Tag Archives: Hmong

The Journey Forward: The Next Chapter of Hmong Americans

10 Feb

HNDC-2013-FB-Banner2

Hmong National Development, Inc (HND) is a non-profit organization based out of Washington DC. Its mission is to empower the “Hmong community to achieve prosperity and equality through education, research, policy advocacy and leadership development.”

HND hosts a conference every other year to bring together leaders, educators, professionals, advocates, and individuals to celebrate and discuss about the many facets of the Hmong community. This year marks the 16th HND conference and is also HND’s 20th anniversary. The theme surrounding the 16th HND conference is “The Journey Forward: The Next Chapter of Hmong Americans.” The focus will be the issues we face as a community and what we can do to progress.

The conference will be held in Fresno, California at the Radisson Hotel and Conference Center from April 5-7, 2013. Registration for the conference is open. I encourage all to attend as there will be over 70 workshops, forums, and round table discussions (You do not need to be Hmong to register). The topics range from professional development, advocacy participation, to youth, education, and culture. Don’t let the price of registration deter you from going. Apply for HNDC scholarships and volunteer positions.

Early registration closes March 1, 2013. Early registration has been extended to March 15, 2013, midnight Central Time.

If you would like more information, please visit the HND conference page on their website or Facebook page.

HND is also honoring 5 individuals who are making a difference in the Hmong community during the conference. Please take the time to vote for HND’s 2013 Impact Awards. For a description of the nominees and voting directions, please click here. Voting will close on February 14, 2013 at midnight, Central Time.

HNDC 2013

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Hmong talk

23 Dec

“White people don’t know anything about ethnicity. They think all orientals are either Japanese or Chinese. You see, I’m half Black, and White people do not pick up on that, but Blacks and other people do.”

She looked at me intently for a few seconds.

“I know you’re Filipino.”

I smiled and shook my head.

“You’re not? You must be Japanese,” she sat back and smiled.

“No,” I replied.

She sat up in shock. “Chinese?”

I shook my head.

“You do look Filipino.”

“I get that a lot, but I’m not.”

“Well, are you mix?”

“No.”

“No?! You’re 100% whatever it is you are?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, what are you?”

“I’m Hmong.”

“Oh, you’re Hmong! I know what Hmong is.”

I didn’t respond. I wanted to hear where she had heard of the Hmong. Probably Gran Torino.

“Do you know that Hmong are mix?”

I gave her a confused look.

“Hmong are part Mongolian,” she continued.

I shook my head.

“Yes, you are. You are mix. I learned that in history class.”

I didn’t even bother correcting her and continued to smile and nod during our short conversation about ethnicity.

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My new friend

10 Oct

It’s October!  And I finally have time to sit in front of my computer to blog.  Because it is October, I will be sharing stories of the supernatural.  These are stories that have happened to either myself or friends or family.  Most of them are not scary, although they may make you stop and wonder if spirits really do exist.  Please enjoy my first story.

 

Every summer, my family and I went to a river in NF, CA (about 20 minutes from the town we lived in) to barbecue and play in the shallow waters.  This happened when I was about 8 or 9 years old.

My step-grandfather (father’s step-father), his 2nd wife, and their children had just arrived to the US.  One weekend, my parents decided that we all would have a nice family barbecue in NF.  They also invited many Hmong families from our neighborhood.  It was going to be an unforgettable day for me.

There were kids splashing around in the river when we arrived.  My aunt (7 years old) ran into the water without waiting for any of us and plunged right in.  The next minute, she was flailing her arms, her head bobbing up and down in the water.  The only sound we heard was her gasping for air every time she came up.  My uncles ran to get her.  We couldn’t understand why she would drown when 3 feet away, kids were playing cheerfully in the water.

Why, just right next to the shallow part of the river, the bottom dropped down to a depth of 7 feet or more.  And then 3 feet down the river, it was shallow again.  To protect the little kids from going into the deep part, my father and uncles used big rocks to block it off.

The part of the river where we were playing was very narrow.  And because it was shallow, there was an island in the middle of the river.  All day long, brave little kids would wade to the island and back at the shallow parts of the river.  Of course, no one went near 3 feet stretch of deep water where my aunt almost drowned—no one, except for the older kids who knew how to swim.  The tree branches from the island hung over that part of the river, making it shady and dark.  The island gave me a creepy feeling.

My siblings and I, along with my cousins and aunts and uncles, had fun, wading and splashing in the shallow water.  I even made friends with a 13 year-old Asian girl.  My new friend and I hung out all day long.  We talked.  We went hiking down a trail.  We picked flowers for our hair.  On several occasions, my new friend would swim to the tiny island and back at the deep part of the river.  She would wave at me to follow her, but every time, I shook my head and said that I didn’t know how to swim.  “It’s so easy,” she said, and showed me how to kick and stroke.

The day went by and 5pm came around.  The Hmong adults started packing everything up as the kids dried themselves.  It was time to go home.

All of a sudden, we heard a woman crying, “I need to find my key.  I lost my key.”  So, my uncle said that since we didn’t have anything to do, to help the poor lady look for her key.  We looked in the grass and sand for her key, but we couldn’t find it.  After 15 minutes, she finally said, “I lost my key.  My poor key.  She was swimming in the river and now I can’t find her.”  The woman had a heavy Asian accent and had meant to say “kid.”  That was when the police were called.

By dusk, law enforcement found the lost kid.  It was my new friend.  She had drowned in the deep part of the river where she kept swimming back and forth to the island.  Her body was tangled in the roots of the trees near the island.  No one understood why she had drowned because she swam back and forth so many times without any problems.  Her family said that she was a strong swimmer as well.  With so many people around that day at the river, no one heard or saw her drown.

I didn’t see her body, but the Hmong adults who did see it said that there were perfect dark rings or bruises around her ankles.  It was as if something had grabbed a hold of her and held her underwater.  Dragons, they whispered.  And that was the last time we ever went to NF.

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Hmong Beauty

27 Jul
Hmong Beauty Project (Huenha Photography)

Hmong Beauty Project (Huenha Photography)

One question  I get asked a lot growing up is, “What is Hmong?”  It was annoying, but I have grown to live with it and answer it accordingly to how I feel at the moment and by whom.

Another question I get asked as much is, “Are you really Hmong?”

The former is asked by those who do not know about the Hmong.  The latter is a question posed by those who know just enough to have formed a negative opinion on Hmong beauty, or lack thereof.  Let me explain.

I don’t remember how this conversation started, but in college, a male classmate ranted to me about how ugly Hmong girls are.  ”They’re short, fat, and dark.  They have pig noses and chinky eyes.”

Hmmm, I thought to myself.  Am I going to let this go?  I looked over to my friend.  She smiled because she knew what I was about to do.

Being the witty person that I occasionally am, I asked, “Are they all really that ugly?  All of them?”

“Yes, all of them.  I have never seen a pretty Hmong girl!”

“So, do you think I’m pretty?”

“Oh, you’re more than pretty.  You’re beautiful.”

I giggled.  This is going to be good.

“Are you being completely honest right now or just trying to flatter me?”

“Why are you changing the topic?  I am not lying to you; You’re beautiful.  If you weren’t married, I would’ve made my move on you already.”

“Just so you know, I am Hmong,” I said as I sat back to wait for his reaction.

Hmong Beauty Project (Huenha Photography)

Hmong Beauty Project (Huenha Photography)

He was completely blown away.  He didn’t believe me.  He kept insisting that I was lying to him and kept on asking what ethnicity I really am.  He thought I was Chinese.  Chinese women are beautiful, he said.  I have to be Chinese.  He asked my friend if I was Hmong.  Yep, she’s 100% Hmong, my friend replied.  And then my classmate remarked, “You’re too beautiful to be Hmong.”

