There is a story which I have not told many people. It is a story filled with shame and embarrassment. Yet, it is an experience which embodies privilege, parental love, and balancing distrust and growth between parents and children.
When I was eighteen years old and just a few months into my very first relationship, my father caught my ex-boyfriend and me in my bedroom. I can still remember the rush of emotions that coursed through my body. The guilt, humiliation, and fear can still be felt as if it all happened yesterday. It felt as though we were in a movie and someone hit the fast-forward button because everything happened so quickly.
My father didn’t yell or become physical. He calmly but adamantly told my ex he did not belong in my room and for him to go home immediately. My father further told him he was never welcomed into our house again.
Of course, my father was much harsher on me. He scolded me and shamed me, saying if I wanted to marry my ex so much then I could just leave. Out of embarrassment and anger I went to my room, grabbed my largest backpack, packed all my school textbooks and laptop, and ran out the front door to my car. (Even as all of this was unfolding my education was a priority to me.)
I was driving around with no idea of where to go when I received one phone call after another. They came from my father, my sister-in-law, my older brother, and then from my mother — who was actually out of town that week. I didn’t know what to do, but all I knew at that moment was that I did not want to be home. I drove to a nearby coffee shop, parked my car, and called my ex. I told him I was going to drive to his place, that I would marry him since we got caught. He told me to wait for him and that he would turn around and come get me.
As I waited for my ex I listened to the voicemail my older brother left me.
You need to come back home. Dad is really angry with you and by doing this it isn’t going to make things easier. Nyab and I will help talk to dad for you.
I then listened to the voicemail my mother left me.
Where are you?! What do you think you are doing? Get back home right now! I can’t believe you are doing this. If you don’t go home right now I’m going to call the cops and tell them that your boyfriend kidnapped you.
I knew my mother wasn’t lying. She would do something like that. So I called my ex and told him to go back home.
If you really want to get married just tell me. It isn’t a problem. I will call our people and let his people come take you. Since you want to get away from the family so bad you can have your wish come true.
My mother’s reprimand over the phone only added more degradation the next morning. It was true though, that I had always wanted to get away from my family. As a Hmong daughter and a university student I was unable to balance and navigate between my academic and social interests and my home life. I couldn’t join clubs, hang out with my friends, or focus on my studies because only my family and my domestic duties were important to my parents.
During college, I spiraled even more rapidly and heavily into my already-existing depression and suicidal thoughts. I was burdened by the roles, identities, and expectations I carried as a Hmong womxn, daughter, first-generation college student, and budding scholar.
As a result, I saw my ex as the solution to my problems. I had wild thoughts that marrying him would bring me freedom, a freedom that would let me do whatever I wanted. Because of that idealistic thought I attempted to go home with my ex the night we were caught.
However, beneath this emotional mess, I knew marriage was not the answer. Deep down I personally did not want to get married until I finished college. I did not want to become a nyab because I was not ready to juggle going to school full-time and being a wife and daughter-in-law. I also knew that being a nyab entailed more duties than I was willing to take on at the time.
So, I just sat and listened over the phone to my mother and her mother, my niam tais, lecture me about my actions.
During one of my times on social media I scrolled over a post which said:
It’s important that we share our experiences with other people. Your story will heal you, and your story will heal somebody else. When you tell your story you free yourself, and you give other people permission to acknowledge their story as well.” — Iyanla Vanzant
This made me think back to this embarrassing and shameful experience of mine. At the time I couldn’t see the privilege and parental love that came out of it. It was only recently that I’ve been able to find some sort of start to a much needed healing process, and this was only after learning about the sometimes-necessary ability of balancing the tension between conflicting knowledge.
I recognize how privileged I am to have parents who did not immediately marry me off to my ex when we were caught in my room. This is something I know Hmong womxn (and men) are still subjected to. I have friends and cousins who experienced a similar predicament to mine but they were forced to marry their boyfriends. Although I can’t speak for how those friends’ and cousins’ relationships are today, I do not agree with the practice of forced marriage to save face. Marriage is never the solution, whether it be forced or idealized.
In retrospect, my parents loved me enough to know marrying me off would do more harm than good to my future as an individual. Even if our relationship is stained with that quagmire, I’d rather be a Hmong daughter with some capacity to challenge and resist their demands instead of a Hmong daughter-in-law with less liberties to act on my own agency. Being a nyab means more responsibilities and etiquettes to consider compared to being a Hmong daughter to solely my parents.
So, for their love and bitter scoldings, I am eternally grateful.
