Staring Down the Tiger

by Staring Down the Tiger- Stories of Hmong American Women (retail) (epub)

  She wasn’t wrong. Hmong tradition dictated that everyone in her husband’s family called her “Daughter-in-Law Pheng,” “Pheng’s Wife,” or “Mrs. Pheng.” And like her, I was never just Mai Neng Moua. Blong’s side of the family always called me “Nyab Blong” (Daughter-in-Law Blong) or “Niam Tij Blong” (Wife of Older Brother Blong) or “Niam Blong” (Mrs. Blong).

  Niam Tou did not call back on Monday as she said she would. She didn’t call back on Tuesday or Wednesday, either. Like Blong, I shrugged it off. Everything was strange so far; Niam Tou fit right into the mix. Thursday evening as Blong and I were making dinner, Blong’s cell phone rang. He answered the phone. It was Mai. He put her on speakerphone so we both could hear her.

  “I’m back at the airport,” said Mai. “I’d like to come and pick up the minivan. Could you give my older sister directions to your house?”

  She does have an older sister! I thought. The older sister got on the phone.

  “There’s a gas station on Penn and Twenty-Sixth. We could meet there,” suggested Blong.

  “I know a gas station on Broadway right off 94. Could we meet there instead?” asked the older sister.

  “Sure, I know where that is. We’ll meet you there,” said Blong.

  Blong drove Mai’s minivan while I drove our car to the Beehive (Old Colony) on Washington Avenue right off 94. He parked Mai’s van on the street. We waited outside our car and soon spotted another Camry driving up to the gas station. Mai got out of the car and walked toward us.

  “Hey, don’t you know that lady?” asked Blong, pointing to the older sister, who was filling up the Camry at the pump.

  I looked more closely. The older sister, or Niam Tou, turned out to be Ann from my mom’s church. Her husband, Tou, was a close friend of my older brother. Hmong tradition dictated that I call Ann’s mom “Grandmother” since she was married to my “Grandfather,” our clan leader who had died in Thailand. Ann and I were part of the same extended family who went to the same church and attended the same weddings and funerals. I walked over to Ann.

  “Hey, I didn’t know it was you!” I said.

  “I didn’t know it was you, either!” Ann responded. “Mai said Mai Neng Yang married to a Blong Yang, a lawyer in Minneapolis. I thought it might’ve been you. I didn’t think you’d changed your name.”

  “I didn’t. It’s still Mai Neng Moua. She probably thought it was Mai Neng Yang because Blong’s a Yang. So, how are you related to Mai?”

  “Mai’s father and my mother are brother and sister.”

  “Wow. You’re first cousins!”

  Only in the Hmong community could this happen. I had no idea I’d be related to Mai, the woman who I thought was just the friend of Ka, who was the friend of Blong’s aunt. Mai, the woman who lived three hours away in southwest Minnesota and who was being beaten by her husband, was related to me by one degree of separation.

  “What’s going to happen now?” I asked.

  “Her husband’s really mad at her and won’t let her back into the house.”

  “Well, it’s probably not a good idea for them to go back, then. If he’s that mad, he could hurt her, and none of us will be there to stop him.”

  “They’re going to stay at my house for now,” responded Ann. “I didn’t even know she was leaving him until she called me from California. I wish she had told me. I could’ve given her some advice.”

  I remembered that Ann had been divorced before she married her current husband. She came into the marriage with two young kids, whom her husband adopted.

  “So what’s going to happen now?” I asked again.

  “The kwv tij and neej tsa will call a meeting and try to resolve things,” said Ann.

  “Why did she go back?” I asked Blong.

  “I don’t know. Don’t worry. She’ll be fine,” said Blong. “She’s got plenty of people helping her.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “She just seems so lost, y’know.”

  Was Mai the type of person who couldn’t make her own decisions, so she’d ask a hundred people for advice? Or perhaps that was just a way to get sympathy? Or maybe she really did know what she wanted but just needed the support to go through it.