I don’t know about you , but this comment gets to me.  The person stating this is complimenting you on your beauty.  Take it as it is or—if you’re like me (and some others)—take it offensively.  Why?  Because this comment implies that Hmong people (or Hmong women, for that matter) are too plain or ugly to be considered beautiful, and you are the exception.  But why should you be offended?  They’re telling you that you’re beautiful.  I know, but they’re also implying that my ethnic group, as a whole, is ugly.  I don’t know where they’re looking, but I know and see many many beautiful, gorgeous Hmong women (and men).  We are not ugly.

One of my dear friend’s father was shocked when he found out (after 7 years of us being friends) that I am Hmong.  He said, “You’re not like the Hmong people I see.  They’re short and hunched back because they have to carry the bamboo baskets on their backs.  You’re tall.”  Not really; I am only 5’3″.

With all the comments I’ve received over the almost 3 decades of my life, I’ve compiled a description of how a Hmong woman should look like: short, fat, dark-skinned, hunched-back with a porky nose and chinky eyes.  This is the epitome of Asian ugly, isn’t it?  If you ask any Asian what it is to be physically ugly, most likely they would say one or all the characteristics mentioned above.  So does that mean that the Hmong is the ugly of the Asian race?

Hmong Beauty Project (Huenha Photography)

Hmong Beauty Project (Huenha Photography)

While searching the WWW to see if I can find an article on this topic, I came across Elmo Lee’s Hmong Beauty Project.  Elmo is a beauty and fashion photographer, known as Huenha Photography.  Her artwork is stunning.  I remember I started following her and her sister, Milly, way back when I was still on Myspace and their photography was called NaturalBlush.

The Hmong Beauty Project is to show people that Hmong women are beautiful.  Elmo states on its website that:

It’s not uncommon to hear Hmong women being told they’re too beautiful to be Hmong or that their beauty resembles another ethnic group.  My response to that is that Hmong women are as beautiful as any other ethnic group and none of it is a coincidence or an accident.  This in essence is the motivation and purpose of my photoshoot which showcases the beauty of Hmong women as individuals whose beauty is unique to herself.

I agree.  Hmong women are as beautiful as any other Asian ethnicity.  It does not do us any justice when others say that we, as a whole, are ugly.  We’re all individuals, and although we may have similarities, we’re beautiful in our own ways.

With Elmo’s permission, I have posted some of the Hmong women she has photographed on here.  This is a new project, which started at the beginning of this year, so it only has 8 women so far.  I cannot wait to see how it develops.

Hmong Beauty Project (Huenha Photography)

Hmong Beauty Project (Huenha Photography)

When I asked Elmo what sparked her Hmong Beauty project, she replied:

Whenever I stumble onto a pretty girl’s picture, it’s never a surprise to see at least one comment like this: “You are so beautiful. You look like a Thai/Korean/etc girl;” “You are pretty for a Hmong girl.”  It’s a compliment, but at the same time, it’s an insult; as if looking Hmong or being Hmong is a bad thing…. Just a few weeks ago, one of my cousins met my friend from out of state.  My cousin thought my friend wasn’t Hmong simply because she thought my friend was beautiful and that she doesn’t look Hmong.  This is exactly why I did the project.

I want to point out that I hear this “You’re too beautiful to be Hmong” remark within our Hmong community as well.  Growing up, I have heard too many comments on how Chinese women’s beauty trump Hmong women.  My father used to always say that Chinese women are the most beautiful in the world.  And it wasn’t uncommon to hear from other Hmongs—especially the older generation—that a Hmong woman is as beautiful as a Chinese maiden.  Elmo stated the same thing, “Zoo nkauj li nas ej Suav.”  I feel that this comparison has a lot to do with our not-so-good history with the Han Chinese.  My father used to spill Hmong propaganda that the Chinese kidnapped all the beautiful Hmong women to be their wives and that was why the Chinese are more beautiful than the Hmong (Really, Dad?).  And then, there is the media.

Elmo stated that she has made similar statements and feels guilty about it.  ”Why do we think like this?” she asked.  Her conclusion (it’s not silly, Elmo) is:

We don’t have Hmong celebrities or “beautiful” popular Hmong idols to reference to.  Look at it this way, we don’t have our own country.  Before coming to the USA, we were simply farmers.  The Hmong entertainment industry isn’t like the mainstream here or anything near kpop/jpop.  We’ve only been in the United States for 35-40 years.  Our skills/expertise in whatever area are still poor. Yes, we’re improving, but we have a long way to catch up…. We have talents and skills.  We’re just not there yet because before all this, all we knew was farming, how to be a wife, have kids, dedicate our life to our in laws, etc.

It hasn’t been until in the past decade or two that the Hmong entertainment industry has immensely progressed.  With the help of technology and education, Hmong film-makers have created dynamic movies that have gained a lot of attention within the community.  And with this comes Hmong actors and actresses.  We now see beautiful Hmong women on-screen—something we have never seen before.  Additionally, many talented Hmong bands and artists have also emerged.  Hmong non-profit groups, such as CHAT are empowering individuals to express their artistic  and creative sides.  Hmong community events (that I can think off the top of my head), such as the Hmong Music Festival, Fresh Traditions, and Revived, have showcased talented and beautiful Hmong people.  Prior to this, besides American celebrities, we had Asian stars to idolize.  We’re getting there, but are we there yet?

Hmong Beauty Project (Huenha Photography)

Hmong Beauty Project (Huenha Photography)

According to my observations, personal experiences, and what I hear from other Hmong women, I agree with Elmo that we still have some ways to go.  Society still believes that Hmong women are ugly and to be beautiful must mean that we are not Hmong.  How long will it take to have society realize our beauty?  How much will it take for the Hmong to embrace and claim the beauty of our women?  We are Hmong beauty.

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My Mermaid (Part 5)

26 Jun

This post is part of the My Mermaid series.
Click on the links below to take you to previous posts:
Introduction
Prologue
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

miss pupik on Flickr

I was 19 years old, going to be a sophomore in college. I thought about how a child would affect my life and that of my boyfriend’s. What am I going to do? How am I going to tell him? But my biggest fear was not knowing how my mom would react to the news.

I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Every waking hour, I thought about my pregnancy. After thinking long and hard about my options, I finally made my decision. I was ready to tell him.

“I’m late,” I said.

“You mean your period?”

“Yes. And I took a pregnancy test. It came back positive.”

“Are you sure?”

“The nurse at the junior college confirmed it.”

We didn’t say anything. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I was not going to keep it. I didn’t know what he thought of the pregnancy or of abortion. I didn’t know if he’ll accept and respect the decision that I had made without him.

After a few minutes, he said, “If it’s a boy, I’ll call him Junior.”

“Junior? Eww, no,” I replied. Although I was happy to hear him take responsibility, my heart also felt very heavy. How was I going to tell him now?

The next week came and he didn’t visit me as he usually did. I called him, but he didn’t pick up. And when he did pick up, he didn’t want to talk. He was fishing—fishing all the time. I tried to talk with him about what we were going to do now that I was pregnant. “I don’t know” was his answer each and every time.

I was angry, frustrated, and heartbroken. How dare he ignore me when I was most vulnerable? How dare he say he doesn’t know what to do now? He said he cared, but his actions contradicted his words. I didn’t have the patience to wait this out; this was an urgent matter. I was pregnant, scared, and lost. Who knows what my mom would do if she were to find out. If he didn’t want to be around during the time when I needed him the most, so be it.

So, I called to tell him it was over between us. He came over within 30 minutes. He wanted to talk. I didn’t even look at him. It was too late. We were over. He stayed for 15 minutes, silent in the living room while I ignored him in the family room. Then he left.

And that was the last time I saw him. It has been 20 years and although I am married with children now, I still think about him from time to time.

Just kidding! And here you thought the story ended. We’re almost done though.

The next day, I received an email from him.

