by Staring Down the Tiger- Stories of Hmong American Women (retail) (epub)
As immigrants, Hmong Americans have faced a variety of changes as they transitioned to life in the United States since 1976, changes that directly impacted gender roles and women within Hmong society. Work outside the home, education, and various other opportunities have significantly influenced the lived experiences of Hmong women in America. As Hmong women became involved in endeavors outside the home, they acquired educational degrees, celebrated careers and income advancements, and gained autonomy and voice about the direction of their day-to-day lives. These changes challenged traditional gender roles that once relegated women to being only wives, mothers, and daughters. Traditionally, the roles of wives, mothers, and daughters within Hmong society asked that women be subservient and focus on duties within the home to fulfill caretaking and childrearing responsibilities. As Hmong women gained the freedom and power to exercise notions of gender equality in which women experienced a higher level of autonomy and independence, the community as a whole faced challenges in maintaining the traditional expectations of women’s roles within the home and community. Not without struggle and conflict, the Hmong American community has made great strides in adjusting to the changes in women’s roles.
Exposure to Western notions of feminism does not imply that Hmong women did not already have wisdom around women’s autonomy and gender equality. Western education did not “liberate” or “open the eyes” of Hmong women; Western education served as a springboard from which Hmong women were able to launch into and deepen their own understanding of their lived experiences, stories, and concepts as women. America’s values around freedom and liberty contributed to and supported Hmong women’s movement into liberation. Hmong women are still developing an understanding of feminism that embraces Hmong cultural nuances that dictate gender roles and bicultural lived experiences. When interpretations deviate from the white experience, they struggle to be normalized and recognized by the general population; thus, Hmong women need to tell their own stories and capture these stories in a platform to be consumed by mainstream society.
We are behooved to document and share Hmong women’s stories that center on the themes of cultural change and immigration, the loss associated with those transitions, and how women have pushed past barriers in their journey. Current literature about the Hmong immigrant experience often focuses on the soldier story while omitting the narratives of Hmong women. This book provides a platform to tell these stories—stories that are often left unheard.
This anthology continues the work of collecting and documenting stories of Hmong women’s journeys during their transition to the United States. Extant work in this area includes Calling in the Soul: Gender and Cycle of Life in a Hmong Village by Patricia Symonds (2004), Culture and Customs of the Hmong by Gary Yia Lee and Nicholas Tapp (2010), An Introduction to Hmong Culture by Ya Po Cha (2010), “Commentary: Gender-based Violence among the (H)mong” by Jacques Lemoine (Hmong Studies Journal, 2012), Claiming Place: On the Agency of Hmong Women by Chia Y. Vang, Faith Nibbs, and Ma Vang (2016), and The Bride Price: A Hmong Wedding Story by Mai Neng Moua (2017). We stand on the shoulders of those before us as we stride forward in our journey to create lasting cultural, institutional, and social change to improve the lives of Hmong women.
PART 1
A Woman’s Journey
Creating a Narrative for Hmong Women
Pa Der Vang
To be a catalyst for lasting cultural, institutional and social change to improve the lives of Hmong women.
—Hnub Tshiab
At the age of forty-four, I am considered an elder in my community. Elder status is not only related to age in the Hmong community; it also has to do with experience and one’s role. I am a mother of two, I have a PhD in social work, and I’ve spent twenty years volunteering for my community. These three factors have contributed to my status as an elder. The story of my elder status has a lot to do with my work with Hnub Tshiab: Hmong Women Achieving Together, an organization founded by a group of Hmong women leaders in 1998 in St. Paul, Minnesota. Hnub Tshiab’s mission is to be a catalyst for lasting cultural, institutional, and social change to improve the lives of Hmong women.
I was born on a Thai military base that became a temporary refugee camp for Hmong refugees fleeing Laos in 1975 after the end of the Vietnam War. We became refugees because my father, along with thousands of Hmong in Laos, fought alongside the American CIA in the Secret War. When the United States lost the war and pulled out of Laos, Hmong knew that they would be persecuted: we were freedom fighters and traitors at the same time. My parents arrived in Missoula, Montana, when I was one year old. I was a curious and observant Hmong daughter, which got me into a lot of trouble. At the age of eight, I had the opportunity to read Hmong folktales in my after-school Hmong language class. I was critical of one of our folktales, “Yao the Orphan Boy,” in which the king’s daughter married Yao, a poor orphan boy, and was told that if she was unhappy in her marriage, she was to find a broom and dustpan and sweep the whole house in order to find happiness. In her efforts to clean the house, she found a pot of gold and silver; thus, she and Yao were happy. I knew early on that this folktale was meant to teach girls that being a good Hmong wife would lead to happiness. Being a good Hmong wife involved, in my youthful mind, cleaning and housework and subservience. My young mind felt that there was more to life than just cleaning the house and serving my husband.
At that time, my school principal’s name was Dr. Scott, and I was confused about why he wasn’t practicing medicine. He explained the concept of a PhD to me, which encouraged me to pursue one of my own someday. As I began to forge my own way in life, I encountered much resistance from my community. I left a marriage at age twenty-three even though I knew it meant I would be ostracized; I was being selfish for leaving my family and focusing on my schooling instead. I lived on my own while in college despite claims that Hmong women who live alone are up to no good. While in college, I wanted to publish about Hmong women and the effects of traditional culture practices on the socioeconomic and mental health of Hmong women in the United States. I found that maintaining traditional practices such as teenage marriage and domestic servitude often inhibited Hmong women’s socioeconomic and mental health later on in life. I encountered lots of resistance, but I continued my work and later published articles on this topic. Now I serve as a role model to other Hmong women who want to do the same type of research: I carved a path for them to do further work in this area.
While I was in school and volunteering, I felt very alone on my journey. I grew up during an era in which Hmong women did not question the status quo since the consequences for doing so were isolation, ostracization, ridicule, and even violence. Therefore, there were only a handful of women who spoke out about violence and oppression. In August 2000, while I was a graduate student, I came upon Hnub Tshiab: Hmong Women Achieving Together. This was a small group of Hmong women around the same age as me engaged in grassroots efforts to end domestic violence against Hmong women by ending sexism. I finally found my kindred spirits!
We boldly worked on ending sexism through the winter of 2006. We talked to people, published newsletters, gave talks, and spread the word, only to face criticism and threats from our community. However, the community wasn’t ready to talk so explicitly about violence against women at that time, so we realized that we had to do something different. We had to go around the system, not through it. Following a 2006 retreat with more than fifty Hmong women in Sandstone, Minnesota, we found that the issues around violence and oppression against Hmong women remained unchanged.
Hnub Tshiab held a board retreat in the spring of 2007 and crafted a new mission. Instead of trying to end violence by changing sexism, we would be a catalyst for change by creating Hmong women leaders. We changed our mission to: “to be a catalyst for lasting cultural, institutional, and social change to improve the lives of Hmong women.” We created the Hmong Women Leadership Institute, and we incorporated as a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization in the same year.
We changed our narrative. Instead of pounding on the problem of sexism, we focused on finding a solution for women. Instead of fighting a futile battle against age-old sexism, we would create Hmong women leaders as a solution. Changing the narrative was a powerful step in our organization’s work. Today, we have completed the ninth year of our Hmong Women Leadership Institute, and we have graduated more than 108 Hmong women leaders who have gone on to create lasting cultural, institutional, and social change to improve the lives of Hmong women.
The story of my elder status has little to do with me. Although it is about me and my life, it has to do more with the journey of Hmong women. My life as a divorced mother of two resulted in ostracization, shame, and stigma, but this experience led me to my PhD and my studies about the effects of traditional practices on the lives of Hmong women in America, and finally to the work of developing Hmong women leaders through Hnub Tshiab: Hmong Women Achieving Together.
Top row, left to right: Mai Vang, Gao Thor, Yer Lor, Ma Vang, Ilean Her; bottom row, left to right: Leona Thao, Pa Der Vang, Chee Lor, Cindi Yang
At the age of eight, in reading the story of “Yao the Orphan Boy,” I knew that sweeping my house was a metaphor for being a good housewife. The pot of gold was the happiness I could find if only I could be a good wife. I knew that I would have to be brave if my pot of gold lay elsewhere. I also knew that I wasn’t alone in this desire. I would have to look to the women who were already doing this work and continue to lay down bricks along the way for the Hmong girls who came after me. It wasn’t an easy road, but it came with so many rewards. I found my pot of gold in my passion for my work and the relationships I forged along the way. I don’t wish to change the folktale of “Yao the Orphan Boy”; I wish to add more to the story. In doing so, I became an elder.
Pa Der Vang is an associate professor in the department of social work at St. Catherine University. She has been a volunteer with Hnub Tshiab since August 2000. She publishes works on the immigration experience of Hmong in America.
Originally written for St. Catherine University, Center for Mission Blog, February 26, 2018.
How to Make Squirrel Stew
Pa Xiong
1. You start by cleaning the squirrels, exactly the way your mother had taught you all those years before.
You remember you had waited for your father to return home from his hunting trips in the Sierras, your father, who had often felt ashamed for not being able to provide a good life for you and your six siblings. In Laos, he had been an instructor of agriculture. He had made a respectable living. Here in America, he had become the recipient of welfare dollars; his children had become his teachers. You look at the two squirrels in front of you, the ones your brothers dropped off earlier today from their hunting trip before they headed home, and before you get to gutting the things, you take a second to be grateful first—for the Hmong men in your life. One knows this delicacy can’t be bought at the supermarket.
2. Now, take a mini propane torch and burn off the fur.
Make sure there is enough distance between the squirrels and the flames. After all, you want to be careful not to melt the darn things. While your sisters sat around the house, your mother had asked only you to help her with the day’s kill. She knew you weren’t afraid to get your hands dirty, and you hadn’t minded, anyway. Somebody had to hold on to this family recipe, and it might as well be you. Besides, you recall that your mother had made it a point to give every sibling his or her share of household tasks. She had even made your two older brothers help with kitchen chores. How many other Hmong mothers made their sons clear away the dinner table after every evening meal? You gather she taught your brothers something far more than they realized then. So, like you’ve seen your mother do so many times, pick up the knife now, and scrape off all the charred fur. While Americans throw the skin away, we know, when cooked right, it is actually the best part.
3. After rinsing the squirrels, clean and gut them.
It is going to smell. Bad. But it won’t faze you. It won’t be any worse than the smell of manure all those early mornings you accompanied your parents to the pig farm in order to bring home freshly slaughtered meat. You had watched as the butchers electrocuted the animal, hung it by its legs, and then stabbed its neck to drain the blood. You may stop to question if you can do this part without your mother. But then, you will remember the time you overheard your father boasting about your academic achievements to his friends—“If she had been a boy,” he said, “I would have been so proud.” You know you have no choice now but to pick up the knife. You grip it just a little tighter and make a clean, steady cut, a vertical line down the abdomens of the squirrels. With one hand, you reach in and pull all the insides out. You do this without fear, without flinching.
4. Now, chop the squirrels into small pieces. Put them into a pot of boiling water.
Getting it to taste right will depend on the herbs and spices you use. You won’t be able to buy all of the items at American supermarkets, but every Hmong family has a small garden where you will probably find exactly what you need. Lemongrass, Thai chili peppers, kaffir leaves. Just visit your parents’ house. Make sure, though, that you have forgiven them for all the times you felt they loved your brothers more. Your father made you understand early on that being poor meant parents could not possibly give all their children the same things. That had also meant that what little they had to give had to go to their two sons first. You take a moment to feel fortunate that this tradition ends with you—neither your son nor your daughter will have to know these life lessons. Now find a local Asian supermarket and buy the remaining ingredients. Galangal root, Thai eggplant, fish sauce. With all the ingredients in the pot, you let it simmer. But not like the resentment that still brews inside of you. That, you will have to let go.
