth by showing a family that is messy, grieving, and profoundly human.
The story acknowledges that love doesn't solve everything immediately. Even after the "coming out" moment, the characters still have to live in a world that might not be ready for them. But they have their stories.
Actionable Takeaways for Readers and Parents
If you’re picking up The Magic Fish for the first time, or if you’re looking to use it as a tool for conversation, keep these points in mind:
- Watch the Colors: Pay attention to when colors bleed into different sections. When a blue fairy tale element appears in the red "real world," it means the stories are finally merging with Tiền’s reality.
- Research the Source Material: Compare Nguyen’s version of The Little Mermaid to the Hans Christian Andersen original. It adds a layer of depth to understand why he chose the "sad" version over the "happy" one.
- Discuss the "Unspoken": If reading with a child, ask them why they think Tiền’s mom changed the ending of the final story. It’s a great way to talk about empathy and subtext.
- Support Local Libraries: This book has faced various ban attempts in certain districts due to its LGBTQ+ themes. Checking it out from your local library or requesting it helps keep diverse stories available to everyone.
The Magic Fish reminds us that language is more than just words in a book. It’s the way we see each other. Sometimes, when you can’t find the right word in the present, you have to go back to the myths of the past to find your way home.