“I went driving Thursday night to wherever and almost got into an accident. It made me think that you and my little junior are important. It’s just that I have a lot of stressful things on my mind right now. That’s why I go fishing a lot. It helps take the stress away. Hopefully you are understanding what I’m trying to say. If not, then I guess I can understand. But please just give me a call. I know we can work this out. We have been through many harder situations. Love you…”

I thought that if he was as stressed out as I was about this, then why didn’t he come to me? We’re in this together, weren’t we? And even if he was worried about other things, I’m his partner, so why not share his struggles with me?

His last two lines echoed in my mind. I know we can work this out. We have been through many harder situations… I thought about how much we had endured ever since our first meeting. We finally conquered the prejudice that my mom exhibited toward our relationship. Was I really going to throw it all away? I cried my heart out that night.

The next day, I called the abortion clinic and made an appointment.

My boyfriend kept emailing me, asking me to call him, to give him another chance. He didn’t ignore me on purpose. He was having family problems at home. It wasn’t the pregnancy that’s keeping him away. He wanted to work things out. He had a plan. He was going to quit school and work two jobs to support us if he needed to. He wasn’t ready to let me go.

I drove to his house. I wanted to talk about our relationship and about the pregnancy. But every time I opened my mouth to speak, the words clung to my uvula. All I could do was let out a sigh each and every time. We sat in separate couches in his living room like strangers. We couldn’t say anything to each other. After 30 minutes, I went home.

He emailed me that night and told me that if it’s easier, we could talk through email. I replied by telling him how hurt I was. This was when I needed him the most and he wasn’t around. He apologized. Then I told him, I had decided to get an abortion without letting anyone else know. I also told him that I still loved him.

He was happy that I still wanted to be with him. However, he was sad to hear that I was going to get an abortion.

“I don’t know how it’s going to be like with a baby or how hard it will be, but I really want to keep it. However, if you feel you need to get rid of it, then go for it. I support your decision.”

I was really sad to hear that, but I didn’t change my mind for many reasons. Fear of my mom was one of them. She must not know about this or I’ll receive something so much worse than what I’ve experienced so far. I was at the edge of breaking. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep myself together if my mom were to confront me about anything at this point. And another reason was that I wasn’t emotionally or financially ready to take care of a child. I wanted to be secured enough so that my children will grow up in a stable home. I have received tremendous criticisms about my decision from the Hmong community, especially from anti-abortion people, but it has never bother me. I do not regret this choice I’ve made.

My boyfriend and I didn’t tell anyone about what we did. We knew the repercussions. If we weren’t forced to get married, he would be “fined” and have to “fix” me. Then we’d probably never be allowed to see each other again. These were the Hmong traditional ways of handling a pregnancy and abortion. It was either marriage or you cut ties all-together. We were not ready for marriage. We were stuck in a lose-lose situation and secrecy was the key to preventing these traditions from taking over. However, my efforts to keep my abortion from my mom was all in vain. And when she did find out, the marriage my boyfriend and I tried to avoid was inevitable in our eyes.

My sisters and I were not really close growing up for many reasons. I was 3 years older than the oldest of them. Three of my younger sisters were only 1 year or less apart in age, so they shared many interests and had a sisterly bond. Additionally, because of the things I was going through with my mom during adolescence, I had distanced myself from them.

My sisters found out about my abortion by reading my diary and going through my discharge paper work from the clinic (Yes, very stupid of me to have not thrown them away immediately). And because I wouldn’t take them with me that fateful day to my boyfriend’s house, they ratted me out.

As I expected, my mom was angry. I had ruined her reputation by getting pregnant. And not only that, but I had gotten an abortion and came back into her house. This was the ultimate shame any unmarried Hmong daughter could bring to her family and ancestors.

My grams was over and she jumped in as well. With two people telling me how wrong I was and reminding me of every single mistake I’ve made until then—in addition to realizing that my sisters didn’t have my back—I went berserk. I screamed and shouted and my mom did the same. I took off running because I couldn’t stand my mom berating me for ruining her reputation. I didn’t even stop to put my shoes on. I ran barefooted across the busy street a block from our house. A car whizzed passed me, nearly missing me by inches. My boyfriend caught up to me and with tears in his eyes, he yelled at me, “Did you know that car almost ran you over? Don’t you do anything stupid!”

He pulled me into his arms and it was then that I calmed down. I always felt the safest and most secure in his arms and so I just closed my eyes and let myself cry.

My boyfriend wanted to take me home, but I told him I did not want to go. I was afraid of my mom and angry at my sisters and myself. I needed time. After a few hours of driving around aimlessly in town, he received a phone call from his brother. My mom had contacted his older brother and let him know what we did. The voice message on his phone said, “You either marry your girlfriend or ‘fix’ her (ua neeb kho).”

That night, we talked about our relationship and our future. Do we love each other? If so, how much? What were our options? No, we didn’t have any choice because we are Hmong.

I had always tried to run away from the cultural traditions that I despised so much, but in all my effort, I never got far. In the end, I was very much tied to these traditions. No matter how much I ran, I couldn’t escape that I am Hmong. I was a helpless young Hmong woman whose fate was already sealed the minute she got pregnant and had an abortion. There was nothing we could do at this point, we both thought. And so, I went home with my boyfriend that night.

Of course, we were pressured to get married. But that didn’t matter. We never talked about marriage, but we knew in our hearts that we were going to marry each other some time in the future. And even though this was not how or when we wanted to get married, we felt we had no choice. My mom set our wedding date for June 26th.

There were a lot of tears during my wedding. I realized that day how strong my mother’s love was for me and how hurt she was that I was getting married. Despite her pain and anger, she cared so much about me that she didn’t make the wedding negotiations hard for my husband’s family. I was thankful. I cried tears of regret for putting her through so much. It was the words she said to me during my wedding that made me realize she was more disappointed than angry. She was disappointed at the fact that our relationship had deteriorated so much that I couldn’t go to her when I was in trouble. “Why didn’t you come to me for help when you were pregnant?” Why didn’t I? Because, Mom, we had such a dysfunctional relationship that I didn’t see that as an option.

Today marks my husband and my 8th wedding anniversary. It has been 13 years since I met this boy in baggy clothing. I may never know why he decided to retire his gangster ways. He won’t tell me. I like to think that I had something to do with it (yes, he didn’t see a good future with me if he continued his bad ways), but I would be giving myself too much credit. Ironically, he is now a juvenile probation officer, working with teens like his adolescent self. My mom is a proud mother-in-law.

Even though my mom and I still have our differences in opinions and beliefs, our relationship is a lot better. We are still mending it and we have some ways to go. Living apart from each other has improved our relationship immensely. I doubt we will ever truly get to a place of complete mutual understanding because culture is the biggest barrier. I truly love, respect, and appreciate her—more-so now that I have children of my own. Additionally, I know my children and I have a long hard road ahead of us. I don’t want to treat them the way my mom treated me. I am already establishing open communication with them so that we will always have dialogue. I appreciate everything that my mom has done for me, and I hold no grudge to what we went through during my teen years (I don’t condone child abuse no matter what the circumstances and my mom had no right to treat me the way she did, but I have forgiven her).

Class of 2009, Cum Laude

In fact, my mom is the person who planted that feminist seed in my mind with her refusal to remarry and her fight for respect from the Hmong community. Despite her traditional values, she has influenced me indirectly with her actions. She taught me how to be a strong Hmong woman and stand up for my rights. Hmong females are taught from an early age to listen and honor our parents, and one way of doing so is staying silent. I have broken down that barrier with my mom and now I’m not afraid to voice my opinions.

My partner stood by me through so much. He had the choice to leave and not go through the verbal abuse that my mom put him through year after year. He could’ve said, “Fuck this shit. I’m out of here.” But he stayed with me. And I’m really grateful for him.

