School Daze : It’s always tough to be a teen-ager, but Vietnamese immigrant Quoc Anh Do faces the added burden of learning a new language, culture--and the American way.

When Quoc Anh Do spotted a vaguely familiar Vietnamese teen-ager outside the administration building at Valley High School in Santa Ana, it was as if he had bumped into a neighbor amid a throng of strangers.

“I know you from somewhere,” Do said in Vietnamese to the youth, “but I don’t know where.”

Tuan-Anh Nguyen knew. And Do flashed a thousand-watt smile when Nguyen refreshed his memory.

“We met in the refugee camp,” Nguyen said.

Do, 15, and Nguyen, 19, had parted ways two months earlier thousands of miles away at a Thai camp that serves as a way station between Vietnam and the United States.

But here they were on a warm fall morning in Santa Ana, in an alien world--a labyrinthine campus of 34 buildings with thousands of unfamiliar people speaking languages they didn’t understand.

On just about any school day, students such as Do and Nguyen from dozens of foreign lands take their first steps into the American educational system, unable to speak the language and unfamiliar with the culture.

“This school--talk about intimidation--there’s 3,000 students here,” said Kathy Hayden, director of the English as a second language curriculum at Valley High. “This is like a city.”

Whether they are Latinos from tiny pueblo schools or Southeast Asians who in many cases have been subjected to more indoctrination than education in Communist-run schools, thousands each year wander into California schools with few clues of what to expect.

The resulting psychological pressures can be overwhelming, as became apparent by observing Do on his first three days of classes and by talking with his family.

What emerged was a portrait of a young man who outwardly is a picture of calm but inwardly is grappling with a troubled past, the day-to-day pressures of adjusting to a new life and an uncertain future.

And that’s not to mention the ordinary wrenching emotional upheavals experienced by any adolescent.

“In the case where you have an adolescent who arrives at the high school level but speaks no English, the problems of language are compounded by the problems of adolescence,” said Ruben G. Rumbaut, a sociology professor at San Diego State University and co-author of the book “Immigrant America.”

“He’s not only trying to cope with the language, but he’s trying to cope with issues of identity, especially sexual identity. He also doesn’t have that much time before his high school years are finished. For someone who arrives at age 15, the clock is ticking, if you will.”

For Do, the clock started ticking at 7 a.m. on Sept. 10 when he left his parents’ modest but comfortable Santa Ana home for his first day of high school. Classes begin at 8 a.m., but Do wanted an early start to find his classroom and to meet a friend, 17-year-old Thach Ngoc Nguyen (no relation to Tuan-Anh).

Although he had been in America only two months, Do had adopted the uniform of its teen-agers--jeans and high-tops. The temperature was expected to be above 95 degrees. But there wasn’t a bead of sweat on Do’s brow, despite his long-sleeved, buttoned-to-the-neck white shirt. He strode out of the house, a multicolored binder tucked under his arm, hoping for the best but prepared for the worst.

He said little on the way to school. But a few days earlier, the shy, rail-thin youth with the boyish cowlick and wide grin spoke of his expectations.

“I don’t expect to make a lot of friends in high school,” Do said through an interpreter. “I don’t think the language barrier will be a problem because I’m not very sociable. If I can get to know (other students), then I’ll be their friend.”

There would be no shortage of teen-agers to befriend on this first day of school. Thousands poured onto the campus from every direction--on foot, on bikes, in cars and in buses. Most of the students were Latinos, with a good number of Asians mixed in.

Although he had just completed ninth grade in Vietnam, Do, was designated to repeat it because of his inability to speak English. Under district rules, he can move to more advanced classes if he shows extraordinary aptitude.

He had yet to set foot in a classroom, but Do was already a grade behind.

Like all the freshmen, Do was directed to the administration building, where green-and-white computer printouts were posted. Dozens of confused classmates huddled around the list, seeking their names and their first-period class sites. Printed next to “Do, Quoc Anh” was Building 14, Classroom 1, where a Mr. Pham would conduct a course called “American Issues” for students with limited English skills.

It was after Do had extricated himself from the crowd that he first saw a familiar face staring at him from across a lawn. After a moment, the memory of Tuan-Anh Nguyen and the refugee camp outside of Bangkok came flooding back.

“I didn’t know he was going to be here,” Nguyen said later. “I was really surprised to see him here today.”

