by Staring Down the Tiger- Stories of Hmong American Women (retail) (epub)
Dad would always play his raj (Hmong flute), this light brown, stained wooden rod that he held up to his lips every day as a means to refresh the ears. I nodded and looked at him, sitting, as always, in his low, bamboo-woven chair. Towering above him, I realized that his hair had grown several white streaks and the wrinkles next to his eyes crinkled deeper. He swished the saliva in his mouth and swallowed it, getting ready to blow his raj.
The music echoed throughout the house, as it did every day. But today, it sounded different. It sounded more heartrending. More tragic. More sorrowful. I closed my eyes and saw a scene. In my head, I heard the echoes and cries of the Hmong people in the photo. I saw them in my head, and a helicopter dropped in the jungles of Laos. A girl led the way out of there, followed by an army.
The elderly Hmong people cried, Koj puas yog Hmoob os? Are you Hmong?
The girl replied, Awm kuv yog Hmoob os. Yes, I am Hmong.
Suddenly, angelic flute music played throughout the jungle, thanks to the girl’s majestic discovery, and the Hmong people cried no longer. They all walked together, toward the light, out of the jungle, hands held together. Forward.
Mainhia Moua is a second-generation Hmong American who is passionate about writing, education, and the Hmong culture. Her experience translating between Hmong and English at a young age for her immigrant parents helped her develop an interest in English language and literature; she earned a bachelor of arts degree in English and creative writing from Concordia University, St. Paul. Mainhia has a passion for creative writing, especially about the intergenerational gap between traditional and modern Hmong people; she hopes to write a memoir about this subject one day. Mainhia plans to continue her studies and become an English professor.
The Back of the Line
Dee Kong
My grandmother-in-law, a strong-willed, sassy lady, passed away the afternoon of May 15, 2015. That evening, after working on my philosophy paper, I went to my in-laws’ home (my sister and her husband live with his parents) to offer my love and support and to also be there for my nephews. As it typically plays out, the women are bustling around the kitchen preparing dishes and in the dining room setting up the food. The men are seated in the living room, and a few women are seated in the formal living room. Relatives and people from my in-laws’ church arrived in a steady rhythm, handing food they brought to the women in the kitchen. They greeted my in-laws with their condolences. The couples separated, the husband to the living room and the wife either to the kitchen or the formal living room.
I entered the home, took off my shoes, paid my respects to my in-laws, and stepped into the kitchen to help my sister. We arranged the numerous plates of food buffet-style on the dining table. After the setup was complete, I headed to the basement, usually the designated kid area, to talk to my fourteen-year-old nephew about his great-grandmother. He shared how he was feeling, how he wished he could have been there for her last moments, and how he already missed his great-grandmother terribly. His face contorted, fighting hard not to cry. He looked down and away—he is a boy, after all, and undoubtedly had been taught “boys don’t cry.” I tried to reassure him, but he only fought harder to hold back the tears. I said a few words, hoping to comfort him; then we turned our attention to whatever was on the television.
Fifteen minutes later, my sister came downstairs to inform us it was time to eat. As we entered the main floor, we saw that a line of men had formed at the dinner table. My nephew walked over to stand in line. My sister and I remained back to allow the men to get their food first. After most of the men had passed through, the elder women lined up. Still, my sister and I waited until most of the women got their food before we proceeded to the table.
We ate perched on the stairs that led up to the second floor, balancing the plates on our laps. Since we were among the last to get our food, a majority of the people had finished eating. A man walked over to me and my sister and asked, “After you’re both finished eating, could you please cover the food on the table?” We instantly set down our plates, obediently did as asked, and returned to our food after we had completed the task. Upon finishing our meal, we picked up around the kitchen. I assigned myself to wash the dishes, and my sister cleaned and tidied up the dining room. After a while, I exited quietly, since I needed to get home to complete schoolwork for class the next day. I know my sister and the women worked and cleaned late into the night.
Women in the kitchen, men in the living room—this is how gender is performed in the Hmong culture, particularly during family or clan-related events. Yet these banal encounters represent and reinforce cultural ideas of gender, particularly that of “Hmong women” and “Hmong men.” While I or any of the other women were not explicitly assigned to prepare the food or clean up after everyone, our roles and duties are an unspoken, ingrained expectation. Per usual, there is an exception to this gendered role assignment. At larger family gatherings, where a cow or pig is butchered and prepared for celebrations, it is the men’s task to cut the large pieces of meat into smaller sizes, which require their placement in the kitchen or else in the garage. Otherwise, a man in the kitchen, cooking, cleaning, or actively assisting women at such a gathering would be an anomaly.
Mary Talbot in Language and Gender states, “discourses are historically constituted bodies of knowledge and practice that shape people, giving positions of power to some but not to others. But they can only exist in social interaction…. So discourse is both action and convention. It is never just one or the other.”1 Beginning in childhood, Hmong women are taught the roles and expectations held for them: to be obedient, helpful, quiet, and subordinate. Many young girls are raised in the kitchen assisting their mothers. Moreover, Hmong men are taught to be a man, to hold a man’s place at the table, and to represent the family and, possibly in the future, the clan. During family gatherings, boys will typically remain in the playroom, some, if slightly older, will be asked to sit in the living room to learn the customs, while young girls will be called to help out in the kitchen.