Even though my Mermaid and I have been together since we were very young, I believe our relationship was mature beyond our years. We had to endure so much from my mom that we didn’t have time to put ourselves through other stuff. We built our relationship on a foundation of trust, honesty, respect, communication, and compromise. But most importantly, we were real with each other. We never made silly promises like we’ll love each other forever. I truly believe that promises only create unrealistic expectations in any relationship, and we never had any of that. We just lived in the moment and took everything as it came because we didn’t know what tomorrow will bring us.

My Mermaid dropped out of college to support me through college. We both value higher education, but since it wasn’t feasible for the two of us to be working and going to school, he decided it would be best for me to finish college. Why would you want your wife to be more educated than you, others have asked. Aren’t you afraid she’ll run off with a more educated man? Well, I’m still here, aren’t I? No other man can ever take the place of this mermaid.

My Mermaid and I share parental and household responsibilities. We are not bound by traditional gender roles. He helps cook, clean, and takes care of the children. Heck, he encourages me to have time to myself. It doesn’t affect him when other men criticize him for “allowing” me to be an equal. And ever since I started volunteering and working with victims and survivors of domestic violence and sexual assault, I have come to appreciate him even more. He may not be a perfect person, but he is perfect for me in every way.

Some would only speculate that after this many years, the fire must’ve died down. Sorry to disappoint my readers, but the fire is very much alive and the butterflies are still fluttering. Of course the dynamics of our relationship has changed with the addition of two gargantuan balls of energy, but the essence of the relationship we have built is still there. He still looks at me the same way as he did 13 years ago. He still makes me feel tingly and warm inside with either just a look, a kiss, or a touch. I am still very much in love with him and I know that he loves me even more. We also haven’t stopped communicating through notes, although nowadays, it’s more in the form of emails and text messages.

My views on love and marriage has changed over the years, but some things stayed the same. I am still not a hopeless romantic: still don’t believe in love at first sight, a soul mate, or happily ever after. Love is not destined or fated. To me, love is something one must put effort into if one wishes to see it last. It’s not an easy task and there will be times when you feel as if you just want to give up. In order to live “happily ever after,” one must do the work.

I have always been fascinated with mermaids. To me, they are mystical creatures that represent something beautiful, rare, and uneasily attainable. Is it possible for a creature to have the body of a human and tail of a fish, breathe underwater and sing on land? Is it possible to find love at such a young age? Is it possible to fight for something only you see the value in? My husband is the mermaid I caught from the sea. He is my impossible turned possible and I’m truly blessed to have him in my life.

They say there are many fishes in the sea.
I don’t want a fish.
I want to catch a mermaid, and when I do, I’m never letting go.

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY, MERMAID.

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My Mermaid (Part 4)

21 Jun

This post is part of the My Mermaid series.
Click on the links below to take you to previous posts:
Introduction
Prologue
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

I was studying for finals.  My mom was gone the whole weekend and when she came home, she complained bitched about the house being a mess.  She yelled at me for not being like other Hmong daughters and keeping the house spotless clean.  This was not the first time and I knew it wouldn’t be the last.  I was tired of her comparing me over and over again to these Hmong girls in town whom I had no desire to be.  I yelled at her to stop comparing me because I am my own individual and it hurts my feelings when she does so.  “How would you feel if I were to say that you don’t love me the way I see other mothers love their daughters?”

My mom was furious.  She yelled obscenities at me, calling be a bitch and a slut.  Then she grabbed my hair and dragged me around my room.  She pushed me here and there, still holding on to my hair.  For 3 years, I had endured my mom’s physical abuse without ever hitting her back.  This time I had enough and I fought.  I grabbed her hair and pulled it just the way she was pulling mine.  I even punched her a few times so she would let go.

My mom’s boyfriend saw what was happening so he tried to break us up.  He pushed my mom off of me, grabbed me and held me to my sister’s bed.  My mom took advantage of him holding me down and sat on me and started to strangle me.  She said she was going to kill me because I was a disappointment to her.

My mom’s boyfriend pushed her off of me.

He stood between us and tried to reason with her, “Puas yuav zoo koj siab yog tias koj muab nws tua tuag kiag lawv ma (Will it really please you if you killed her)?”

“Kuv yog nws niam.  Kuv yug nws thiab tus nws loj hlob li no.  Nws txiv khiav mus tso nws ua ntsuag.  Tsuas muaj kuv xwb, kuv thiaj li ua rau nws noj thiab nws hnav.  Kuv xav hais tias thaum loj hlob tuaj es yuav hlub kuv no.  Niag maum dev ntawv tsis hmloog kuv lus.  Tseem muab kuv piv rau lwm tus thiab.  Kuv tua nws lo tsis ua li cas.  Kuv yeej tsis cia nws ua li no rau kuv li (I am her mother.  I gave birth to her and nurtured her.  Her father left her an orphan.  It was me who fed her and clothed her.  I thought that once she’s older, she’ll love me.  That bitch doesn’t listen to me.  She dare compare me to others.  It won’t matter if I kill her.  I won’t let her do this to me).”

I was torn—completely confused and frustrated.  My heart ached for my mom.  I realized what a failure I was as a daughter when I heard these words.  I had hurt my mom so deeply that she felt the only way to solve our problems was to kill me.  However, a part of me felt that it wasn’t right.  I should be allowed to be myself without worrying if I’ll measure up to someone’s expectations.

Anger took a hold of me.  I had had it.  I ran to my bed and grabbed the glass lamp on my nightstand.  I didn’t know how to cope and couldn’t deal with my mom anymore.  So, I hit myself on the head with the lamp.  It didn’t break.  I did it over and over again until my mom’s boyfriend stopped me.  He told me to calm down and talk with my mom.  I sat on my bed, looking down at the floor.  My head was throbbing, but I couldn’t feel the pain.  I didn’t know if it was bleeding and I didn’t care.  I was numb.

“Kuv tsis xav nrog nws tag.  Txij hnub no mus, koj txhob muab kuv hu ua niam lawm.  Koj yuav mus hu leej twg niam los kuv tsis khe (I don’t want to talk with her.  Don’t call me mother from now on.  You can go call someone else Mom for all I care),” my mom shouted at me and left my room.

My mom’s boyfriend spoke to me for a minute, trying to make me understand my mom’s actions.

“You know that your mom doesn’t like your boyfriend.  She doesn’t want you to make the same mistakes she did when she was young.  You and I both know that he is a nice person, but she doesn’t see it that way.  However, she is your mom and she loves you.”

“We weren’t even arguing about him,” I cried.

After he left, I just sat there in the room that I shared with my sisters and cried.  No one loved me and the one person who loved me I’m not even allowed to see.  When I stopped crying, I went to the bathroom to wash my face.  To my horror, there were bruises of my mom’s hand prints all around my neck.  I cried even harder.  I was so depressed.

I couldn’t call my boyfriend, not after this fight I had with my mom.  I also couldn’t call any of my friends because none of them knew what was going on at home.  Friends at school saw me as a cheerful girl who didn’t have to try hard to get good grades.  They didn’t know about the struggles I was going through or how I would change for dance class in the girls’ restrooms to hide my bruises.

There are many ways teens cope with their problems.  Some turn to drugs or alcohol.  Some join gangs.  Others cut themselves.  Me, I self-medicated.  Whenever I felt too depressed to the point of not knowing how to cope, I gobbled down acetaminophen or ibuprofen and went to sleep.  It temporarily took away my pain.  This time, I wanted to take all my pain away for good.

I walked to the kitchen and opened the cupboard where my mom stored her medicine.  Death was the only solution I saw.  I was looking for the acid she used to wash Hmong silver coins, but it was not up in the cupboard.  My mom had a new bottle of ibuprofen, 500 ct.  I took almost all of the bottle.  Why not all, you may ask.  Because I was worried that if I took all of the pills, my mom may not have any pain medicine after I was gone.  After gulping down a cup of water to wash down the pills, I calmly walked back to my room.  I laid down on my bed and awaited my death.