The only evidence of emotion at the unexpected reunion was the exchange of broad smiles. Still, Do was clearly pleased to have a companion to accompany him through the maze of buildings, a far cry from Do’s school in Saigon, Bach Dang Junior High.

“In Vietnamese schools, the students stay in one room while the teachers move from room to room to teach . . .,” Do said later. “The students can only get to know about 40 (classmates). With American schools . . . I can get to know many more friends and I like it better.”

Before finding their classrooms, Do and Nguyen set off to search for Thach Ngoc Nguyen, another friend from the camp. They quickly discovered that finding him would be tough. Hundreds of students milled about, congregating near posted class schedules, greeting friends with hugs and kisses and shouting to each other over the din. An administrator, laden with green and yellow papers, walked around yelling, “Maps of the school! Mapas de la escuela! Maps of the school!”

Do and Nguyen, unable to understand English or Spanish, saw students taking the maps, figured out what they were and took one too.

Just seven minutes before the start of his class, Do stopped looking for his friend and began searching for Building 14. He and Nguyen wandered into several buildings, trying to match them to their map.

“This school is too big,” Do said.

At 8 a.m., a siren signaling the start of classes sounded. Do finally realized that each building had a number posted on its wall. After a glance at the map, he got his bearings and, with Nguyen in tow, sped off for Building 14. They arrived three minutes late, along with many other confused classmates.

There were 32 students in the class--three Latinos and 29 Vietnamese, including Thach Ngoc Nguyen, Do’s missing friend. Do was assigned a seat in the front row by the teacher, La Pham. For Do, the class of predominantly Vietnamese students taught by a Vietnamese teacher was a cushion to the culture shock of the American classroom.

Though shy and reserved, Do’s fears of being friendless passed rapidly. He and the two Nguyens found themselves in a small entourage that blended with the tide of students rushing to second-period classes.

The next stop for Do was Building 4, Room 14, where Dennis Maxey cheerfully greeted students in the 9:05 a.m. math class, which was also composed of Vietnamese and Latinos.

Although he knew many of the students spoke only limited English, Maxey explained the course, grading system and classroom rules, and used such as admonishments as “act like ladies and gentlemen” and “no eating or drinking in class.”

“How many of you understand the rules?” he asked. No response. He smiled and asked, “How many of you don’t understand the rules?” Still no answer.

Do’s third-period course in English as a second language covered words and phrases typically used in high school. Do would spend three periods each day in such classes in Building 25. The class of 36 students--roughly half Latino, half Vietnamese--was jammed into the wood-paneled portable classroom.

The students had separated into ethnic groups as they walked in. But teacher Nancy Bolton-Brenner put an end to that by asking them to sit in alphabetical order. Do ended up in the first row, several rows from the two Nguyens, surrounded by Latinos.

The class may have seemed large to American students and teachers. But as far as Do was concerned, there was plenty of elbow room. “The classes here are smaller than in Vietnam,” he said later, adding in English, “there, 45, 50.”

As in other first-day classes, Bolton-Brenner--who speaks neither Vietnamese nor Spanish and had difficulty pronouncing names--spent most of the period assigning seats and familiarizing students with the class and the school.

In her lilting Southern accent, Bolton-Brenner asked the students about themselves. “How long have you been in California?” she asked Do.

“Santa Ana,” he responded.

“You live in Santa Ana?” she asked. “And how long have you been in California?” Do hesitated, then replied, “Two months.”

The scene was repeated in the fifth and sixth periods, a two-hour block of language classes.

Do’s schedule also included two of the more social periods at Valley High School--gym and lunch. Lunch is scheduled in two shifts to handle the crush; Do was confused about which session to attend. After comparing notes with friends, he determined that he should go to gym, then lunch.

Outside the gym, the Vietnamese youths grappled with the vagaries of an American fixture--the soft drink machine, in this case a dispenser of “Frezie,” a flavored slush drink. The teen-agers huddled around the machine, trying to figure out how to use the change slot. They figured it out, but Do was baffled by a nearby Coke machine that spit out the $10 bill he tried to feed to its $1-bill slot.

In the gym, more than 200 students sat in bleachers, in groups of 40 or so, as the gym teachers distributed forms. Do was again separated from his friends, sitting alone in his group while the others sat in the opposite bleachers.

But Do was not dissuaded from trying to make friends. He conversed--mostly in sign language--with a student named Pablo seated beside him. They managed to transcend the language barrier and shook hands as they left for fifth-period classes.