  A week later, Blong received two phone calls from Texas: one from Ka and one from his aunt. Both wanted to know what Mai could do. We didn’t know if the kwv tij–neej tsa meeting ever took place, and if it did, we had no idea how things went.

  “There’s nothing anyone can do for her now,” stated Blong. “If she wants to divorce him, she needs to hire an attorney and pay her to take care of it soon.”

  They both wanted to know how much it would cost.

  “This isn’t going to be an easy one. I’d say anywhere in the ballpark of five to ten thousand dollars.”

  They both thought that was a lot of money.

  “Look, tell Mai to call me. She’s got my card.”

  Mai never called. We never heard from her again.

  Mai Neng Moua is a writer spinning tales of what it means to be Hmong in America. Her memoir, The Bride Price: A Hmong Wedding Story, was published in 2017. She is the founder of Paj Ntaub Voice Hmoob Literary Journal and editor of the first Hmong American anthology, Bamboo Among the Oaks: Contemporary Writing by Hmong Americans. Her artistic awards include the Bush Artist Fellowship, the Minnesota State Arts Board Artist Initiative Grant, the Jerome Foundation Travel Grant, the Loft Literary Center’s Mentor Series, and Kundiman’s Creative Nonfiction Intensive. Mai Neng lives in Minneapolis with her husband and two girls.

  My Sister Is Depressed

  Maly Vang

  I can no longer watch you use my sister.

  I can no longer sit here and see you make her cry.

  I can no longer hear stories about you.

  I can no longer let this shit get by.

  My sister is depressed.

  She wakes up every morning and pretends that she is fine.

  She goes to work, comes home and takes care of the kids, cooks and cleans, and gives her children baths.

  She doesn’t ask for help.

  She doesn’t complain, but trust me, she is depressed.

  After her showers, she’ll look in the mirror and grab the three-inch tire around her waist.

  She’ll put her arms out and shake her underarms—just to let it all hang out.

  She can see the cellulite on her thighs and the dark bags under her eyes.

  She doesn’t ask for help.

  She doesn’t complain, but trust me, she is depressed.

  She just lost a child.

  She is bleeding.

  She is aching.

  Her body hurts.

  Her heart is broken.

  And for a split second or so, she is no longer a mom, a wife, a woman, or herself.

  She goes to work, comes home and takes care of the kids, cooks and cleans, and gives her children baths.

  She doesn’t ask for help.

  She doesn’t complain, but trust me, she is depressed.

  She looks through your phone.

  She sees the messages.

  She reads the texts.

  She looks down at herself and sees the three-inch tire sitting on her lap.

  Too afraid to say anything.

  Too afraid to ask why.

  Too afraid to answer the why.

  But she doesn’t ask for help.

  She doesn’t complain, but trust me, she is depressed.

  She cries herself to sleep every night.

  She grew old.

  She grew ugly.

  She is not as pretty as she used to be.

  And she is not as free as she used to be.

  So many responsibilities.

  So many thoughts of just leaving everything behind.

  So

  many

  times

  she

  felt

  alone.

  Fake laughs.

  Fake smiles.

  Fake stories just to make them happy.
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br />   She doesn’t ask for help.

  She doesn’t complain, but trust me, she’s depressed.

  You tell her to not believe their stories.

  You tell her it’s gonna be okay.

  You tell her to wait.

  You tell her that you love her.

  You tell her that you care.

  You know….

  Sometimes actions speak louder than words.

  Have you hugged her? Wiped away her tears?

  Did you hold her?

  Comfort her?

  You love the fact that she would clean and cook for you.

  You love the fact that you could hurt her and she would stay.

  You love the fact that you could do what you want to her and she would still love you the same.

  My sister asked for help.

  My sister did complain.

  My sister is no longer depressed.

  Maly Vang is a mother, sister, friend, and woman from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, whose creative drive is beyond measure. With a strong focus on family and coming together as a unit, Maly writes from the heart in hopes to connect and heal. A mother of five and a sister of nine, she puts her values and faith in family first.