To my disappointment, I awoke the next morning.  I hadn’t died.  Instead I had this HUGE headache and I couldn’t concentrate.  I don’t know if it was from the ibuprofen or from my fight with my mom.  I also had a bump on my head from when I hit myself with the lamp.

I thought, why didn’t I die?  If I had died, I would’ve been free.  Everyone would’ve been free.  I wouldn’t be hurting like I am.  My mom wouldn’t have to deal with a useless daughter like me.  My partner wouldn’t have to deal with my mom.  He would move on with his life and find someone whose mother adored him.

It was a miracle that I didn’t die from taking almost a bottle of ibuprofen.  No one could’ve survived taking that many pills.  I  truly believe that my guardian angel was watching over me that night.  A few weeks later, I saw my mom take out the acid from its usual place in the cupboard to test a new set of silver coins she bought.  Why didn’t I see it when I was looking for death?  My guardian angel had protected me.

I thought I should get ready for school since I was still alive.  I would kill myself that night after everyone went to sleep.  To hide the bruises on my neck, I wore a piece of cloth as a choker necklace.  I didn’t tell anyone about my attempted suicide and have never until now.  Many years after I had gotten married, I found out that my mom suspected it because she saw the almost-empty bottle in the cupboard.

There was nothing to do during dance class because our annual performance was done and over with.  Mrs. Coito was the kind of teacher who deeply cared about her students and took the extra effort to inspire them.  We would regularly have exercises of self-reflection, self-care, and motivation.  That day, she handed out a manila envelope to every one of her dancers.  Inside it were various items to remind us of all the wonderful things life has to offer.  Although I no longer have the manila envelope, I can still remember what was inside:

Eraser: A reminder that we all make mistakes, but we can wipe the slate clean.

Penny: Save this and you will never be broke again.

Marble: To keep you rolling along.

Rubber Band: To keep you bouncing back and flexible.

Candle: To light up the darkness.

Tissue: For drying your tears.

Toothpick: To pick out the good in others including yourself.

Cotton Ball: For the rough roads ahead.

Confetti: To add some sparkle to your life.

Lifesaver: To remind you of the many times others need your help and you need theirs.

Rainbow: A reminder that after every storm comes a rainbow.

Paper Clip: To hold everything together when it falls apart.

A Hug & Kiss: To remind you that someone cares about you!

Thanks to Mrs. Coito, for it was this activity that prevented me from attempting another suicide.  One of these days, I will go back to my high school where she still teaches and personally thank her for saving my life.

The bruises on my neck were so bad, that two weeks later, they were still there.  And so, I attended my boyfriend’s high school graduation without the consent of my mom, with my homemade choker around my neck and a smile on my face.

I was so happy to see him as a graduate, walking on that stage.  The delinquent that my mom belittled had graduated from high school.  She was wrong after all.  However, my happiness was short-lived.  By 7:30 that evening, my mom had already called my boyfriend’s sister-in-law.  She demanded that I come home straight-away or there would be consequences.  And so, my boyfriend drove me home.

I saw more and more of my boyfriend after he graduated from high school.  He attended the local community college, majoring in criminal justice.  And because he now had a car, he was able to come see me more often.  Although my mom and I still had our arguments, she was no longer tripping as much about him as before.  She never looked at him, greeted him, or spoke to him when he came over to visit, but it didn’t matter to me.  It was okay for us to be together now.

Although I was accepted to a few universities, I made up my mind to attend community college after high school.  I was undecided on my major and career goals (all I knew was that I wanted to make a difference).  A community college would help me save money while I shopped around for inspiration for my major and career goals.  Things were looking better.  I was chasing my dreams of going to college.  I was finally able to be with the person I love.  Life was looking good… until I found out I was pregnant.

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My Mermaid (Part 3)

16 Jun

This post is part of the My Mermaid series.
Click on the links below to take you to previous posts:
Introduction
Prologue
Part 1
Part 2

I couldn’t tell him face to face what happened.  So I left him a note in our locker.  “My mom hit me last night.  It wasn’t because of you.”  I lied about the latter.

When I went to the locker at the end of school, he wasn’t waiting for me as he usually did.  Instead he left a note addressed to “Innocent Barbie (He called me Barbie back then).”  “Nobody touches my girl,” the note was written in furious handwriting.  We didn’t see each other that evening.  The next morning at school, I found another note from him.  This one was a lot calmer.  “When did your mother start abusing you?  If you don’t want to answer, it’s okay.”  I never told him.

Life at home started to become unbearable.  In addition to the arguments about my boyfriend and the beatings I went through, because I was becoming of age, my mom was trying to groom me into the ideal Hmong daughter: submissive, cook, and keep the house clean.  My high school had the International Baccalaureate Program (IB) and I was enrolled in it part time, taking IB English and science classes.  The IB program had a strong and challenging curriculum, so it was a struggle to juggle school with the domestic demands at home.  My mom and I were constantly arguing over me being lazy and not behaving like other “good” Hmong daughters.

I wished to participate in extracurricular activities, but my mom wouldn’t allow me.  She stated that a girl’s role is in the home, not out running around like the boys.  So, I did what I needed to do; I lied to her when I joined the dance production team my sophomore year.  Instead of taking conventional PE classes for graduation requirement, I chose dance because it would be easier, I told her.  (It was partly true.  Dance was a PE option, but that wasn’t the reason why I wanted to join).  And that was how I got into Company MHS—my only active extracurricular activity throughout high school.

MB’s dance headshot 2003

I knew my mom was being very strict on me because she feared I was walking down the same path as her when she was my age.  My mom was also afraid I would shame her.  The Hmong community was already expecting me and my siblings to fail.  I am the oldest of 7.  If I fell down a destructive path, my siblings would follow suit.  My mom didn’t want people to talk any more than they were.  So, she thought that by restricting our freedom, we would be “good” children and not ruin the tiny shreds of reputation she was clinging on to.

However, I didn’t care about gossip, reputation, or saving face.  I only wished that my mom would just trust me and my judgment.  So, the more restrictive she became, the more I rebelled against her traditional ways and stood up for myself.  Our frequent arguments and fights pushed me further and further away from my mom and my culture.

I wasn’t the only one affected by my mom’s urgency to control her children.  My younger brother ended up moving to live with our father for a couple of years because of the disagreements between them.  My younger sister attempted suicide and spent 72 hours in a behavioral center years later.

My boyfriend became my pillar of support.  He was there for me when I needed someone.  I hardly spoke about what went on at home because I was embarrassed and ashamed.  He probably knew what was going on behind closed doors, but never mentioned anything to me.  We had a nonverbal understanding that it was not something we both felt comfortable talking about.  I’m not sure if he ever blamed himself for the things I was going through with my mom, but I never blamed him one bit.  I was actually grateful to have him in my life.  Spending time with him kept my mind off of the turmoil I was feeling inside.  He made me laugh and smile every single moment we were together; he brought sunshine into the darkness I was in.  He made me feel really good about myself.  By the end of my sophomore year, I was madly, head-over-heels, in love with him.  Nothing my mom said or did was going to tear us apart.

The Hmong adults started saying that he—the delinquent—badly influenced me.  I used to be such a “good” girl, but after I met him, I started being “bad.”  I didn’t understand why they were saying these things because I wasn’t a “bad” girl.  I stayed in school.  I got good grades and almost-perfect attendance.  I wasn’t doing drugs or drinking (I actually didn’t have my first alcoholic beverage until I was 19).  I didn’t stay out late.  I wasn’t involved in gangs.  I didn’t get into fights.  I didn’t sneak out at night.  I was a homebody.  The only reasons that I could conceive as to why they believe it was so was because I stopped conforming to the traditional norms, was being more verbal about my opinions, and seeing a boy who didn’t have the best reputation in the world.