After two more periods of language classes, Do’s first day at Valley High was done at 2:43 p.m.

His assessment?

“I think the teachers are nice and easygoing,” he said. “They seem really caring about the students.”

In fact, Do seemed unfazed by his first day. But as he had explained before classes, “I have been through a lot in Vietnam, so I guess this ordeal seems small compared to what I’ve been through.”

Do’s parents fled Vietnam in 1977, when he was 2. They were forced to leave Do and his sister, Vi, then 6, behind. The youngsters were reared by their father’s mother and sister. About six years later, the family received permission to leave under a program that lets Vietnamese emigrate to the United States if sponsored by a family member here--in this case, Do’s father, Anh. But the family’s papers were lost, and they waited four years while Anh wrestled with government bureaucracy.

The paperwork was straightened out in 1987, but it took three more years before the Vietnamese let the children leave. Last spring, Do learned that he, his sister, grandmother and aunt would leave Saigon.

“When I heard the news that I would come to America, I was really nervous and excited,” Do said. “I left Vietnam and we went to Thailand and stayed there for a week, near Bangkok, in a refugee camp.”

There, Do met the Nguyens.

On July 7, Do and his sister flew to California to be reunited after 13 years with their parents and to meet their brother, Tommy Do, 11, for the first time. The reunion was a paradox for Do: although he was rejoining his mother and father, he and his sister were, in effect, being sent off to live with virtual strangers.

Despite the excitement of getting acquainted with his new family, country, school and friends, Do yearns for the old. “I have hopes of going back” to Vietnam, he said. “It won’t be long.”

Do may harbor hopes of returning to Vietnam, but on Day 2 at Valley High, he was already getting used to his new life.

Like any other teen-ager, he had no complaints about the news that the school day would be shortened because of the intense heat. Confident that he could find his way around the school, he left home 30 minutes later than on Day 1 and arrived at school 15 minutes before his first class.

Do’s adverse past in Vietnam and Thailand had at least one positive effect--it helped make him adaptable. He strode onto the campus as if he had spent his whole life there and made a beeline for Building 14, unaided by a map. Several students awaited, and chided him about the reporter, photographer and interpreter chronicling his every step.

With each class shortened to 39 minutes, the teachers found little time for more than checking in new students. But in Maxey’s second-period class, there was a math test to determine students’ skills. Do proclaimed the test easy, but said he could not finish it because of the shortened period.

“I felt more comfortable today than on the first day because I know my way around,” Do said after school. All that was left was to get his timing straight.

By Sept. 12, Day 3, Do bounded off to school with enthusiasm. Quiet and reserved at home, he seemed eager to get out among his new friends, with whom he laughed, joked and ogled girls. It didn’t take long for him to become a typical American high school student.

His prediction that he wouldn’t be “sociable” turned out to be unfounded. Do chatted in Vietnamese with students in just about every class--and gestured in sign language to those who didn’t speak Vietnamese. After a language class, Do and friends joined some Latinos gesturing toward a group of girls.

In class, Do remained studious, carefully copying assignments and trying to keep up with his English-speaking teachers. “If they (teachers) say 10 words, maybe I can understand three or five,” Do said.

Even that is an achievement for a a student who has never spoken English. Rumbaut of San Diego State University said Vietnamese students often have difficulty learning English because of the divergent nature of the languages.

“The Vietnamese language is a tonal language, it’s a completely different language family altogether,” he said. “There are different rules of grammar and syntax. In Spanish as well as English, each particular syllable has a particular sound associated with it. In Vietnamese, the same syllable can be intoned six different ways and would have totally different meanings.”

Apart from learning English, there are “a number of risk factors stacked up against” older students such as Do, Rumbaut said. “Getting good grades may be more difficult, and when a student begins pushing 18 or 19, he may decide that it’s hopeless.”

Whether Do succeeds in school is anybody’s guess--he has advantages, coming from a supportive home. But his parents’ work hours make it hard for them to supervise his work. He has a strong support system at school but few Vietnamese role models. And with 1,000 English-as-a-second-language students at Valley High--about 100 of them Vietnamese--Do can count on little personal attention.

But he showed signs of success.

Ten days into school, a brief return visit revealed that Do was interested in diving and was getting more involved in school activities--something many Vietnamese students shun.

In fact, Do was becoming a typical American high school male.

He was last seen flirting with four girls.

Times correspondent Thanthuy Nguyen contributed to this report.