by Staring Down the Tiger- Stories of Hmong American Women (retail) (epub)
For all seventy-eight years of her life, my mother exemplified unparalleled leadership by loving deeply and unconditionally. She succeeded in taking care of her family despite her humble means. Though she is no longer with us, she will never be forgotten.
Born and raised in St. Paul, Minnesota, Linda Vang Kim is mother to Lucy, Eunice, and Elliot and partner to Yong. She is a graduate of St. Paul Central High School, Carleton College, and the University of Minnesota. Linda works as an academic adviser in the College of Education and Human Development at the University of Minnesota Twin Cities.
On Father’s Day
Nou Yang
On Father’s Day, I am reminded that it was a woman who raised me. A woman who had to go into battles alone.
Battles of survival:
growing up as an orphan
raising five children to adulthood and losing two;
living in the jungle; and
crossing the Mekong.
Battles of navigating newness:
starting over in a strange land;
driving a car you once only dreamed of;
supporting the educational aspirations of your children in a system you have never gone through;
learning a foreign language;
raising a challenging Hmong American teenager; and
balancing both Hmong and Western cultures as the head of household.
On Father’s Day, I am reminded of the burdens she had to carry alone:
to be responsible for every action of her children;
to carry the weight of my reputation—the Hmong community would judge my mom’s ability to raise us based on my behavior.
On Father’s Day, I am reminded that the Hmong community values men more than women.
I am reminded that the Hmong community does not place such burdens on men, whether or not they are present.
I am reminded of how people used to make me feel “less than”—that I would grow up to be a “mi nyuam laib” (bad rebellious child) because I lacked a father figure or male authority.
I am reminded of my brothers and male cousins who stepped in and took on the role of father figure and tried to provide guidance.
On Father’s Day, I am reminded that I am not fatherless. Rather, my mother and father are one and the same.
On Father’s Day, I am reminded that my mother is enough just as she is … full of
strength,
courage,
bravery,
fierce independence,
purpose,
capacity, and
resilience.
Kuv niam, I love you on Mother’s Day, but perhaps it is on Father’s Day that I love you even more.
Nou Yang is passionate about creating spaces for collaborative learning and dialogue around issues of identity, cross-cultural leadership, youth development, and gender equity. Her twenty years of professional experience include direct service work, fostering leadership opportunities, and engaging community toward action and management. A Hmong refugee, Nou believes deeply that all people have value and that growth happens through reflection, listening, and dialogue. Nou is an alumna of the Marshall Memorial Fellowship, a leadership program that fosters connections between the United States and Europe to build transatlantic leaders; and a past board member of Hnub Tshiab: Hmong Women Achieving Together.
Pure Love
Douachee Vang
Kaj Ntshiab and her niam were grocery shopping at the Hmong store. It was there that Kaj Ntshiab realized, once again, that some of her aunts and uncles who were shopping were giving them strange looks. She saw that they whispered to one another and kept giving Kaj Ntshiab and her niam side glances. When they got closer to each relative, they were given a simple greeting before being quickly abandoned. Kaj Ntshiab looked at her niam when she interacted with the relatives and saw how she remained relaxed, smiled, and spoke with a calm tone.
When they arrived home, the sun had already hid itself halfway under the horizon, coloring the sky with a wash of pink and orange. Kaj Ntshiab and her niam unloaded the car and put the groceries in the fridge where her artwork, grades, and notes were pinned with magnets. While Kaj Ntshiab did her homework on the dinner table, her niam made her favorite pork stir-fry and a batch of steamed white rice. Kaj Ntshiab could smell the earthy scent of fresh cilantro and green onion mixed with ginger and garlic, along with the aroma of jasmine rice filling the kitchen. For Kaj Ntshiab, time passed too quickly when she and her niam were at home, especially when it was nighttime; as soon as dinner was set and eaten, it was already time to get ready for bed.
After washing the dishes with her niam, Kaj Ntshiab took a shower, brushed her teeth, and ran to her bedroom and jumped into bed: she was ready to sleep in for the weekend. Like every other night, Kaj Ntshiab’s niam peeked into her room to check up on her. That was when Kaj Ntshiab mustered up some courage to ask her niam a question.
“Niam—why do some of our aunts and uncles look at us funny whenever they see us?”
Instead of ignoring the topic, Kaj Ntshiab’s niam walked over to the bed and tucked herself in. She then replied while giving Kaj Ntshiab a gentle hug, “It’s just because they don’t understand my love for you.”
“But,” Kaj Ntshiab continued, “isn’t it because we left Txiv? I heard the other kids talk about it, and it makes me sad and confused.”
Kaj Ntshiab’s niam sat in silence while still holding her daughter, thinking about how to approach the subject. Finally, her niam said, “Have I ever told you the story of your niam tais?”
“No,” Kaj Ntshiab answered, curious as to what her niam had in mind.
