Being Hmong and Loving Someone with the Same Last Name

He is Romeo and I am Juliet.

He is a Vang and so am I.

A war between names except this time, we have the same one.

We have the same last name and you’re not allowed to do that. Through generations of bloodlines and family trees, last names are a sacred bond. To date is taboo; it’s equivalent to dating your first cousin (though dating your relative with a different last name is more appropriate).

My hope has always been to find an ideal Hmong partner who is kind, patient, and understanding. I search for people who are passionate about life, deeply love their family and friends and are authentic with who they are. It is essential that they live for themselves and give me freedom to do the same. Our choice to share our lives together is what I define as a successful relationship: a partnership.

In 2019, my search for love became stagnant. I stopped looking, especially in Hmong men; they always seemed to be too dependent, too lost in their idea of me, too scared to search for themselves. Every year I visit Fresno, my hometown, to enjoy Hmong New Year. I love it. It’s a part of who I am and I find comfort in being surrounded by my community. Along with the week long celebration at the fairgrounds, there are always nightly events too: concerts at nightclubs, parties, etc. On December 27th, the event was Project X at Switch Nightclub and I expected it to be like any other: a reunion with Hmong peers, a few drinks, and a night to dance away.

It wasn’t. I met Romeo.

As a Hmong woman, I find there are questions I must ask when a Hmong man approaches me. It’s a process: “What’s your name?” “How old are you?” “What do you do?”

When Romeo approached me, he answered without hesitation. I liked all his responses.

He’s three years older than me, lives out of town with a full time job, and has his own apartment.

“Maybe, I’ll let him buy me a drink,” I thought.

“What’s your last name?” I said.

“I’m a Vang” he replied.

“Damn. Maybe we can just be friends.”

And that should have been the end of it.

It wasn’t. With my inebriated brain conspiring with the theatre artist that lives inside me, I found this moment to be the perfect marketing opportunity for my solo piece I was performing in a few days. I invited him to see it.

To my surprise, he showed up.

My spirit was screaming at my drunk self — Why did I invite him to such a personal performance?! How insane was Romeo for accepting my invitation?! After my show, I gave him my thanks and thought we might never cross paths again.

Then I thought about the kind of person that would sacrifice their time to see another person’s art. I thought about how after my piece, he empathized and shared how our lives were similar.

I thought about how he followed through when some of my closest friends didn’t. It sparked an impulse and we hung out that same night.

My love, whether it is romantic or platonic, is being able to share my authentic self with a person. It is honesty and loyalty without shame or judgement. It is selfless, yet self aware. It is learning to love yourself truly and deeply. It is finding people you love truly and deeply (and knowing how lucky you must be for them to love you the same in return.)

It is not possession or ownership or a compromise. It is a mutual understanding, a permeable membrane reaching equilibrium. It isn’t romanticizing toxicity, or sexual intimacy, or the potential of a person.

That night, we found each other intoxicating, as if we’ve always know each other. Somehow, some way, through our circle of friends and interests, our paths should have crossed but never have until this moment. Our lives intertwined. It felt cosmic.

We made flights, FaceTime calls and six hour drives to share a glimpse of life together. We weren’t hoping to change each other, we have already been changed. We weren’t broken souls waiting for someone to heal us, we are souls that have already been healed.

We searched for friendship, and growth. We understood sacrifice and forgiveness to our loved ones. Three hundred and eighty miles apart felt so far, yet so close to what we have been searching for our entire lives.

We found love.

Romeo is a handsome Hmong man. He loves like a rushing wave, filling and overflowing the cracks of my reconfigured heart. He’s playful and funny. He’s ambitious but never risks too much. He risks just enough. His love expands beyond his family, friends, and the people who choose to be in his life. He aims to make them proud. As one of the older children, he strives to be a good role model. As a middle child, he empathizes with the pains of his older siblings. His kindness and selflessness seeped into my daily life like sweet golden honey. I loved the way “I miss you” rolled off his lips as he knew he could never truly have me. With his parents’ expectations and traditional superstitions, his Hmongness runs too deep into his blood.

I am Juliet. I’ve never been a traditional Hmong girl. I’m too assertive, too open minded, too expressive, too rebellious. I don’t adhere to gender roles. I don’t give respect to just anyone. I don’t agree with the way “things are supposed to be”.

I am not a traditional Hmong girl; I am me and I happen to be Hmong.

I sunk deep into his ocean, pulling me from the shallow end with each tide. I opened my heart to take his risks because he truly seemed worthy. I grew accustomed to pain and drowning in his, I learned how to swim. I go after what I want, and all I wanted to do was choose him.

And yet, a glimpse is all we could have. This friction of identities and names lived within this romance that was never meant to begin. We couldn’t let it go and neither could we let it go on.

Our families love like Hmong people and Hmong people love like a rock. They are painfully stubborn but strong. They can be rigid and rough but within them are gems beyond comprehension. They love hard, in every sense. Our families would never fully accept us and he knew that.

All of my life, I’ve ached to define being Hmong for myself, so when I chose to embrace its beauty and resilience, it resonated through my body. It was the language rolling off my tongue like my own intricate song of tonal pitches. It was moving my elegantly placed hands and bouncing hips to the beat of a Maiv Xis Muas dance video. It was breathing fire every time Hmong pepper entered my mouth followed by sticky purple rice. It was listening to the stories of my grandmother at a table and hearing my grandfather handcraft black and white stools starting at six in the morning.

I learned to love my Hmong identity. I learned to love its superstitions and traditions and problematic cultural beliefs because it was something I got to be a part of.

And suddenly, I felt like it betrayed me. That something I learned to love so much could take so much love away from me.

But love is love is love.

Loving Romeo is fear. It’s knowing that I would never be able to give him the “proper” Hmong wedding with the “proper” Hmong children. It’s understanding that our love would always be greeted with distaste. It’s knowing I could never ask him to sacrifice his family’s honor or remove his shame.

Loving Romeo isn’t a choice. It’s knowing he belongs in my life, in any capacity, whether it is as a lover or a memory… or a friend.

Loving Romeo is proving that soulmates exist beyond the romantic narrative we both want. It is knowing that there is value in loving each other as human beings.

Love, whether it is romantic or platonic, is good and I am forever grateful for him.

I don’t know if these moments were the beginning or the end. Perhaps, I will never know.

But just like love, and the cosmos, and everything I find valuable, we are a mystery.