by Staring Down the Tiger- Stories of Hmong American Women (retail) (epub)
I speak your name, Yia Yang. I carry your courage in my children and grandchildren as proof of survival. In this life, which has not always been so black and white, I’ve lived one truth. We survive not for those we’ve lost, but for those who need us to keep living.
Song Yang has a bachelor’s degree in English from the University of Michigan and a master’s in creative writing from the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee. She enjoys teaching with technology and created the website www.hmongsewing.com to teach and preserve the tradition of sewing Hmong clothes and paj ntaub through online classes. She lives in Georgia with her husband and two kids.
The River
BoNhia Lee
Tell me a story.
These are the four magic words that drive the work of journalists, an editor once said, and the reason I became a reporter—a storyteller.
Over the last thirteen years, I have covered apartment fires, murders, real estate and development, business, and government and have written several stories about the refugee experience as told by Vietnamese, Bosnians, and those from different African countries. But I have never recorded my mom’s tale.
Her journey to the United States, like that of many refugees, was a tragic one but is an inspiration for others to follow.
Life in the village was sweet, like the exotic fruit that hung from trees and the excitement of a small girl who got piggyback rides from her grandmother to the mountainside farm where she once picked the biggest cucumber of her life.
But the Secret War left the Hmong in turmoil. In 1975, when the United States pulled out of the Vietnam War, Mom and her family—her mother and six siblings—headed for the Mekong River to escape the Communists who were looking to detain Hmong from leaving the country. Her mom had secretly booked a boat ride across the river when it seemed they could no longer wait for her dad, who had traveled ahead to the Thai refugee camp to make sure it was safe.
The family hid overnight in an abandoned building next to the river. Half of the building was blown off during the war. The smell of sulfur from the bomb still lingered in the air, Mom said. At dawn, the family boarded a small motorboat with three men, a woman, and the boat operator.
The yellow Mekong River was dirty with mud, and there was debris floating in the fast current. It was the start of the rainy season. Mom sat in the front. Her two younger sisters and a brother sat in the middle, followed by her older sister, a brother, and her mother, who had a baby boy strapped to her back. The boat floated away from Vientiane, and Mom turned to watch the Thai shoreline inch closer. Then, water flooded the boat, creeping up over her feet and legs. She could hear screams and her mom praying, asking the sky above to help them survive.
Mom struggled to stay afloat as the boat sank beneath her. She could see her two younger sisters hanging onto baggage floating on top of the water. She bobbed up and down in the water for what seemed like forever before another boat pulled her to safety. Her two younger sisters and a brother were also later rescued.
I was in shock, very confused and did not know what to think. I just stared mostly into space for many days. I remembered trying not [to] cry because if I cried, my siblings would be scared. I had to take care of them.
They were taken to Nong Kai, a refugee camp created by the Thai government to house those escaping the war, where they were reunited with relatives and later their father, who had returned to Laos a day earlier to get the family.
There were no funerals for my grandmother, aunt, and uncles who drowned in the river while trying to escape. One uncle’s little body was found floating in the river. He was wrapped in a grass mat and buried on the bank. Grandma’s decomposed body was found two weeks later downstream. Mom was too sick to attend Grandma’s burial and was told that Grandma was buried in a wooden casket.
It was the saddest time of my life. Half of my family was gone in an instant. I was living in a nightmare that I wanted to wake up from but could not. Until this day, I still dream about my mother being missing all this time and someone in Thailand found her.
Life in the camp wasn’t easy. Mom, who was about ten years old, would only buy food for her five-year-old brother. Her two younger sisters ate the leftovers, and Mom ate whatever was left. Her brother got very sick from the river water he swallowed and had diarrhea for weeks. Mom would wake up several times at night to take her brother to the outhouse in the dark. When he couldn’t make it, Mom would dig a hole to bury his stool.
Mom and her family lived in the camp from May 1975 to October 1976; then they boarded a bus to Bangkok and a plane to the United States. She remembers landing in Fort Wayne, Indiana, and seeing yellow and orange leaves. She was sure she would not like the United States.
