by Staring Down the Tiger- Stories of Hmong American Women (retail) (epub)
But in reality I know I’ll return home and be busy unpacking my four month’s-worth of belongings from India and repacking to head out to college again. I’ll use my “busyness” as an excuse to mask my emotions because I will be too shy to tell you that I saw your face in the mountains. It’d be too strange for you to hear it, too; you wouldn’t know how to cope with my epiphany.
At first this was a letter to you, Niam, my mother. Now it is a story about us.
A story you will probably never read.
Kia M. Lor was born in a Thai refugee camp and came to the United States with her family when she was four years old. She is the second of six children and the eldest daughter. At a young age, Kia acquired skills to be a cultural broker between her immigrant mother and the mainstream American culture. Today, she acts as an academic cultural broker as assistant director of Language and Intercultural Learning at the Fries Center for Global Studies at Wesleyan University in Middletown, Connecticut. Kia is also an active fellow at the Intercultural Communication Institute in Portland, Oregon.
Lub Neej Paj Ntaub
Tou SaiKo Lee
In honor of the Hmong women in our lives
VERSE 1
Thaum tsis muaj kev cia siab, kuv niam nyob ntawv,
When there was no hope, my mother was there,
Hais cov lus pab kuv, tu kuv tus kheej, yog lawm,
Saying words to help me take care of myself, that’s right.
Xav txog ua niam hauv lub neej no tsis yooj yim,
I think about how being a mother in this life is not easy,
Tsis muaj ib zaug, tsis nco, ua tsaug rau ib sim,
There is never a time I would forget, thank you forever.
Niam siv zog ua hauj lwm, tseem saib xyuas me nyuam,
Mom strives to work hard, still takes care of children;
Muam, rau siab kawm ntawv tseem pab tu tsev luam,
Sister studies for school, still helps take care of the home;
Pog ua zaub mov noj, qhia dab neeg kom luag ntxhi,
Grandma makes meals, tells stories for us to smile.
Me nyuam ntxhais nyeem ntawv, khiav ua si kom luag ntxhi,
Daughter reads books, runs to play to make us smile.
Zoo li tsis muab vaj huam sib luag, mloog, mi ntsis,
Seems like there is no equality, listen a little bit:
Thaum yug los loj hlob, muaj co saib poj niam qis
Growing up from childhood, there are some who see women as lower,
Muaj neeg hais tias, txiv neej yog cov muaj nuj nqis,
Someone said, “men are the ones with value,”
Tab sis tsis muaj niam thiab pog, tsis muaj txoj kev kho
But if there wasn’t Mom and Grandma, there would be no way to heal.
Tsis muaj peb cov ntxhais, ces leej twg yuav hlub koj?
If there wasn’t our daughters, who would love you?
Xav txog tus phauj txais tau nyiaj mus kawm ntawv deb,
Think about the auntie who received money to go to college far away,
Lawv hais kom nws yuav txiv, yug me nyuam, nyob tsev,
They told her to get married, have children, and stay home;
Xav txog tus muam lawv yuam yuav txiv thaum yau,
Think about the sister they forced to get married too young,
Yug me nyuam, tus txiv qaug cawv, muab nws ntaus,
Had children, the husband got drunk and assaulted her;
Xav txog niam tu siab, tus txiv tham ib tug tshiab,
Think about the mother’s misery, her husband trying to find a new love,
Hlub tus nyob nplog teb, ua tsev neeg puas tas,
He loves another one in Laos, his family is broken,
Tseem xa nyiaj thiab, me nyuam nyuaj siab tas,
He even sends money, children are all depressed;
Lub neej poob zoo, pab tsis tau lawv tus keej,
Their lives are lost, unable to help themselves.
Ua cas xuaj ua luaj, li ntawv tsis muaj neeg yeej,
Why so shameful, hence no one will win,
Vim li cas lawv ntxub poj niam, tsis muaj kev hlub?
Why do they hate women, there is no love?
Yuav tsum nhriav txoj kev tshiab, hwm txoj kev qub,
Need to find a new way, honor the old ways,
Yog peb xav mus deb, pab txhawb nqa lawv tom ntej,
If we want to go far, help support them in the future,
Tsis muaj lawv yug peb, tsis muaj kev hauv ntiaj teb.
If they didn’t give birth to us, there would be no existence in this world.
CHORUS
Paj Ntaub, tsis muaj kev ncaj ncees rau peb hais,
Our story cloth, there is no justice for us to speak,
Xav txog koj pog, koj niam, cov muam, cov ntxhais.
Think about your grandma, your mom, the sisters, and the daughters.
Qhib siab, koom tes, thov kom peb, xav tom ntej.
Have an open mind, get together, let’s all think progress,
Me nyuam yuav ua raws li peb, lawv yuav ua raws li peb.
Children will do what we do; they will be influenced by us.
VERSE 2
Muaj ib co tsis siab zoo, kuv twb ntsib ob peb tug,
There are some who are not good hearted; I have met a few.
Thov nej xav txog cov poj niam muaj kev hlub.
I ask you to think about the women who have love (for you).
Txiv neej zoo, xav kom nej ua suab nrov,
Good men, need you to have a louder voice,
Sawv los, txog caij qhia sawv daws paub txog.
Stand up: it’s time to teach everybody to know about this.
Pab cov muam ua suab luag, hais txiv neej hnov,
Help the sisters have laughter, speak to (other) men to hear,
Ib co muaj teeb meem, muaj kev sib ceg,
Some have problems and there are arguments,
Tsis sib haum, nrhiav kom tau, txoj kev zoo, yav tom ntej.
Don’t get along, try to find a way to be better in the future.
Ua siab loj, xav txog me nyuam lub neej ua ntej,
Be understanding, think about the children’s lives first,
Thaum txiv ntaus tus niam, tsis muaj kev haum xeeb.
When a father hits a mother, there is no peace.
Mloog cov lus, nkag siab niam txoj kev txom nyem,
Listen to the words, understand mothers’ struggles,
Saib hom phiaj uake, hloov kev xav hauv ntiaj teb.
Plan goals together, change the way we think in this world.
Ib co ua thawj coj, kom lawv muaj npe nrov,
Some people become leaders so they can be famous,
Ib co siv zog, pab cov neeg hauv teb chaws no,
Some people make an effort to help others in this country,
Xav pom cov mus deb, tig rov qab los nco,
Want to see those who succeed give back and remember,
Txhawb cov phauj, ua thawj coj, kub siab,
Support Auntie who is a devoted leader,
Tu cov tub loj hlob, kom saib taus poj niam,
Raise the boys to grow up and respect women,
Sib kho, tag nrho, kom peb tau kev vam meej.
Heal each other, all of us, so we can have prosperity.
Yuav tsum hwm cov poj niam hauv peb lub neej.
Need to honor the women in our lives.
Tou SaiKo Lee is a spoken word poet, storyteller, hip-hop recording artist, and community organizer from St. Paul, Minnesota. He has facilitated songwriting/performance poetry workshops and residencies at schools and community centers in ten US states and in Thailand. Tou SaiKo received the Jerome Foundation Travel and Study Grant in 2008, an Intermedia Arts VERVE Spoken Word grant in 2009, and a Bush Foundation Fellowship in 2016 to utilize arts to preserve cultural identity. He is writing a memoir about his collaboration with his grandmother and is working on his first Hmong-language hip-hop album, Ntiaj Teb Koom Tes, which translates to Unified Worldwide.
PART 2
Ua Siab Ntev
On Choice
Lyncy Yang
“Kuv yog ib tug menyuam yaus xwb thaum kuv niam lawv muab kuv muag, mus yuav txiv.” I was just a child when my mother sold me off to a husband. The way my mother tells it, she was barely into her double digits before being sold off for money and goods.
“Lawv ntshaw nyiaj.” They coveted money.
Naive me used to ask her why she didn’t just say no, stubbornly plant herself in the middle of the floor in front of all the relatives and refuse to leave the house. Her parents were bound to give in if she were determined enough, right?
She always repeated that she couldn’t be like us and refuse.
“Well, run away!”
She’d laugh and ask, “Where would I run to?” Refusing was not an option; the only option was to conform to everyone else’s expectations, wants, and needs. My heart sinks at how terrified she must have been to follow orders, transfer authority to a stranger, and spend the first night in an unfamiliar bed, with an unknown man, listening to his orders as darkness fell.
My mother was a victim of circumstance, but a persistent one. In time, her husband became familiar, her lifeline, her first love. (While he was the love of her life, he was not, however, her only lover.)
She held on to him tightly—bowed to his will and ways. That is, until death gripped him harder than she could and made him—and her—bend to its will and ways. Sending her dead husband into the spirit world was the first most tragic thing that happened in her life—more tragic than being forced to marry a complete stranger.
I think losing her husband to death—something she could not control—fostered an unflinching disposition toward the men who willingly chose to leave my mother at their own whim. Death, she couldn’t compete with. Choice, she could. So, she was never going to try to keep a man around when she knew what true loss was. They weren’t dying, disappearing into the vast unknown world of spirits and ancestors; they were choosing to walk away from her, and she was not going to run after them and grip on to something that had no intention of staying in the first place. Their choices could never carry the weight of her first husband’s death, so they were no real loss to her. She gained more than she lost: two children. One each from two separate relationships.
My mom carried the lesson of an early forced marriage in her guidance, love, and care for me. The first time I truly felt this in all of its complicated ways was when I was sixteen.
I changed into a pair of navy sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt in my basement bedroom after getting home from being out with my mentor, Lu. My mom enthusiastically trotted through the shadow of the basement hallway as she spoke into the phone. Her bright smile and spirited tone revealed that good news had just greeted her.
Mom’s joyful spirit always boosted my mood. Eager to hear who was on the opposite end of the receiver, I asked through my smile, “Ab tsi na?” What is it?
“Nrog koj tus nus Zong tham os.” Speak with your brother Zong.
“Zong yog leej twg na?” Zong is who?
“Ah! Yog koj ib tug cous-ing na.” He’s one of your cousins.
I’d better not ask too many questions and piss her off. I’ll just figure it out on my own and ask him myself.
I grabbed the phone from her ear. “Hello?” I introduced myself. Told him I was sixteen.
In Hmong, he asked if I was looking forward to meeting him. “Me leej muam, vam thiab cia siab wb tau sib ntsib os, yom?”
In English, I replied, “Of course I am excited; you’re a relative. Can’t have too many of those.” I asked him who he was exactly, how we were related.
He explained that he was a close cousin on my mom’s side.
“Oh! Puas yog mas?!” Oh, really?! I pretended to know who he named off. “Es thaum twg koj mas tuaj saib peb os?” When will you come visit us?
“In less than a week. I’m looking forward to meeting you,” he responded in English.
“Me too, cousin!” Something told me I had to establish some boundary between us, letting him know that all he could ever be to me was a relative. Never a lover.
“Koj puas muaj hluas nraug?” Do you have a boyfriend?
“Uh, no.” I quickly changed the subject and asked if he was traveling with anyone—his kids, wife? “Koj puas coj koj poj niam thiab me nyuam tuaj saib peb os?”
“Ib tug kwv tij,” he said. Another relative.
The conversation did not last long after that. I don’t remember exactly how it unfolded, but I remember leaving the call unsure of whether the tone of his voice was brotherly, cousinly love or a nasty attempt to seduce me into romance. The exaggerated softness of his voice (what our elders would call “qab zib” or sweet) felt artificial, fraudulently kind. It made my gut churn.