Kaj Ntshiab’s niam moved around to get more comfortable. “Well, then, it looks like I have the perfect bedtime story and history lesson for you.”
“Okay!” Kaj Ntshiab answered excitedly.
Kaj Ntshiab’s niam cleared her throat and began.
“Puag thaum ub, your niam tais came from a place called Laos in Southeast Asia. She and I were running away from a dangerous place; at that time, I was about the same age as you—eight. The two of us ran through a big jungle for many days and many nights. But we weren’t the only ones—a lot of other families were also with us. We were all trying to reach the Mekong River at the edge of the jungle so that we could cross it and make it into the safety of Thailand. After countless days and nights of tirelessly running, we all finally reached the river. We jumped in and swam as fast as we could across the river. Many people didn’t make it across, but for those who did, we eventually made it to Thailand.
“After spending a few months in Thailand, your niam tais and I were able to get a sponsor from America. Now, a sponsor in this situation is someone who is willing to pay, support, and care for another family to live in a new place and start a new life. So, when this sponsor helped your niam tais and me, we both flew to America in a big airplane. While on the plane, your niam tais and I heard stories about how America was all white: there were only white people, and the land and trees and anything that we could possibly imagine in America was white.”
“Really?” Kaj Ntshiab exclaimed, puzzled. “That’s funny. Why did Niam Tais and you think that?”
“Because,” Kaj Ntshiab’s niam explained, “everyone back in Laos used to make stories about Americans being white, so people just believed in it since we didn’t know what was the truth. But not only that, elders made stories that Americans ate other humans—that they were cannibals!”
Kaj Ntshiab shivered from fear and grabbed onto her niam. “That’s scary!” Kaj Ntshiab’s niam held her closer for comfort and assurance, chuckled, and then kissed the top of Kaj Ntshiab’s head. “It’s okay; it was just a lie that they told us. There is no such thing as people eating other people. Many of the elders only said this so that we Hmong people would stay in Laos and not flee to America.”
Kaj Ntshiab released her grip and asked, “And then?”
“The funny thing is,” Kaj Ntshiab’s niam continued, “when Niam Tais and I
arrived to America, we really thought that it was all white like how the elders had described. It was snowing at that time, and all the snow covered the trees and the ground and the buildings. We were scared and thought that maybe the elders in Laos were telling the truth after all. But luckily our sponsor and a translator told us that it was just snow.”
Kaj Ntshiab’s niam continued with, “I remember when I was in fourth grade, a girl came up to me and told me to go back to my country because America wasn’t our home.”
Kaj Ntshiab responded, “Why? That’s mean. Did you cry?”
“They just didn’t understand who the Hmong people were,” her niam said with a reassuring smile. “But don’t worry; I didn’t cry. I remember looking back at the girl and telling her what I had just learned in school: that America was not her land, either, and that it was the Native Americans’ land to begin with. After that, she didn’t say anything else to me.”
Kaj Ntshiab giggled.
“I also remember that I didn’t like shoes because I never wore shoes in Laos. That’s why even today I don’t really like to wear high heels and would rather be barefoot most of the time. But even though I didn’t like shoes, I loved getting new clothes from the Salvation Army and other charities. I was always excited when it was time to get new clothes because I never had so many outfits before. But other than that, it was hard at home because I had to help Niam Tais with all of the chores since it was just me and her in our family.”
After hearing this, Kaj Ntshiab started to wonder about Yawm Txiv. “Niam,” Kaj Ntshiab questioned, “what about Yawm Txiv? You haven’t said anything about him.”
Kaj Ntshiab’s niam went quiet for a while. Then she said, “Your niam tais left your yawm txiv a long time ago before you were born, and because of that, everyone kind of ignored her and didn’t talk to her much or, worse, they would talk behind her back.”
Kaj Ntshiab waited for her niam to continue speaking, but she saw that Niam was looking at the teal-colored wall, lost in thought. Finally, still looking off into the distance, her niam continued, “In our culture, it is never right for a woman to leave her husband. She is just supposed to ‘ua siab ntev.’ If a woman does leave, it will make her become a ‘bad woman’ to everyone else because she couldn’t stay and keep the family together.”
After some somber silence, Kaj Ntshiab’s niam said confidently, “But you know what?”
“What?” Kaj Ntshiab replied with a smile.
“Don’t be afraid by what our Hmong culture and other people say or think. Having a family with only one parent is not a bad thing, like everyone keeps saying. I have you, and as long as we have each other we can make it through anything. Besides, Niam Tais was able to do it alone with just me and her, and thanks to Niam Tais’s hard work of raising me up I now have a brave, smart, and beautiful daughter like you. You are the best thing to happen to me, and I don’t regret any of it. No matter what anyone says, Kaj Ntshiab, just remember this: don’t let them intimidate you—don’t let them make decisions for you or pressure you into staying in one place or situation forever. There is such a big world out there that you can discover, and you can do anything and everything that you desire if you put your mind to it.”