My parents are refugees and immigrated to the United States in 1979. As the oldest of seven children, I grew up with more traditional practices than those of my younger siblings. When relatives and visitors came over to our home or when we were the visitors, it was women in the kitchen cooking and cleaning and men visiting in the living room. The men ate first. After they finished and left the table, the women and children would eat what was left. Do not misunderstand: the men did not eat most of the meal and leave scraps for the women and children. They made sure there was enough food left, but they had first dibs at the freshly prepared dishes. Around the age of seven or eight, I remember thinking how odd it was that the men ate first, but I didn’t question it. My mind also neutralized this oddity because at home, when it was just my family, we ate together. Furthermore, sometimes the opposite happened: my dad would eat last or skip meals (I realized when I was older he did this so his seven kids had enough to eat, as we were very poor). My mom cooked most of our meals. When my sisters and I were old enough, we were responsible for cooking for the family.
Daughters were expected to be obedient and to have excellent kitchen skills: chopping meats and vegetables, cooking, and cleaning so they can be good wives and revered daughters-in-law. Daughters were also supposed to know when to help and do things without being asked. My mom hammered these kitchen skills into my sisters and me. When I was five or six, my mom attempted to teach me how to make steamed rice. Left to my own devices after her first instruction, I almost burned down the apartment. She was not pleased at my failure and continued to push me. I successfully made my own pot of steamed rice at the age of seven.
Moreover, daughters-in-law were to be subservient and to work tirelessly and nonstop. If you were a slacking daughter-in-law, the women would talk about your shortcomings and you’d get a “reputation.” A good daughter-in-law rises early in the morning to prepare breakfast, assists her mother-in-law in whatever she needs, prepares the meals, takes care
of the kids, takes care of her husband, takes care of her in-laws, and cleans. When guests and extended family visit, she hosts, cooks, and cleans for her family and the guests. At large family or clan events, I’ve witnessed daughters-in-law remain in the kitchen for hours, often eating last or during a quick break.
As immigrants, my parents were not highly educated. They grew up farming in Laos and lived in refugee camps after the Vietnam War. After they immigrated to the United States, they encouraged my siblings and me to study and do well in school to have a better life. My dad worked the graveyard shift for more than thirty years as a janitor, and my mom worked various odd jobs, ending up at a manufacturing company for almost twenty years. As I grew up, my dad encouraged me to be a secretary or teacher. It wasn’t because he didn’t think I was smart; I excelled in school. Rather, in the early 1980s and 1990s, these were the only jobs he believed most women held. The television shows I remember watching with my parents, Little House on the Prairie, The Dukes of Hazzard, Family Ties, Knight Rider, The Love Boat, Gilligan’s Island, and The Facts of Life, certainly did not depict women in higher-level, executive positions. Nonetheless, as a result of my elementary and high school education, I learned about women’s rights and equalities. I forged an identity and ideals based on the lives of Sojourner Truth, Susan B. Anthony, Maya Angelou, and Rosa Parks and had many strong and encouraging women teachers. Due to the cost, and since we were so poor, I don’t believe my parents saw college as a feasible option for me. But I was determined to go to college.
As life happens and forces you to take detours through rough-graveled, deep-potholed, and massively speed-bumped roads, rather than attending college after high school, I completed a two-year legal secretary certificate technical college program. I graduated with distinction in the program and dedicated myself to working hard at the law firm to support my young daughter as well as her father. Through the law firm, I landed a lucrative position that led to financial independence. Despite some personal tumult, at the age of twenty-five I became a homeowner. Financially stable and with my life settling down somewhat, I started my college education. As a single mother, I raised my daughter on the importance of equality, empathy, self-value, independence, feminism, and women’s rights. Through my trials, mistakes, and experiences, I released myself from the confines of the traditional expectations held for me. I learned how to embrace my true self. Since I was no longer with my daughter’s father, I carried a stigma in the Hmong community. People whispered and spoke about me. Nonetheless, I carried on, and I was proud to be a self-sufficient, independent woman.
Despite being an educated and progressive woman, that evening, as soon as I entered my in-law’s home, I fell back into the role of obedient, subservient Hmong woman. As Talbot stated, in this social interaction, a gathering to honor my grandmother-in-law, these are the conventions of women in the kitchen, men in the living room, and men eat first, women second. Everyone at the gathering has an unspoken, ingrained, active role in the performance. These social actions are the discourse that shape us. I automatically went to the kitchen and asked how I could help, started organizing the food, and accepted trays of food from incoming visitors. I’ve contemplated whether my role in the kitchen and dining room were a sign of respect and to help my in-laws in their loss. Yet, when I am a guest at someone’s home, I typically ask how I can help and assert myself somehow.