5. Share this stew with your four sisters.
You realize that much of who you are today is owed specifically to the women in your life. Whatever you all felt that you were lacking when you were younger, in fact, only made all of you stronger. In a family where boys were favored, your mother still found a way to give you and your sisters a small taste of equality, even if it had been simply to have your brothers help in the kitchen. However miniscule, she planted the seed. You know your life is changed because of it. So go ahead: invite your sisters over. You know they will appreciate it. Pass the wine glasses and make a toast to sisterhood. Girls aren’t supposed to drink, so drink some more. Then spend the rest of the night sharing those god-awful stories from your youth. The five of you will find that laughing about your childhood is much more fun than crying about it. There is nothing to cry about today, after all. You just made Hmong squirrel stew, the way your mother had taught you all those years before.
Pa Xiong is a middle school English teacher living in southern California who holds bachelor’s and master’s degrees in Asian American studies. She spends most of her time raising her two kids, but here and there, when she can find a moment, she likes to write as well.
Soldier B31
Song Yang
I looked for you among the wall of black-and-white photographs, the most prominent feature in the Hmongstory 40 exhibit. Forty years after the war, these hidden photographs have surfaced to showcase the many faces that might have been forgotten. I certainly have had you hidden in the back of my memory … but never forgotten.
I found your picture among the rows of unnamed soldiers. I had never seen this picture of you before, but I recognize the uniform. You walked through my village in your uniform, and all the girls thought you were so handsome. I couldn’t believe you talked to me. We were teenagers when we got married … still so young when we had two sons.
Your cousins told me what happened the night you were sent to repair a broken telephone line. The enemy ambushed you. Grenades sprayed the air and blew off one of your legs. You were still alive but couldn’t run. When they found you, they found stab wounds to your head and chest. In your last moments, did you think about us? It�
��s okay if you didn’t. I know there wasn’t much time. You and I never had much time. They brought your body to me to put into the ground. I buried you in a deep part of my memory.
I am not the same girl you married so many years ago. Sun spots sprinkle the surface of my face. Wrinkles wind their way from forehead to chin. You wouldn’t recognize me. I am an old woman now, old enough to be your grandmother at the time of this photo. Death has taken a snapshot of you in time. Death has kept you young in my eyes.
The grandchildren ask, “Grandma, how do you know that’s him?”
“Of course I know,” I said. Some things I can’t forget, and some things I struggle to remember.
I’m sorry.
I don’t remember everything exactly. I am seventy years old now. I don’t remember the sound of your voice. I don’t remember dates or times or years. They all seem to blend together, fragmented at times, out of sequence, like a hard-to-remember dream.
I’m sorry.
I remarried. For love, not necessarily; for survival, certainly. I put away my tears for you. I took your sons away to the United States and left all evidence of you. When the war ended, it wasn’t safe to be a soldier’s wife. I burned all pictures of you, especially in uniform. This black-and-white photo is the first time I’ve seen your face outside of my own memory.
You were in my life for a short time, but look at what you left behind. Here are your grandsons: Bryan, Kevin, Sam, Jesse, and Eli. American names you wouldn’t recognize; grandsons you’ll never meet. They stare into your photo searching for something familiar in themselves.
You were not just a number. You were a mischievous son with dreams of being a pilot. You loved parachuting and outpaced your fellow soldiers. Your sister could not be consoled. You were her favorite. You have a story like so many other soldiers whose courage went unspoken. Resigned to your fate, your eyes still show defiance in the face of war. Defiance against silence.