But Mom picked up English fast and began interpreting for relatives at medical appointments and hospital visits. She married at age sixteen and a year later had me—the first of three children. She would eventually earn her nursing degree while working and caring for the family. She’s been a nurse for almost thirty years now.
Yet being a floor, emergency room, and urgent care nurse wasn’t enough: she wanted to do more. Mom returned to Thailand a few years ago with a Hmong medical mission team (and has since participated on medical missions to Haiti, Panama, the Philippines, and Kenya) to help the sick and to heal her own heart.
We stopped [by the Mekong River] to pay respect and say goodbye to my family members who I lost many years ago that I never had the chance to say goodbye to.
She threw flowers into the murky water.
I will never experience such tragedy. But I can record it and share it with others.
BoNhia Lee is a communications specialist at Fresno State writing about student and faculty success, research, and other university accomplishments. She was previously a journalist for fifteen years. BoNhia contributed to the Fresno Bee’s “Living in Misery” special report on substandard housing that launched citywide debate in Fresno, California, and earned a George F. Gruner Award for public service. Born and raised in Syracuse, New York, BoNhia graduated from the S. I. Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University. She is married with three children. BoNhia credits her mother’s leadership and story for inspiring her to become a journalist.
The White Roses
Duabhav BJ Lee
Maybe I wanted something peaceful and beautiful to acknowledge the changing of a generation. The death of the Hmong leader General Vang Pao in January 2011 left me in a panic as I thought of the elders in my mother’s generation. Those who lost their lives fighting for this unknown world of democracy and those still fighting for the American Dream with twelve-hour shifts.
I laid a half dozen long-stemmed white roses at the meager Secret War Memorial at Arlington Cemetery the day I learned about General Vang Pao’s death. I wondered if the baby’s breath that adorned those white roses was fresh. I wanted to make sure that I honored his death properly. With my phone, I took a photo of those flowers and texted it to my mom.
Five years later, I sat listening to my uncle Laotoua describe how he orchestrated our family’s escape from Laos. I wondered what my mother thought of her escape with Uncle and his family. I thought of the white roses.
The photo of the white roses that I texted to my mother eventually made its way back to me. I found the picture on my mom’s phone. She kept it on her phone all these years even though she had gone through five phones. My mother loves her photographs. I paused as I reflected on hearing the story of my family’s escape from Laos, then finding the picture of the flowers on my mom’s phone. Maybe this is God’s way of bringing everything together.
I remember the corner market I often rushed past each day on my way to work. How my boss let me go home early that day, and how by chance I walked into the store, not sure what I was looking for. The white roses, my mother’s favorite, caught my eye, and I knew they needed to go with me. The metro from U Street to Arlington was sparsely populated. The ride seemed too short as I clutched the flowers in my arms and thoug
ht of my parents.
It made the most sense to me to go to Arlington Cemetery that day, a place oddly out of place but tucked into the hearts of every American who has ever served our country. It was chilly as I stepped off the platform. I found my way to the entrance, and with a bit of courage I walked slowly toward the memorial. It had been only a few months since my parents and I had come to pay our respects to the soldiers of the Secret War, when I started my position in Washington, DC. I stood, slowly breathing in the cool air that took my breath away. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything. I don’t recall if I managed to mutter any words of condolence to the engraved golden lettering before me. Alone and yet together with my Hmong family and loyal allies near and far, I placed the roses and brushed the memorial with my freezing fingers. Every time we visited Grandma’s grave, Mother always pulled off the twigs and weeds. This was the closest I could get to my Hmong tears weeping across the country and the world.
My mother loves white roses. She kept the picture of the white roses not only because she loves photographs but because our mothers are the keepers of our histories. I chose the white roses in honor of my mother, in honor of the soldiers of the Secret War.
Duabhav BJ Lee is a born and raised Hmong southern belle trying to write about what moves her, shakes her, and makes her laugh.
Lub Ntuj Tshiab: Under a New Sky
Kia M. Lor
At first this was a letter to my mother. Now it is a story about us.
I’m standing on a peak on the highest mountain range in the world, the Himalayas, and all I can see is you, Niam (Mom). Of course you aren’t here with me on this fine April day. You are on the opposite side of the world, back home in America. It is the first time in my twenty years of life to be this far from home, to be under this new sky. Niam, you aren’t physically here with me, but you are mentally here in every detail I see. I can see your face in the majestic mountains. I can taste the health you brag about in the fresh and clear streams. Now I understand why you always complimented the American roads; here the rigid roads are filled with rocks, pebbles, and potholes. I can hear your voice at the back of my mind, saying, “Minnesota is so flat, my child; you are missing out on the beautiful nature I grew up in.” Women are carrying heavy firewood on their backs, kids are running around naked, and families have hung their wet clothes outside on the clothesline to dry. I don’t fit in this place. My back is not strong enough to bear this heavy firewood. My clothes are too thick to dry on the line. I don’t belong under this sky. This sky is foreign to me, but I know it’s familiar to you.
Niam, you used to tell me the story of how we left the refugee camp in Phanat Nikom, Thailand, how we boarded an airplane, had two layovers—one in Tokyo and the other in Los Angeles—and landed in Minnesota with our one-way tickets. It was in the summer of 1995, and I was four years old. You were twenty-six years old and nine months pregnant with Gao Chia. You gave birth to her shortly after we landed in St. Paul, making Gao Chia the first person in our family to become a US citizen. You named her Gao Chia (Nkauj Tshiab, literally translates to “New Girl”) because we were in a new world.
St. Paul became our new permanent home. As much as you detested the Whoppers at Burger King, there was no turning back for you. The ten thousand lakes did not fascinate you. The Mall of America bored you. There were no mountains or crystal-clear rivers in St. Paul. July turned to December, and the snow buried the earth with icy, cold, white fluff. That was when you came to know that we couldn’t wear flip-flops outside; instead, we needed winter boots and coats (which we couldn’t afford). You said icy, cold, white fluff on earth was abnormal. I believed you. Naturally.
But in third-grade science class I learned that the Earth is tilted at a 23.5-degree angle, which is why we have four seasons: spring, summer, autumn, and winter. The pattern of the seasons in Minnesota was normal, much like the snow falling from the sky in December. That was when you became “abnormal,” Niam. You became abnormal because you believed people should drive on the left side of the road. You became abnormal for thinking that flushing the toilet was scary. You became abnormal because you questioned why every house had a TV, why people mowed their lawns, why people showered in a bathtub with shower curtains, why we had to pay rent every month and document everything on paper. Because you kept reminding me about how odd these things were, you eventually became the outcast. You didn’t fit in this place; you didn’t belong under the American sky.
Because you were always out of place, you frustrated me while I was growing up. I kept comparing you to other mothers, questioning why you couldn’t be more normal like them. Why were you so dependent on everyone? You married three times to three abusive men who didn’t have large enough hearts to love your children, just so you could depend on their help. Why couldn’t you drive? You forced me to take driver’s education so I could get my license at sixteen in order to drive the family around. Why couldn’t you speak English? I still remember visiting your psychologist when I was only in third grade. Your translator was late to the appointment, so I had to translate the first part. Since I was able to comprehend a little English, you thought I knew enough to inform the psychologist that you were stressed out. In Hmong, stress is nyuab siab, literally translated as “difficult or heavy liver.” I shyly and reluctantly told the psychologist with my childlike English, “My mom say she have very heavy heart,” knowing that the sentence would only make sense if I used heart instead of liver. At the time, I was upset at myself for not knowing the English definition for stress; later, I became upset at you for setting me up to fail, though you didn’t know that I’d failed.
You couldn’t support me educationally, and the distance between us grew wider. I worked hard to achieve academic success in school. Third grade left, and twelfth grade came in 2009. It was senior year, and I was at the apex of my academic game. I surged into the top ten percent of my class and earned myself a six-year, full-ride Gates Millennium Scholarship to any college in the United States. I remember that spring night in May: we sat in front of Mrs. Lynch for a parent-teacher conference at Johnson High School; I found myself translating—again.
At one point during the conference, Mrs. Lynch said, “Kia is a phenomenal student. She is very studious and polite. Many people adore her. She never misbehaves, and she completes all her assignments on time. Kia is a great person, and it was wonderful having her in class.” She ended by saying, “You should be proud that Kia is your daughter.”
