Refugee Camp to Campus Leader: A Vietnamese American Success Story

November 11th, 2025

For the first Spoken History of our 2025 chapter, Beverly Hills High School’s new principal, Loan Sriruksa, shared her family’s journey to America following their exile from Vietnam. Born in a refugee camp, Sriruksa reflects on the moments from her childhood and young adulthood that shaped her into the inclusive and dedicated leader she is today. The Spoken Histories Team thanks Mrs. Sriruksa for sharing her powerful story of resilience with us to document.

Loan Sriruksa

Beverly Hills High School Principal, 2025

A Beginning in Exile

Before the family reached Arkansas, they spent time in a refugee camp in the Philippines. Conditions were not the worst, she explains, but navigating displacement was its own kind of suffering.

“My oldest brother had just turned six,” she says. “He was caring for my family because my dad was visually impaired, my mom was pregnant, and my sister—who was one and a half—became severely ill.” With little formal education and no English, her parents found themselves processing trauma, grief, and parenthood all at once.

When the family eventually reached Fort Chaffee, they stayed for three months. “The language barrier was a huge hurdle,” she recalls. “Culturally, it was very difficult. And being Vietnamese refugees immediately after the war…it was also not very friendly. There were a lot of misunderstandings.”

Still, gratitude persisted. “Was it difficult? Yes. Were they grateful the whole time? Yes.”

A Pennsylvania Winter and a New Start

The family’s next chapter began with an act of profound generosity: they were sponsored by the Catholic Diocese of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, including a couple named Mr. and Mrs. Krebs—now her godparents.

Weather brought its own challenges. “Coming from the tropical climate of Vietnam, Harrisburg was not really friendly—weather-wise,” she notes. Her mother struggled with severe arthritis, and her father, legally blind, had never before navigated ice or snow.

Her brothers attended Catholic school through funding from the diocese, which led to one of the family’s most enduring—and humorous—stories. Vietnamese names proved difficult for the nuns; her brother’s name, Phu (pronounced “Foo”), was quickly replaced.

“The nuns were like, ‘We can’t really say your name…you look like an honest little boy. We’ll name you Frank.’ And that’s how he became Frank. Something that would not be acceptable today, but in 1975? That’s how it was.”

A Name, a Loss, and a Phoenix

Loan’s own name carries both grief and symbolism.

“In Vietnamese culture, you don’t name your children after people who have passed away,” she explains. “It’s considered bad vibes, like you’re passing misfortune on.”

Yet she was named after a baby cousin who died during her own family’s escape—one or two years old, lost at sea.

“My name also means Phoenix,” she says. “My aunt asked my mom if she would name me after her daughter. It meant a lot—because our home country had been decimated. This was their rising from the ashes.”

Growing up in America, the name brought relentless teasing. “Did I ever consider changing it? No,” she says firmly. “Though many of my peers did.”

Finding Community in Orange County

After four difficult years in Pennsylvania, her uncles convinced the family to move to Orange County, which they described as a “beautiful oasis of climate and opportunity.” She was around four years old.

Orange County today is home to the largest Vietnamese population outside Vietnam—about a decade ago, she notes, this was a confirmed statistic. But in the late 1970s, that community was only beginning to form.

“You couldn’t get Vietnamese vegetables at Ralphs. So my mom turned our entire backyard into a garden,” she says. “She has an incredible green thumb. She provided vegetables for not just us, but for many Vietnamese families.”

Growing up poor, the garden was also survival. “I was raised on welfare,” she says openly. “I used to be embarrassed, but I’m not anymore. That’s how we navigated life.”

At church in Westminster, the family found cultural grounding. “All my religious classes were in Vietnamese,” she explains. “That was how we maintained language and culture.”

Their neighborhood, however, was almost entirely Latino. Her brothers experienced racism at first, but soon, the families formed lifelong friendships. “They had to duke it out a little before getting to that point,” she says with a smile.

A Teacher Who Changed Everything

Sriruksa’s voice brightens when she speaks of Mrs. Sutherland, her second-grade teacher—the woman who inspired her to enter education.

“She is a little angel on earth,” she says. “We just celebrated her 90th birthday. Sixty former students came. She remembered all of our names.”

Growing up in poverty, school was a refuge.

“She brought us snacks. She took me to Wendy’s for the first time. When it was still allowed, she took us to Vacation Bible School, picked us up every day in her little green machine car. She fed us, clothed us, gave Christmas gifts.”

In fourth grade, when her family had to move, Mrs. Sutherland made sure she could still participate in school events. “I couldn’t go to a choir concert because my mom couldn’t drive me back and forth. She said: ‘I’ll take you.’ I spent the night at her house. She brought me to school the next morning—just so I could be a normal kid.”

A bench honoring Mrs. Sutherland will be installed at her old school this March.

“She is the reason—probably one through fifty-eight—why I went into education,” says Sriruksa. “She loved us without judgment.”

Choosing Leadership—and Choosing Family

Becoming a principal was not instantaneous. “People say you can have everything,” she says. “I believe that—but not all at the same time.”

She waited until her daughters were older, wanting to be the present mother her own parents could not afford to be. When her youngest entered senior year, she encouraged her:

“She said, ‘Mom, it’s time for you to do this.’”“And that’s when I took a principalship.”

When the Beverly Hills opportunity appeared, timing and opportunity finally aligned. “I’m a true believer that opportunities pop up, but the beauty is when they align with timing. And this job did.”

Preserving Culture and Sharing It

Mrs. Sriruksa hopes to bring the Lunar New Year celebration to Beverly Hills High School before she retires.

“It is the biggest celebration in Vietnamese culture,” she says. “Growing up, schools shut down for a day—we had lion dancers, music, food. I want to bring that here.”

While BHHS doesn’t have a large Vietnamese population, she believes the value is universal.

“It’s a celebration everyone can enjoy and learn from,” she says. “Just like I’m learning about Jewish traditions here. I’d love to reciprocate.”

What Home Means Now

After a life of migration, poverty, cultural navigation, and triumph, what does “home” mean?

“Home is knowing I’m doing my best to make the world a better place than when I entered it,” she says quietly. “I like nice things, sure—but nothing is more important than the human in front of me.”

She teaches her children—and her students—a philosophy rooted in gratitude:“When someone opens the door for you, it is not only your responsibility to hold that door open for others, but to open it even wider.”

A Message to Immigrant Youth

When asked what she would say to young people growing up in the same circumstances she did, her answer is immediate:

“Be proud of where you came from, however difficult it was. Don’t be embarrassed. Those challenges are your testimony of resilience and perseverance.”

She pauses before adding:

“You don’t have to represent everyone now—focus on yourself. But later, when you can, lift everyone else up.”

"Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication."