by Staring Down the Tiger- Stories of Hmong American Women (retail) (epub)
Sure enough, the day of, the chaos of disorder erupted with my rather take-charge family colliding with the new church family that Uncle had embraced into his life. I was told to simply show up with my bags of peppers, and my ingredients would be present.
I watched the clock as I helped prepare other pieces of the day. Four hours before the dinner, I moved into the church’s industrial kitchen. I put on a blue hairnet and gloves, then laid out my ingredients before me. Calmly, I informed my cousin we didn’t have enough green onions. Frantically, she informed the designated person, and he called his number two, who was out buying other last-minute supplies. “They’ll get some more. You do what you can until they get back,” she said sternly.
The type A in me was flustered, but today wasn’t about me; it was about honoring Uncle and Aunt and feeding the five-hundred-plus guests. I started dicing the red and green Thai peppers from my mother’s garden on a large, white, circular cutting board. I refused to look at the clock when the supply of green onions appeared. One bushel. I shook my head and informed my cousin once again that it wasn’t enough. She agreed. “I’ll run to the store myself.”
The photographer snapped a photo of me and said, “Use a blender.” I rolled my eyes and replied, “I always hand cut everything when I make my pepper.”
Slowly, I prepared the cilantro. Still no cousin. I washed the limes and began to cut them into slices. Still no cousin. I diced a third bag of peppers. Still no cousin. As I changed knives yet again, she came running in with the green onions. We stood silent in agreement like soldiers on a battlefield signaling codes that only Hmong women would know and recognize in the heat of battle. I quickly rinsed the onions she had brought, which were fresher than the previous bushel I had been given, and quickly diced them.
Peppers, cilantro, green onions, limes, two bottles of water, two bottles of fish sauce, and finally salt.
A church member helping with the cooking stopped and watched me. “You must make good pepper sauce if you were asked to make it for the dinner.” I laughed nervously as I put the finishing touches into the sauce, as I had done for countless family gatherings before.
“How is it?” she inquired.
“I don’t know.”
“Let me go get some meat, and we’ll try it together.”
As I stirred the concoction, the girl reappeared with three thinly sliced pieces of roasted beef. We each took a slice and dipped it into a small portion of the pepper sauce. I looked to her for reaction first.
“It’s good.” She smiled. We both laughed, and I put the large bowl of pepper sauce into the refrigerator. It needed to sit before being added to the buffet line.
In all the commotion of the day, I wasn’t able to grab a bit of that pepper sauce with my own plate that night.
Months later, my cousin’s general-of-a-husband sat down next to me and said that my pepper was very popular.
I replied, “Brother, I wasn’t asked to make my pepper. It was an order.”
He laughed.
Duabhav BJ Lee is a born and raised Hmong southern belle trying to write about what moves her, shakes her, and makes her laugh.
Braving Imperfections
Douachee Vang
They always praised how smart I was, saying I could accomplish anything and everything if I just worked hard enough. But they also rebuked me by saying that only rich people could afford to dream and get what they want.
They always applauded how hardworking I was, telling others it would be impossible to host big parties without my help. But they also condemned me for being lazy when I put my studies first.
They always mentioned how much they loved me and how proud they were of everything I accomplished. But they also ridiculed me for choosing my career path and punished me even when they knew I was in pain.
This is what I’ve learned: people can be there to either hurt you or help you, and sometimes, they do both without even knowing it. That’s why it makes me wonder: when can I find fault with the hurt that they give me, and when is it okay to accept the hurt as helping me?
I was conflicted.
No.
I still am.
They came from a land of war and little opportunities to a land that offers the “American Dream.” With a handful of hope they pushed us children to achieve only greatness. I didn’t see anything wrong with that. I wanted to succeed for them; I wanted to make them proud; I wanted to show them that anything is possible, just as they had told me. I wanted to be the leader they always dreamt of for each of us kids.
However, when does it become too much? When does the encouragement and the pushing become excessive, a detriment? When is the tough love unbearable to the point of toxicity?
Is it when I come home after 9 PM, from attending zero period in the morning to a four-hour after-school practice, to a mess in the kitchen? Since I was not present to do my gender role duties, I am punished with late-night chores out of spite. Or is it when they continually complain that I should have been like my friend or cousin who made the “right choices” by sticking to academics and quitting extracurricular activities? Or is it when I stay in the college library to study all night and get accused of being a “poj laib”?
I couldn’t understand. I do everything that is asked of me and sometimes more. I held back on having a social life because I was lectured that “schoolwork can be done at home.” I am told to be different from everyone else, yet I am also criticized for not being like everyone else. At family meetings I am told to “ua siab ntev” with my parents and just do what I am told because, as a Hmong woman, I have no agency or power.
I was tormented.
Distraught.
Depressed.
I went into seclusion at the age of twelve. It was then that Depression opened its arms to me, cradling my battered sense of self with such tenderness by giving me the attention and care I was yearning for. It let me weep and vent; it let me dream and scream. It was there to hold my hand when I etched rays of warm crimson tears onto my soft, thin skin. I wanted to feel pain, any kind of pain that could take away all of the hurt I was feeling at home. I thought if I could find another outlet of discomfort it would numb the hurt that my family was causing me. Yet I didn’t feel anything. I couldn’t. The pain I was searching for as a replacement was shrouded already by my sore heart and burning throat, by the confusion of what my identity really was or could be, and the questioning of how to survive the path ahead of me, while at the same time desiring to end it all.
Too often I asked myself: Should I be the sedentary filial Hmong daughter they desire of me? If so, that meant suppressing my ambitions and my determination. It meant limiting my fiery spirit and taming my inquisitive soul. Or should I be the outspoken and stubbornly radical Hmong daughter who they believe will suffer in the future if I don’t live life the way they want me to? If so, that meant creating tension and tears at home. At a loss, I searched for answers.
When I opened up to others, they told me to ease up, to be more lenient with my parents, to remember the turmoil they went through in the Secret War. However, people didn’t seem to understand the emotional roller coaster I have been on and that I am still on. It is challenging to be understood, knowing our parents’ and grandparents’ history of escaping war and genocide to give us children a safer and better future—something I will always be grateful for.
Nevertheless, I want to say that it is okay to not have that emotional, parental support. As long as you hold on to what is important to you and are determined to face the obstacles that will come your way, you can succeed. Because—let’s be real—you won’t truly know what you’re getting yourself into until you’re in the middle of it. As a result, I wish for the past to not be used as a weapon to police the present and the future, especially in emotionally abusive ways, such as my experience.
I am sure people may retort that I am too uncompromising or “too young to understand.” And while these accusations may hold true to an extent, it does not make
me selfish or unaccountable. I am simply speaking my truth.
I want people to know that they are not alone in having imperfections, in having mental illness, in having to deal with culture clash. I want people to know that even compromises and being understood may take time—often it can be longer than what we imagine or, frankly, it can be never. We have to face things that are uncomfortable sometimes because that is a part of surviving and thriving. Being able to face the uncomfortable things in my life has made me a leader and role model for myself, even though it wasn’t easy, even though I am still learning.
Although it may be an anomaly to see oneself as one’s own leader and role model, I view it as an empowering act. During my darkest days, I didn’t have anyone I could safely and comfortably fall back to. I felt like an outcast sheep and as if I didn’t belong anywhere. As I worked through the pain and gradually decided to make decisions for myself, my world grew bigger and I found the places where I could belong and the people whom I could look up to.
So this is to say, it is possible to be your own leader. You may not be able to recognize it now, but someday you will see how far you’ve come. If you surround yourself with people who understand and support you and you continue to believe in your passions, you can achieve anything. Most importantly, never forget your roots and your experiences because they are part of what makes you, you. As I am continually learning, being different is not so bad; it just takes some getting used to.
Looking back, I chose to do the things that made me who I am today. I chose to stay in concert, jazz, and marching band in high school; I chose to do clubs; I chose my women’s studies major, anthropology minor, and Southeast Asian studies certificate in college. And now, I am choosing to do the things that will progressively let me grow. I am choosing to take a fifth year of undergraduate school, which will give me the opportunity to do research and gain all of the experiences I can get; I am choosing to apply for graduate school to be an academic scholar, something that is a new concept to my family; I am choosing to study out of state if that opportunity is given to me because I want to spread my wings as far as I can.
To close this narrative, I leave you with these words: As you navigate your way through life, don’t be afraid to choose the path that is less traveled. As Ralph Waldo Emerson states, “Go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”
Lastly, where there is pain or discomfort, there is a story to be told. Don’t be afraid to share it.
This is my story.
And it is still unfinished.
Douachee Vang majored in women’s studies at Fresno State and was a Ronald E. McNair Scholar and a Michigan Humanities Emerging Research Scholar. She will complete her master’s in cultural studies at the University of Washington Bothell in spring 2020. Douachee is passionate about feminism, power and knowledge, and social media studies/activism. She hopes to contribute more/critical Hmong studies scholarship into academia and her community. In her free time, Douachee can be found watching YouTube or Netflix and, more importantly, writing her feelings out. Her written work has appeared in zines and small anthologies. She is actively learning and unlearning, dismantling, and surviving.
Profile of a Hmong Leader
Kao Kalia Yang
Dawb had long, thick hair. She walked slowly. Somewhere in her earliest years, she had gotten very sick, lost consciousness. For weeks, she stopped talking entirely. Her snot was green and thick. It took her long months to learn how to speak again. Some people called her stupid. Others said that she was handicapped. Lots of people said, “If Dawb can do it, so can you, you, and you.”
Dawb was a year and nine months older than me. She was my only sibling for the first eight years of my life. I adored her.
In Thailand, crossing a bridge of flooded rocks in a rainstorm, I lost one of my flip-flops to the rushing currents. It was Dawb who jumped into the sewage canal, as my older cousins and I watched, to retrieve the errant shoe for me, dirty water flooding into her mouth, covering her head.
In America, it was Dawb who looked up at the bully girl towering over us on the school bus and demanding, “Which of you opened this window when I said no one could?” I had opened the window, but I shook in my seat as Dawb raised her hand and then closed her eyes. I watched as the big girl’s fisted hand fell hard over my sister’s head. There was a dull thud and then silence as the mean girl walked away.
All of our life together, Dawb has given me many reasons to see her courage, her sacrifice, her love.
When Dawb won the North End Elementary School spelling bee a year and a half after our arrival in America, I knew that school was going to be easy for her and that she was going to give our parents’ dreams room to grow here.
Dawb was the first girl in our family to successfully graduate with her bachelor of arts degree.
When Dawb said she wanted to go to law school, an uncle who loved her said, “You’re too short and small. No one would want to put their problems in your hands to help resolve. You should look into other jobs where someone of your stature won’t be judged too harshly.”
With the support of our mother and father, Dawb persisted and graduated from law school. She passed the bar and received her license to practice law in the state of Minnesota.
Dawb was the first person in our family to marry outside of the culture. She married a man from Kentucky, the first in his family to go to college, get a graduate education, and leave his community and home culture behind to discover a bigger world. They were well matched in many ways, but there was no way he could have attended to the rituals and traditions that governed a Hmong marriage, so they had a court ceremony and an abbreviated Hmong wedding picnic in our backyard.
Dawb was the first to have an interracial child, a little boy with light brown eyes, a thick head of coarse brown hair, and the most aquiline nose we’d ever seen in our family. Our mother named him Phoojywg, our language for friendship. Dawb was the first to have the second. She was raising a family, the likes of which we were discovering with each step she took.
In the mix of the marriage and the child rearing, Dawb became an experienced lawyer. She opened up an office at a Hmong market, put up a sign as “The Village Lawyer,” and took in the paying clients and the nonpaying ones. She helped a distant uncle keep his home in a drawn-out case against nine big banks who had all, at different times, held the title to his modest house. Dawb represented a young Somali student sent to court in Morris, Minnesota, by two white students who felt that her presence was threatening to them because she’d said, “I can’t even …” as they approached her in a full cafeteria. Dawb’s done many things for many people, each time with an understanding in her heart that the earth is not even for everyone.
Late at night, her phone rings. Someone is in trouble and they need help. Early in the morning, her phone rings. Another person is concerned about someone else who may need help. Each time her phone rings, Dawb answers, her voice calm, “Hello, you’ve reached the Village Lawyer. How can I help you?”
Today, Dawb lives quietly with her family on the east side of St. Paul. Her hair is not so thick as it once was, but she continues to walk slowly through the world, her head tilted high, listening for the call of the lonely birds. The little things don’t bother her—she’s had lots of experience dealing with them gracefully, the things people say about who or how she is, or how she will be judged. She focuses on the big things. She understands well that one day she will be judged by them.
Dawb Yaj does not mind when people say, “If Dawb can do it, so can you, you, and you.”
Kao Kalia Yang is the author of The Latehomecomer: A Hmong Family Memoir, winner of the 2009 Minnesota Book Award in creative nonfiction/memoir and readers’ choice and a finalist for the PEN USA Award in creative nonfiction and the Asian Literary Award in nonfiction. The Song Poet: A Memoir of My Father won the 2016 Minnesota Book Award in creative nonfiction/memoir and was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, the Chautauqua Prize, a PEN USA
Award in nonfiction, and the Dayton’s Literary Peace Prize. Her first children’s book, A Map Into the World, debuted in 2019.
Maum Tshis Coj Ntug: The Trailblazer
Kia M. Lor
Since childhood, I was known as the maum tshis coj ntug (the leader of the sheep herd) because I was born in the year of the sheep, in the sign of Aries. More than that, I was naturally a curious child who wandered around the city with my purple bike, leading my younger cousins and little sisters in what we called “journeys.” Back in the day they called it poj laib (radical female rebel), when it was really trailblazing. I knew at a very young age that I was born a trailblazer, even though I didn’t have the language for it then. I knew this because I deeply enjoyed exploring unknown territories and formulating new trails for people to follow.
However, growing up on government welfare in a single-parent household as a public-school-educated Hmong girl who would become the first person in her family to attend college made trailblazing an uphill challenge. No one in my family had ever ventured beyond the unknown territories of the Hmong circle. Consequently, the ethnocentric Hmong values ran deep in my community. Being female made it even harder to be a trailblazer because of the rigid cultural expectations. Gender roles for men and women were explicit: men were socialized to be bosses while women were socialized to be bossed, particularly to be a nyab (daughter-in-law). This rhetoric made me sick to my stomach. For all I know, I didn’t qualify as a good nyab because of my mother’s divorced reputation. People judged me based on her. “Like mother like daughter,” they would say. Therefore, I didn’t even stand a chance to be judged on my own merit as a nyab—not that I wanted to be a nyab anyway, because nyabs were forbidden to be trailblazers.