You would think that if I had just ended my relationship with my boyfriend, my mom would stop beating me.  To me, it was more than just this boy.  I had finally discovered that I can be myself, have my own beliefs, and build my life on my principles—and I wasn’t going to back down.  My mom was pushing her beliefs on to me.  She wanted to mold me into the “perfect” Hmong woman: domesticated, silent, submissive, and obedient.  If I had given into my mom, that meant that I had given up on myself because I didn’t believe in what she believed in.  So, no matter how much my mom verbally, emotionally, or physically abused me, I stayed stubborn and fought.

Not only was I fighting for my beliefs, but I was also fighting for something that my parents never showed me was possible.  Despite his looks and reputation, my boyfriend treated me with so much love and utmost respect—so differently from how I saw my father treat my mom.  My boyfriend never hit me.  He never put me down.  He supported me.  Even though my mom was a total bitch to him, he never said anything bad about her.  He respected my decision to wait on sex until I was ready.  Of course, I gave my virginity to him later on, but he never pressured me.  We made out so many times, but whenever I stopped him from going further, he would without questioning me.  No pressuring, begging, whining, or guilt trips.  And I stuck with him despite all the abuse I endured with my mom because of his show of love and respect.

Baby MB

I never thought I was pretty enough because throughout my childhood, my family called me various nicknames to imply that I was ugly.  My skin tone was darker than what the Hmong would consider beautiful, thus I was called “Pog Qhab Meem (Miss Cambodian)” or “Poj Nplog (Miss Laotian).”  My family used to make fun of my full lips and very big round eyes—asking why I have sausage lips like Black people from Africa and saying that my eyes are eerily round like an owl’s.  Standing at 5’3”, I was taller than the average Hmong girls in town.  My family called me Olive Oil and Daddy Long Legs and commented that I would never find a tall Hmong husband.  I hated all these attributes of myself.  But to my boyfriend, I was the most beautiful girl in the world.  He loved everything about me, despite what negative reputation I carried in the Hmong community.

He was my first—first real boyfriend, first kiss, first sexual experience, first love.

We both moved away to different parts of town during the latter years of high school.  My partner and I saw less and less of each other.  I thought that by not seeing him that often, my mom would stop her bickering and yelling at me.  It didn’t stop.  Our arguments became more frequent.  And we argued about the same things.  If we were not arguing about my boyfriend, then we argued about my role as a Hmong daughter and saving my mother’s face.  It was driving me crazy!  I felt as if I was on probation and house arrest all the time.  I didn’t even have an opportunity to go out and ruin my mom’s reputation if I wanted to.

The things that were important to me were nothing to her.  I also didn’t see the importance in her Hmong values.  We lived in two very different worlds and there was nothing that could bridge this gap between us.

At the end of my junior year, I felt so lost, confused, and out of place that I no longer knew what to do.  We rarely argued about my boyfriend; it was constantly about me now.  Always how I was not good enough.  The arguments between my mom and me escalated to the point of my mom almost strangling me death.  Even though I don’t think much about that day, I still remember it very vividly.

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My Mermaid (Part 2)

11 Jun

This post is part of the My Mermaid series.
Click on the links below to take you to the previous posts:
Introduction
Prologue
Part 1

Fortunately, he didn’t kill himself. Someone hand delivered a letter from him the next day. The letter basically said that he wasn’t going to see me anymore. To this day, I do not know what he and his brother argued over. For so many years, I assumed it was over me. Whether or not it was, I no longer care.

For almost a month, we didn’t seek each other out. I saw him around, but went along my way as if we had never met and he did the same. A part of me felt like I had lost a friend, but life goes on.

Close to the end of the month, a Hmong kid from the neighborhood delivered a note, “He still likes you.” It made me smile. A friend was playing cupid.

The note has been scribbled and drawn on (by little sis) while it hung on my wall for years.

A couple of days later, my neighbor, Sandy, called me outside. She said, “Someone’s looking for you.”

“Who?” I asked.

She didn’t respond. I followed her to the side of her duplex and saw him standing there, smiling at me. Sandy walked back to her house.

“Hi,” he said. I smiled back. For the first time, butterflies fluttered in my stomach.

We spent each moment we could with one another as the summer months flew by. As our relationship developed, he opened up and let me take a peak into his world. I saw the part of him that no one knew of. Behind the baggy clothes and notorious reputation was just another helpless kid, lost and struggling to find his identity and acceptance in this wretched world.

Everyone has a story to tell. Mine, at that time, consisted of domestic violence, child abuse, and condemnation from the Hmong community. His story? His mother died when he was a little kid. His father was hardly around. He grew up living with a step-mother who did not love him or his siblings. The lack of family cohesion probably led him to adolescent delinquency. The good boy on the honor roll had flipped a complete 180. His father couldn’t deal with it, so he sent him out of town.

August marked the turning point in our friendship. As usual, we were talking outside our kitchen window. The joker that he was, all of a sudden, became very solemn.

“Would you like to go out with me?” he asked.

I knew we had been getting close, but never in my mind did it occur to me that we would be a “couple” this soon. I couldn’t stop smiling. I felt weird, giddy, and happy. The butterflies fluttered in my stomach for the second time since I met him. Just then, my sister squirted him with a water gun. The seriousness broke out into laughter. What a save because I was so embarrassed! Without looking at him and still laughing, I said yes.

September came along and school started. We both went to the same high school. There weren’’t enough lockers to go around, so the administrators had students share lockers. He and I chose each other as locker partners. We didn’t see much of each other at school and we visited the locker at different times during the day, so we started to leave each other notes. Hi. See you later. How was your day/class? You’re beautiful. Let’s meet today after school. And I looked forward to them each and every time.

One of the many notes I received.

At the beginning, my mom and grams were fine with us being together. There were times when they even encouraged it. Prior to meeting him, whenever I met a boy who was interested in me, with my stuck up personality, I brushed them off after some time. I guess my mom and grams thought it would be the same with this one. When they realized that this boy was going nowhere soon, they panicked.

My mom came up with so many reasons as to why I should stop seeing him. He is a delinquent. He smokes. He hangs around bad people. His father has many wives, so he would end up marrying more than one wife as well. And the main factor is that he is Hmoob Lees (Green Hmong/Hmong Leng) and I am Hmoob Dawb (White Hmong). I would not be able to understand the slight variations in culture, language, and traditions. My mom was afraid I would be mistreated by his family. It didn’t help that there were many horror stories of Hmoob Lees in-laws mistreating their Hmoob Dawb daughters-in-law and vice versa.

I was young and naive, but I felt that my mom didn’t have any right to say anything bad about him. She didn’t know the person that I knew. He was a straight A student who excelled in whatever he did. His father did marry many wives, but that was his father’s business, not his. And knowing my mom’s disapproval of interracial relationships, I told her that regardless of his dialect, he is still Hmong. I asked why she encouraged me to talk to him if this was how she felt about him all along? It wasn’t right that she didn’t speak up until I had already started to like this boy. I didn’t appreciate her passive aggressiveness—being nice about our relationship in public, but castigating me in private about her disapproval. And when I didn’t heed her words, her passive aggressiveness manifested into plain aggression.

My mom had never hit me before. When my father was still around, it was him who always did the beating. I was surprised when she beat me for the first time.

My mom hid the phone in her room whenever she left to do something. That was one way for her to prevent me from talking to him. I used to pick the lock in her bedroom just so I could use the phone to call him. She came home one day to see that I was on the phone. She yelled at me to hang up. When I did, she asked why I was still seeing him.