  Daughter Poem

  Talee Vang

  Daughter

  Speak with a delicate tongue

  So that words will drip from your lips

  And send the boys running

  Bucket in hand, ready to capture every syllable

  Daughter

  Rise with the sun

  And dance in the steam of rice, cooking in the morning

  Greet your new mother and father with

  A gentle smile as they criticize the texture of your work

  Daughter

  Be like the blue ocean water

  Flow with your husband’s demands

  Trickle down the multiple paths carved out for you

  And cleanse your household with your purity

  Daughter

  Be like the cold earth’s mud

  Mold your dreams, desires, and hunger after your husband’s

  And live in harmony, unified and supported

  Daughter

  Learn to love your new family

  More than you love your old

  For when time stops and your body is laid to rest

  You will belong with them

  Daughter

  Keep your skin soft as dough

  But grow your heart to be as fierce as a tiger

  When you learn to accept these things

  Strength will become of you

  Daughter

  Laugh when you are hurt

  Bite your tongue when you are angry

  Be strong when you feel weak

  And let no one look into your eyes

  Daughter

  Be subservient

  Remain silent

  Follow others

  Work hard

  Be strong

  Love unconditionally

  Forgive others

  Quiet your soul

  Kill your dreams

  Live for your children

  See but don’t speak

  Feel but don’t cry

  Fear but don’t run!

  For I cannot protect you

  And if you don’t listen to these words of wisdom

  The world will fight you

  They will rip your spirit apart

  And I cannot be there to comfort you

  And I cannot bear your sorrow

  And I cannot heal your wounds

  And I cannot erase the pain

  And I just want your life to be

  As easy and simple as possible

  Daughter

  One day, when you have children of your own,

  Maybe you will understand …

  Momma

  Thank you for your love and concern

  I will find my way

  I am courageous, strong, and resilient because of you

  Kuv niam

  Be assured that I will bring you honor and joy

  Talee Vang started writing and performing poetry in high school, using spoken word as a tool to combat injustice in society. Her passion for underserved populations stems from her lived experiences. She has traveled throughout the Midwest performing and teaching spoken word. Talee is daughter, sister, wife, nyab, mother to four beautiful children, and a doctor of psychology. She advocates for womanism as opposed to feminism because she believes that Hmong women should stand united with—rather than divided from—their brothers.

  PART 3

  Grand (Mothers) We Love

  The Grandmothers We Love

  Boonmee Yang

  In a world where many suffer in silence, let us not forget the grandmothers we love. They are such complex creatures. Yet only after their ghosts are left do many of us fully realize this.

  As a child, I divided people into two simple categories: Kind or Unkind. For example, my mom was Kind because she’d always blow on the forkful of coiled pho noodles before feeding me. Mrs. Kjeldseth, however, was Unkind. She called me by a different name throughout the third grade, despite multiple corrections.

  My pog was an exception. She moved between both categories as if they were separated by a permeable membrane. I was raised mainly under her care, which complicated how we behaved as grandmother and grandson. Kind Pog periodically took me to the corner grocery store to purchase the two-for-one generic Oreo sandwich cookies with her colorful food stamps. Kind Pog showed me how delicious sliced white bread tasted when dipped into heavily sugared instant Folgers coffee.

  Unkind Pog was addicted to nagging. Unkind Pog tattled on us to my dad when he’d come home to a messy living room. Most importantly, Unkind Pog was the antithesis to my childhood energy. We loved each other, but liking one another was optional. With her, I never got to be a child. Add in the complexity of being the firstborn son in a Hmong family (though I was the sixth child): she expected me to model maturity for my younger brothers from age three. She held me accountable for activities I believed little children should be free to do: jump, run, build forts with the sofa cushions, and climb everything. My younger brothers and I couldn’t do these things inside the house, nor could we play outside for long, due to her paranoia about kidnappings. For her, I was always older, even when I was only starting kindergarten.