As progressive as I am, I cannot bring myself to break from these conventions. I cannot explain my reluctance to stand in line with my nephew along with the other men. However, my daughter, who was not present the evening of my grandmother-in-law’s passing, would have stood with my nephew. I’ve seen her beeline it to the front or stand in line with the men at other family gatherings. Maybe one day I will work up the nerve, but for now, I wait my turn at the back of the line.
Having worked undercover as an eight-to-five office worker, hiding out in Woodbury, Minnesota, Dee Kong wandered often in her mind. One day, she took off her orange jumpsuit and escaped to wander the planet. She observes. She reads. She writes. She drinks. She eats. She sleeps. She ponders. She will wander some more.
1. Mary Talbot, Language and Gender (Cambridge, UK: Polity Press, 1998), 121.
the reasons we stand
Boonmee Yang
i fell and
you told me to stand a man
when the only strength i’ve witnessed
are my mother’s and sisters’
who balled their fists against Hunger, swinging
backs bruised, used
as stomping ground for gossip
faces blued from holding their breaths
for help to come along
only to realize they were already here
girl, breathe
they showed me how to dig
nails-into-the-ground-till-they’re-in-Chinatown deep;
one naked heel flat against the earth
push up
book-on-your-head back straight
straighter than the world’s unbending double standards
head-on-a-platter high, hair-a-mess, chest heaving
look-me-in-the-eye
and tell me
One.
More.
Time.
how you want me to stand a man
Boonmee Yang often turns to writing to avoid completing other responsibilities, including writing itself. He has hundreds of half-finished stories saved as drafts on his old Myspace account that he would like to (but no longer can) access, as well as on his Tumblr, Facebook Notes, and Macbook that will likely never see satisfactory conclusions, much like life itself. His author crush is Viet Thanh Nguyen.
Gatekeepers
Kia Moua
Mr. and Mrs. Andersen were the picture-perfect couple. They were quintessential and ideal Methodist Christians. She was simply beautiful, with iridescent pearl-like white skin and soft brunette hair. He was white with a tall, dark, and handsome presence. They were always well dressed and carried themselves accordingly. When they spoke, a bright halo seemed to glow around them, and I would hang on to their every word.
As a child I remember how intently everyone else would listen to them. I envied their ability to capture an audience. They showed me how a “good” person or typical American would act or speak by taking me under their “white” wings of privilege.
I learned I had to assimilate. Something was wrong with me, my family, my race, and my ethnicity if I didn’t conform to the norms of this country. As a child, I was mesmerized. I was jealous. I subconsciously internalized how my looks, words, and actions didn’t fit that normal mold. No matter how much I went to church and Sunday school, participated in choir and bell choir, I still didn’t glow like Mr. and Mrs. Andersen, my childhood mentors/goodwill ambassadors/white saviors.
My family moved to another state where I then had a different mix of nuns, priests, and lay teachers, who continued to colonize my mind. Institutional racism created feelings of embarrassment and stabbed my siblings’ egos when the public school counselor stereotyped my National Honor Society brother and sister as English Language Learners. Had this pivotal moment not happened, my path may have had a different outcome.
This experience led my siblings and me to continue our education in private Catholic schools. I was able to learn the ways of the assimilated from the privileged elite. As a senior in high school, I received the Bishops’ Award, which basically symbolized the ideal Catholic child. This was purely an example of “who you know,” not “what you know.” A very small monetary scholarship accompanied the award—which barely paid for one course of books during my freshman year of college.
Upon my high school graduation, I felt ever so eternally grateful and almost embarrassed to see the ten-foot table covered with awards that had my name on them. These “awards” came with no scholarships or grant money, just that good ol’ Catholic pride of self-good. (I was more impressed my name was spelled correctly.)
When I attended a local private
Catholic college, true colonization revealed itself to me. This college was started by Franciscan nuns, who were responsible for laying the foundation for the college, the local hospital, schools, and churches. They also helped to change their unincorporated township into a major city. (I say this because I believe they were not given the proper credit for all that they did for the community.)
I was fortunate enough to have lay teachers as my religion professors who invited me to question everything I thought I knew to be truth. Religion had been a part of my education since I started fifth grade, so you can imagine what kind of recovery process it takes to heal from the internalized messaging of self, community, government, and what it means to consider myself an “American” when I felt I had never belonged. The movement from the eternal gratitude of a refugee to unpacking my own colonized mind leaves me eternally a refugee.
My faith-community influences, though well intentioned, also stripped me of my heritage. I still don’t belong to this country no matter how I’ve assimilated.
Kia Moua is a Hmong woman born in Laos and now making her home in the Midwest, along with her husband, three girls, and two dogs. Kia is an equity consultant with a passion for social justice in working with individuals and systems. Kia earned a master’s degree in human development. In her spare time, she enjoys writing, reading, and exploring the outdoors with family and friends.
PART 5
Breaking Barriers
Roasted Duck
Pa Xiong
People used to ask my mother
why she named me after my aunt,
and she would always say,
so casually,
but so deliberately—
No, no,
I just like the name.
My aunt
who
through the affairs and breakups,