“Koj tsis paub hais tias nws yog Hmoob Ntsuab no lod? Koj pheej yuav tham niag ntsej muag Hmoob Ntsuab ntawv ua dab tsi (Don’t you know he is Green Hmong? Why do you keep on talking to that damned Green Hmong)?”

“Es tsuav nws yog Hmoob xwb mas. Koj xav kom kuv mus tham dub thiab mev lod (At least he’s Hmong. Would you rather let me date Blacks and Hispanics)?”

“Koj tseem cam kuv thiab lod (You dare argue with me)?”

“Kuv tsis cam koj. Kuv tsuas hais qhov tseeb xwb (I’m not arguing. I’m only speaking the truth).”

“Koj puas paub hais tias kuv yog koj niam no? Kuv hais li cas ces koj ua li ntawv xwb (Don’t you know that I’m your mother? Whatever I say, you do)!”

And with that, my mom grabbed a plastic hanger from her closet and hit me on my thighs. I cried out because I had not expected it. How embarrassing, I thought. I am 14 years old, too old for my mom to be beating me like this. It hurt so much, and all I could do was cry.

During the beating, my mom yelled, “Koj puas yuav tsum tsis txhob tham niag ntsej muag Hmoob Ntsuab ntawv lawm (Are you going to stop talking to that damned Green Hmong)?”

And in between my cries, I screamed, “No!” over and over again. No, I’m not going to stop seeing him no matter what you do—even if you were to beat me to death, I thought to myself.

For 14 years of my life, I had followed the norms, obeyed my elders without questioning, and kept my opinions silent. I decided that night that I wasn’t going to do that any longer. So, by standing up for my boyfriend, I also stood up for myself and what I believed in for the very first time in my life. My mom was wrong to prevent me from seeing him just because he is Hmoob Lees. She was wrong to have initially encouraged me to talk with him being fully aware of his reputation and now telling me that I can’t see him. She was wrong to judge without knowing him. She was so wrong in so many ways.

When the first hanger broke, my mom grabbed me by the hair, dragged me toward her closet, and beat me with another one. By the time my mom was done hitting me, she had broken 4 plastic hangers and bent 2 wire ones. It was a pain to take my jeans off that night, and when I did, I saw all the ugly marks on my thighs. My flesh was raw and tender. I ran my fingers gently across my thighs, feeling the bumps of the bruises. They stung to the touch. I had never felt physical pain like this. I had never been beaten like this before.

During lunch the next day at school, my boyfriend slapped my thigh playfully as he threw out a joke. I couldn’t contain myself and screamed out in pain. This was the first time I saw his “death” look. His happy smile—the smile that I so adore—turned into something I wished I had never seen. He was pissed off and ready to kill.

“Did your mom do that to you?” he asked.

I didn’t answer him. For the rest of lunch, we just sat there in silence.

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My Mermaid (Part 1)

6 Jun

This blog post is part of the My Mermaid series.
Click on the links below to take you to the previous posts:
Introduction
Prologue 

Cinderella - Prince Charming & Cinderella

Prince Charming & Cinderella (via Wikipedia)

Many girls grow up dreaming of falling in love with Prince Charming and living happily ever after.  I never had such a dream.  While my friends day dreamed of fairy tale romances, I was the skeptic and made fun of hopeless romantics.  I didn’t believe in love at first sight.  I didn’t believe in a soul mate.  I didn’t believe in happily ever after.

My parent’s marriage framed and influenced my perspective on love.  My mom met my father when she was 14, maybe 15 years old.  He, being the “bad boy,” swept her off her feet and she married him soon after.  My mom bitterly ended the marriage after 13 years of heartache, being cheated on, and abused.  I only knew love in the form of neglect, extramarital affairs, control, emotional and physical abuse, and heartache.  I saw how much pain my mom was in all those years—all because of love—that I told myself I was going to make sure I didn’t waste away the years of my youth and repeat her miserable life.

It was spring of 1999 when I met him.  I was 14 years old, still very much a child, almost ready to graduate from junior high school.  He was a year older than me, a freshman in high school.  He moved into town and brought along his baggy pants, over-sized jackets, and notorious reputation.  Gangs, misdemeanor crimes, school truancy—the whole works.

Gossip traveled fast and by the end of the week, I heard all that I needed to hear about him.  I wasn’t impressed.  He is the younger brother of the Hmong couple who owned the laundromat down the street from where I lived.  His acting out and getting into trouble at home forced his father to send him out of town in hopes that it would stop him from walking further down the destructive path he was on.

He initiated contact with me.  A week later, my little sister came in from outside and told me that Yawg Phwj Txwv Nkhaus (Mr. Curvy Mustache—her nickname for him back then) wanted to talk with me.

“Who is Yawg Phwj Txwv Nkhaus?” I asked.

My sister, only 9 years old, replied, “Koj tsis paub nws yog leej twg lod?  Nws nyuam qhuav khiav los.  Nws muaj ib tug phwj txwv nkhaus nkhaus heev li.  Nws hais tias nws nyiam koj na (You don’t know him?  He just moved into town and he has a very curvy mustache!  He says he likes you).”

Uninterested, I told her to tell him I was sleeping.

My sister opened the door, and yelled out, “Kuv tus sister pw lawv os (My sister is sleeping)!”  As she closed the door behind her on her way out, I heard a male voice say, “Who sleeps this early?”  I looked at the clock; it was 9 pm.

Two evenings later, my mom called to let me know she had not received the electricity bill.  She asked me to check the mail.

“Right now?” I asked because even though it wasn’t late, it was already dark outside.

“Yes, right now.”

I heard the usual commotion when I stepped outside.  The parking lot was filled with Hmong kids running about.  I saw my neighbor, Bill (the new boy’s sister-in-law’s brother), and his friend, Bee, standing in the parking lot with the boy.

Bee approached me, “Ej, kuv tus friend xav nrog koj hais lus (Eh, my friend wants to talk to you).”

I didn’t like Bee because he threatened to kill me and my friend a year before, so I ignored him and continued on my way to the mailboxes at the other end of the complex.  Bee had ruined my mood just by talking to me.  And because I was not in a happy state, when my friend’s sister walked up to me to tell me that the new boy liked me, I snapped at her.  “I don’t give a shit.  Can you people just stop talking about him already?!”

I opened the mail, and sure enough, the electricity bill was there.  I dreaded the walk back home.  I didn’t want anyone to approach me because I was annoyed.  I could’ve avoided all those Hmong kids if I had just walked behind the apartments.  However, it was already dark and since that side of the apartments were only lit in certain areas, I did not dare walk in the dark.  You’d think growing up on the impoverished part of town, I would be afraid of gangsters and criminals, but no—I was afraid of ghosts.

The new boy walked toward me.  Shit, I thought to myself.  Maybe he won’t talk to me if I pretend I’m busy reading the letter from the electric company.

“Is your name MaiBao?” he asked.

What did he expect me to say because he and I both know that MaiBao is my name, I thought to myself.

“Yes.  And?” I replied.  I will admit it: I was stuck up.  Because he associated with Bee (or so I thought), I didn’t have any intentions of being friendly.

“Oh, I was checking to make sure.  Well, I just wanted to say hi.”  He didn’t seem fazed at all by my attitude.

“Um… Hi?” It was a question because I wasn’t sure if he had expected me to reply.  Then without waiting for him to say anything else, I turned and quickly walked home.

Rumors were that many girls liked him.  I didn’t understand why.  He had the typical Asian boy hair cut of the 90′s—the mushroom haircut either parted in the middle or slicked back with hair gel.  You could see puberty had already hit him because he sported a baby mustache—although it’s not curvy as how my sister described.  The way he dressed in baggy clothing didn’t bother me.  It was how he walked—oh, that gangster limp walk.  Not very attractive in my mind.  And his notorious reputation did him no good because I didn’t care for bad boys.