  Across the yard, though, resided the kind of grandmother for which I yearned. Nestled inside my neighbor’s duplex was a grandmother who allowed me to freely be a child. She didn’t punish me for being too loud or messy. Her greetings included a smile and a butterscotch wrapped in crinkly, golden cellophane paper. She also had a bamboo bong that never left her side. Despite the opium addiction, I put her under Kind.

  (I’d known what a bong was from having been raised around other elderly Hmong who had opium addictions when my family lived in the projects in West St. Paul. Opium addiction was a secret that all the children in the neighborhood knew about but no adults spoke of.)

  She had two grandsons, whom she doted on. Daniel (not his actual name) was a chubby Hmong boy with a bowl cut. Like me, he was also starting kindergarten. His older brother, H. Seng, was not like most boys I’d met.

  My initial encounter with H. Seng ended with me screaming. His most striking features were the burn scars that plagued his body. His outer ears had burned off, leaving only the canal openings. His hair was desert vegetation: sparse, thin, and wispy. His bottom lip fused into his chin, revealing some of his lower teeth. Both his hands had been amputated; his grandmother would attach special dining utensils for him to use during meals. He would joke about how he felt like Captain Hook when wearing them.

  I spent many afternoons in Daniel’s living room. While we jumped on sofa cushions, ate junk food, and chased one another, his grandmother sat out back in the three-season porch to get high. Yet, never did I feel unsafe. When it was time to go home, I’d slowly walk down the stairs, wishing Daniel and I could switch grandmothers.

&nbs
p; One day, I finally asked about his older brother. Daniel shared that before he was born, their grandmother had left H. Seng behind to go grocery shopping. She’d also forgotten a pot of water boiling on the stove. The apartment caught on fire, and, too little to reach the doorknob, H. Seng was trapped inside.

  When my family relocated to St. Paul that summer, I was more sad about leaving Daniel’s grandmother than I was about leaving my Minneapolis friends.

  Years later, I picked up a local newspaper and saw a familiar scarred boy with wiry black hair on the front page. The centerfold featured him holding up an incredibly detailed sketching of the White House. Mentioned in the article was also an insight that Daniel had left out: their grandmother was high when she left the apartment on that fateful day

  In that moment, truth, perspective, and age came together for a jarring revelation. The fire was no accident. It was carelessness. I recall wondering: How does a family live with an addict who almost killed their child? Why did she not give up her habit after the fire? Did H. Seng forgive her, and how? All those years of yearning for a grandmother like her, it never occurred to me that, to someone else, she may have been their Unkind.

  But I had also begun to understand the complex relationship between opium and my people. Much like my pog, opium couldn’t be rigidly labeled. As deadly as the addiction was, many Hmong gardeners, like my mom, still planted opium poppies because the vibrant flowers reminded them of their homeland. Though countless infants lost their lives to opium overdoses during the escape from Laos, its cultivation also provided income to sustain families.

  After finishing the article, I looked over to my pog, who had begun spending her days staring silently out the kitchen window. I’d grown quieter as well, especially after my dad died. Perhaps, like me, she’d decided that keeping her thoughts private was easier than trying to explain her feelings to others. That afternoon, I realized how little I knew about the woman who’d spent more than a decade raising me. For someone who’d spoken frequently during my childhood, rarely had any of her words been about herself.

  As an adult, I’d like to believe my system of cataloging people has developed some complexity. I can now understand my pog and Daniel’s grandmother as more than just either/or. Both women were war survivors whom I’d tried to simplify.

  Like other Hmong grandmothers, effects of the war left my pog and Daniel’s grandmother aching for an impossible healing. During an era when many Hmong families were displaced throughout the world, abiding by the Refugee Code to survive didn’t afford us time to slow down and examine war trauma, let alone try to create a word for PTSD in our language. Both women learned to cope without self-help books. Whereas Daniel’s grandmother found solitary refuge in the hollow of her bamboo bong, my pog’s coping mechanism manifested itself as an overly protective, fierce-loving woman who repressed the war terrors she’d witnessed in order to spare me from them. It is no small feat to swallow years of trauma to the very last gulp of air on one’s deathbed.