Kaj Ntshiab’s niam gave her one more tight squeeze and kissed her forehead.
Kaj Ntshiab hugged her niam some more and closed her eyes. It was very late now, and Kaj Ntshiab’s eyes were getting heavier and heavier, just as the stars and moon outside grew brighter and larger. Kaj Ntshiab quickly drifted off into sleep, and after some time, her niam slowly untucked herself from the bed. She pulled the covers up to tuck in Kaj Ntshiab and then knelt beside her bed, gently moving the hair from Kaj Ntshiab’s face.
“Good night, my sweet daughter, kuv mi nplooj siab Kaj Ntshiab. May your life always be full of purity and joy just like your name.”
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.
My Grandma Can Freestyle
Tou SaiKo Lee
This was the first night that Grandma Zuag Tsab (pronounced Zhua Cha), who had arrived to the United States from Laos several years prior, came to see me perform spoken word poetry. She walked with a hint of a limp that, she later explained, came from pieces of shrapnel lodged in her left leg from a land mine left behind after the Secret War many years ago. Dad had to guess her age when doing paperwork to sponsor her over to this country since she was born in a village during a time when Hmong were not required to document birth dates. At this community event at Harding High School in St. Paul, I planned to perform a piece about my journey to find cultural identity.
The host announced: “Next to the stage is a guy who grew up on the east side and is going to perform spoken words for us. Give it up for Tou SaiKo Lee!”
I stepped center stage and adjusted the mic stand to right underneath my bottom lip. “Yeah … first of all, for spoken word there is no need for an s after word. Thank you for inviting me to perform. I also grew up in Frogtown, where I made a lot of hiphop songs with my brother; then we moved to the east side for a bunch of years; now I do spoken word, too. This poem is called ‘Generation after generation.’”
I projected: “Generation after generation, we’ve been warned by the OGs, lost in what is, who we are …”
Those of us who were raised in the United States refer to Hmong elders as “OGs,” which stands for Older Generation. While I spoke through poetry, I squinted at the bright intensity high up from across the room and noticed rocking shadows in seats of the auditorium. I felt like I needed to take out my trusty sunglasses from a pocket and rock it inside the building to block out the shine—and to perform with my eyes closed without anyone knowing. Ha!
I continued to articulate: “I’ll admit that my second tongue has been eclipsing my first since birth or since first grade, and I’ve been slowly trying to get it back”
I heard snaps, claps, and foot taps from students in the first few rows. I began losing my native language when I started going to school. Now, I spoke Hmong at the level of a small child. I started relearning my language right after high school.
“The fate of our culture depends on our future. Educating our youth to acknowledge and embrace their roots. Support the cause, the struggle, the shining life force. Our culture is immortal. Generation after generation,” blared out of the speakers.
After the applause, I leaned over to murmur, “Thank you, Ua Tsaug.”
I removed my shades and strolled backstage toward Grandma while she waved to me. She was wearing the furry snow leopard hat I gave her as a gift last December. Mom scolded me about why I would buy Grandma something meant for teenagers. Grandma had worn the stuffed animal over her head since that day and never complained.
Grandma laughed deeply and heartily, like Santa. I noticed that she laughed a lot—and not always when something was funny. She laughed when my dad yelled at her for saying inappropriate words around us children. She laughed after surviving a car accident during which she swears all passengers were protected by a special ring on her middle finger. She laughed at the flat-screen TV when the Rock hit Mankind with a metal folding chair while in the wrestling ring. Some get offended by her laughing at awkward moments, but I understand. I do that, too.
She said, “Tub, kuv tsis paub xyov koj hais dabtsi hauv lus aakis, tabsis zoo li koj ua tib yam li kuv ua.” Tou, I don’t know what you said in English, but it seems like what you do is just like
what I do.
My parents mentioned to us that Grandma does kwv txhiaj, a traditional art of poetry chanting that Hmong have been doing for generations, since we were in China, before the mass exodus.
During 1854–73, many of our people in the southern provinces left in protest of persecution from an oppressive dynasty to nurture villages among the mountains of Southeast Asia. These poems were passed on to her from relatives and still include ancient words influenced by Hmong Chinese dialects. I remember as a teen experiencing an elder on stage performing kwv txhiaj at the RiverCentre during Hmong New Year. I never really understood this arts tradition that the OGs do. I hadn’t felt like I could relate to it—until the moment Grandma said those words to me after my performance. I realized that spoken word could be a continuation of an oral tradition. What I do in spoken word can honor what she does with kwv txhiaj. It would be epic to collaborate with Grandma!
I dropped by my parents’ house the next day, darted through rooms, and rehearsed what I was going to say, since speaking Hmong was no longer natural to me. I knocked on Grandma’s bedroom door. She tapped on my shoulder from the kitchen behind me. I shifted sideways to see her.