I nodded and smiled at Mrs. Lynch’s compliments. Then I turned toward you, Niam, and looked at your numb, blank, stolid face; you were unable to recognize the huge vocabulary Mrs. Lynch used. My lips went numb. Suddenly my face burned red. I became shy. Ashamed. How in the world was I supposed to translate to you all these great things about me? How was I supposed to brag about myself like this in front of you? I couldn’t find the courage to tell you these things; plus, culturally, you’ve taught me to not be so vain. Three seconds passed by as I lowered my head and looked at my shoes and condensed all of Mrs. Lynch’s words into six simple Hmong words: “Nws hais tias kuv keej heev” (She said that I’m very talented). Again, I blamed you for not understanding English in the first place. If you knew English, then I would not have to fight with myself like this.
I became more frustrated when you couldn’t understand why I wanted to go to college an hour and a half away from home. You wanted me to stay home, to stay close to you. Hmong sons could venture into the world, but Hmong daughters were forbidden to leave the home. You know me, Niam, and you know how much I detested these Hmong gender restrictions. I defied you and went away. I thought distancing me from you was the solution. But Niam, the farther I go away from you, the closer you become. You have no idea how much this distance has changed how I see you.
All my life, I’ve only seen you as the Hmong woman under the sunlight of my sky in America. I’ve only seen an unstable woman who could not fend for herself. With a blindfold over your eyes and hopes under your breath, you left
the refugee camps of Thailand and came to the United States, a country where the “American Dream” is far from your reach. Yet, Niam, it never occurred to me that you were a professional fire-starter, banana-tree-chopper, firewood-carrier, rice-field-cutter, and hand-laundry-washer. You left your bamboo hut to come to a four-walled concrete building. Naturally you would be unstable in America; naturally you would lose that talented strong woman you were to the alien world of America.
Today, on this high mountain range, your voice plays like music at the back of my mind: “Kuv coj nej tuaj rau teb chaws Mekas kom nej pom kev vam meej es nej thiaj tsis txom nyem li kuv” (I brought all of you to America so you can see opportunities and possibilities and will not have to suffer from poverty like me). The greatest thing you’ve given me and my brothers and sisters is an escape route away from war in the refugee camps in Thailand. You gave us the world. I wish you were standing on this Himalayan mountain next to me. It’s such a beautiful view, Niam.
I stand here imagining how I might share this epiphany with you when I return home. I picture you and me alone in the kitchen because that is the only place where we can have civil conversations. In the kitchen you were my teacher and I was your student. You would be boiling chicken for dinner, your spoon hitting the side of the pot as you stir salt and black pepper into the broth. I would be rinsing the jasmine rice twice, then putting it in the rice cooker and pressing it down to cook. Our backs would be turned toward each other. We have never been able to meet eye to eye, but we would be able to listen ear to ear. In the silence I would work up the courage to tell you that I was standing on the highest mountain range in the world, and it was the most beautiful view ever, and on that mountain peak it hit me that you’ve climbed a much higher mountain than that one. In fact, you’ve climbed many mountains higher than Everest; you’ve seen more of the world than I give you credit for. And I would apologize for blaming you for everything. I’d take back the excruciating words I’d thrown at you, each like a dagger into your heart. One by one I would take out those daggers and heal your wounds. All these years I blamed you for my flaws and the things I couldn’t do. I blamed you that I couldn’t shop at the mall because we were too poor, so instead we shopped at the thrift store. I blamed you for not having grand birthday parties for me, not having a home I could bring my friends to, not being able to communicate with my teachers at conferences. I blamed you for making me responsible for paying the bills. I blamed you for being weak and dependent on men—I never dated because seeing your relationships terrified me. But I take it all back. You never asked for any of this, Niam. I would turn around and see you standing there smiling at me with your short gray hair and the forty-four-year-old wrinkles around your dark brown eyes. You would say to me that I was everything you wanted me to be and that you knew all along I was going to realize it on my own. We would be liberated from our haunting past.