I shook away the thought of him casting any romantic interest my way and gave him the benefit of the doubt. He’s my cousin; that would be gross.
A week later, he appeared in black trousers and a white-and-blue-striped polo with another short Hmong man in his sixties sporting a black suit and white button-up shirt. Mom introduced me to him and told me he was the cousin I talked to on the phone. They both would be staying with us for the week, in my room. I’d sleep with my mom in her bed for the meantime.
Not a problem; I obliged.
The story slowly unfolded. He was in Minnesota to look for a wife, and his companion was his mej koob (middleman or officiator in planning a wedding). If and when Zong found his match, his mej koob would start the Hmong nuptials between her family and Zong. Marry them quickly.
Their trip, to me, felt like a business trip. They were here to acquire an asset—another human body—for him to invest in, take home, and create a profitable life of babies, money, and companionship. I wondered if maybe the love would accrue and compound like interest.
Each day during dinner, my mom would eagerly ask if he found a potential match. Each of his interactions, as he described the women he met, was like betting on a random hand of baccarat. He never seemed quite sure if he was going to win or lose, if the women were going to wager or fold.
I often wondered how love could be left to such chance in so many traditional Hmong marriages. I ruminated on my mother during these dinner conversations and wondered if she really had an interest in any of her husbands after her first marriage—especially if they were forced on her like a losing hand in baccarat.
Zong was on a time crunch. He had to return to work. His days were limited, and he was losing time and money. The investment of his and his mej koob’s labor proved to be unfruitful.
On the last evening before his departure, I came home to find Zong and his mej koob sitting knee to knee, heads leaning in toward each other in a concentrated, muffled exchange of words. They resembled two young children plotting how to go about a secret mission—neither completely on the same page with the other.
I joined my mother in the kitchen and greeted her. “Hi, Mommy.”
“Hi. Pab kuv rau mov noj.” Help me set the table.
“Okay.” I opened the rickety oak veneer drawers to pick out spoons and forks.
Zong’s mej koob entered from the opposite end of our galley kitchen to speak with my mother. Stepping over the threshold of the adjoining dining room, I heard the mej koob speak over the whirring noise of the stove fan, “Niam tij, Zong yuav yuav koj tus ntxhais xwb laiv.” Older sister-in-law, Zong insists on only marrying your daughter.
Oh, that isn’t me, I told myself as I looked down on the spoons and forks I was setting at each place on the dinner table.
Silence. My eyes elevated to meet my mother’s face full of pause. She rarely ever looked at a loss for words, but her twisted brow and cocked head revealed stun and puzzlement from the mej koob’s words.
“Tus ntxhais twg?” Which daughter?
“Koj tus ntxhais yau.” Your youngest daughter.
Shit, that’s me. Right? I was suddenly unsure whether I was her youngest daughter. Was there a younger daughter I didn’t know a
bout, or a cousin somewhere? I’m sure in that exact moment of realization, I was wide-eyed, mid-breath.
“Av.” Oh. She glanced at me, never fully making eye contact, and let out a laugh of relieved disbelief. It was as if she had complete control of this moment and knew exactly how to handle it.
She replied cheerfully, and ever so kindly, “He doesn’t want to marry her. She’s too young and doesn’t know anything. She can’t even prepare a meal. She’s still a child and is not ready to be a wife. I will not allow her to marry right now. We’re one family, so don’t think ill of my decision.”
Zong sat silently in the living room as he listened from the safety of our couch. The mej koob did not argue or seek to negotiate. Perhaps he understood the ridiculousness of such a proposition. He shuffled back into the living room to relay the message to Zong in whispers. There was more muffled talk between the two of them.
I wavered back into the kitchen for plates and searched for an indication in my mother’s face that she meant what she said: she wouldn’t let me marry … him, or anyone else for that matter. That she looked out for me, protected me and my interests. That she believed in what she had just said and wouldn’t go back on her word.