Regardless of what I thought of him, we saw more and more of each other.  I attended a Baha’i youth group each week.  He began to attend those weekly meetings too.  Many people told me he went only to see me.  I like to think that our small town did not have a lot for him to do, so following the Hmong teens to these meetings kept him busy.  I also saw him each week when my mom dropped me and my sisters off at the laundromat to wash the family’s clothes.

The Baha'i House of Worship, Wilmette, IL. Bah...

The Baha’i House of Worship, Wilmette, IL. (via Wikipedia)

Stuck up was my personality when it came to talking with boys—and boy, was I stuck up with this one.  With boys who were looking for more than friendship, I instinctively went into stuck up mode.  Maybe it is to protect myself or maybe because I didn’t know how to act when approached by someone who liked me.  Nonetheless, I was stuck up.

However, he was very persistent and got my attention.  We started talking.  To me, it was nothing serious.  I was still young and knew nothing about relationships or love.  What I knew about love was what I witnessed in my parents’ marriage: abuse, lies, heartache, and sorrow.  At 13, 14, and 15 years old, my friends were already dating and seriously committed.  Even though I’ve had crushes and boys have liked me, I had never seriously dated anyone nor had I thought about dating anyone.

To my surprise, he told me he “loved” me after a mere two months of getting to know each other.  Some friends told me that “bad boys” know how to “play” you, so of course, they’re going to use and abuse the word “love” until they get into your pants.  One friend said, “If you want to have butterflies in your stomach, don’t date good boys because they don’t know how to talk to you. Good boys will use those corny and sappy lines like ‘Koj niam thiab koj txiv noj dab tsi cas yuav yug tau koj zoo nkauj ua luaj li (What did your parents eat to make you so beautiful)?’  You have to date bad boys.  Bad boys know how to say the right things at the right time.”

I didn’t believe that he loved me.  How could you after 2 months of knowing a person?  And even if he really did loved me, there was nothing I could do.  Those were his feelings and he was entitled to them.  In no way was I responsible.  One day, he asked me if I loved him.  I didn’t know what to tell him.  I’ve always been a compassionate person, so I grew to care about him, but to love?  No, love was not something I felt for him.  I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I also didn’t want to lie, so I sat in silence, avoiding eye contact with him.  “It’s okay,” he confidently said to me.  “You’ll love me.”

If you’re in love, this is how your cardiogram would look like.

A month later, he got into an argument with his older brother.  My friend found out from her boyfriend that he was upset and was contemplating suicide.  We both hurried over to Bill’s house, where we saw him sitting outside.

He wouldn’t talk about the argument, but he did speak of dying.  I can still remember those chilling words: “It’s as easy as putting a gun to my head and—boom—I die.”

For the first time, instead of seeing the tough gangster persona that he put on, I saw this fragile boy who had problems beyond my apprehension.  Were these problems the root of his rebellious behavior at home?  I wondered if his family realized that he was struggling internally.  He was clearly reaching out for help.  I sympathized and pitied him.

I tried to reason with him.  He said there would be only one thing that would solve his problems and that was if he got married.  “Will you go with me?” he asked.

“What?” was all I could say, bewildered.

“I’m asking if you’ll go with me to see my dad.”

My eyes widened with disbelief.  I had just graduated from junior high.  I was looking forward to high school, college, and whatever was waiting for me beyond that.  This boy, whom I hardly knew and didn’t love, was asking me to marry him.

Marriage at this age was common during the 80′s and 90′s in the Hmong community.  I heard numerous stories of young girls getting married at the tender ages of 13 and 14 only to be disappointed in the life they had envisioned for themselves.  This was not something I wanted for myself.

“Do you really think that marriage will solve your problems?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he responded without looking at me.

“You’re 15 years old.  Yog wb sib yuav no wb yuav noj dab tsi (If we get married, what are we going to eat)?”

“I can work.”

“What about school?”

“I don’t have to go to school.”

“You’re ruining your future.”

I stood there, looking down at him on the grass.  I was sad for him, yet angry at the same time that he was just going to throw away his future over an argument he had with his older brother.

My friend asked, “Koj tsev neeg yuav xav li cas mas? Koj yuav tsum xav kom zoo zoo tso nawb. Kev sib yuav tsis yog kev ua si (What will your family think?  You need to think about this.  Marriage is not child’s play).”

He didn’t answer her.  A minute later, he looked up at me and asked, “So, what’s your answer?”

From the moment he asked me to marry him, my heart thumped so hard I thought it was going to jump out of my chest.  Thoughts were racing through my head, most of them repeatedly.  Would he really kill himself if I reject him?  Would I be responsible for his death?  Would others consider me a heartless bitch who killed their son, brother, and friend?  What would happen to me—my future, my dreams—if I were to marry him out of pity to prevent him from killing himself?  What argument did he and his brother have to have pushed him to the edge?  Why did he think that marriage would solve his problems?  Was the argument about me—is that why he said everything would be solved if he just married me?  It must’ve been about me.  Fuck, it’s about about my parents—particularly my mom—again, isn’t it?

So, when he asked me for the last time if I was going to marry him, I looked straight at him and said without hesitation, “No, I’m not going to marry you.”

Kill him if I may, but I had so many things going for me and I wasn’t going to let my parents’ divorce or the Hmong community’s opinions of me or my mother get the better of me.  I will prove to people that I am worth a Hmong son’s time—that I wasn’t any of those hurtful words the Hmong adults were whispering behind my back.

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My Mermaid (Prologue)

2 Jun

This blog post is part of the My Mermaid series.
Click on the link below to take you to the previous post:
Introduction

My father was abusive, so it was bittersweet when he left.  I was 12 years old.  I thought life would be better now.  Little did I know that was just the beginning.

Without a father-figure in the home, the Hmong community looked down on my family—my mom being a single mother, taking care of 7 children.  The Hmong friends I grew up with started shying away from my siblings and me, more-so the girls in the family.  At first, I was confused with the changes in demeanor of these people (children and adults) whom I had grown up with.  It wasn’t until I overheard one of my best childhood friends’ mother telling her to never bring me over again because nws niam thiab txiv yog neeg tsis zoo, nws yog lawv noob, yuav phem ib yam li lawv (her parents are bad people, she is their seed, she will be just as bad as them).  Although my childhood friend didn’t listen to her mother and continued to talk to me until she moved to a different part of town, the damage was done.  My feelings were hurt by an adult—someone I believed should have been wiser and understanding—and I avoided my friend’s house as much as I could because I knew I wasn’t accepted.

Hmong women started accusing my mom of trying to “steal” their husbands.  Because my mom was divorced and in her mid-20′s, Hmong women feared that she would steal their husbands away (Somehow, in their crazy minds, they believed their husbands were the only men left on this planet).  There was one particular woman whose husband would constantly pretend to come over to “look” for his daughter.  Even when my sisters and I told him that she wasn’t over, he demanded to look in each and every one of our rooms.  He would quickly glanced into our rooms, but lingered in my mom’s.  Sometimes, when we didn’t open the door for him, he would walk around to the parking lot and peek into my mom’s bedroom.  His wife hated it and gossiped about my mom all over town.  The Hmong women stigmatized and ostracized my mom and the Hmong men viewed her with no respect and simply as a target for their lust.

So, while my mom was working hard to gain respect from the Hmong community, I was liberating myself from the constraints of the patriarchal culture.  We clashed a lot.  She didn’t believe girls should participate in sports or attend school dances.  So when I signed up for the girls’ basketball team tryouts both years in junior high school, my mom refused to take me.  I even lied to her once that I had to stay after school for a class project when I attended the annual back-to-school dance.  My middle school participation in choir, the talent show, and the annual drama production was something I fought really hard to get into.

It was during this stage of my very early life that I met someone who would be the pivot of my search for individualism, where I would find love, my voice, and stand up for what I believed in.

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