I’m not a very good Hmong person by traditional Hmong standards. I don’t listen to Hmong music. I don’t attend any Hmong events. I don’t practice a lot of Hmong customs. I have no real desire to get married or to have babies. I have absolutely no desire to visit Laos or Vietnam or Thailand. In fact, I only go to the Minnesota Hmong New Year’s celebration for the mini donuts.
Until recently, I’d spent my entire adult life living and working in or around Manhattan, far, far away from any Hmong community; and that was fine by me. When the editor of maivmai asked me to contribute, I struggled with finding a topic. What could I write about? After all, being Hmong wasn’t a primary part of my identity. In fact, it wasn’t even a secondary or tertiary part of grown-up me. I’d buried it down and away somewhere between my dislike of coleslaw and my lukewarm affinity for M&Ms. It just wasn’t important to me. Hmongness and much of what it entails, I take with a grain of salt. This article does not hold much sentimentality and it most likely will trigger intense reactions from many in the Hmong population.
But here it is anyway.
I grew up the oldest daughter of a family of eight kids, which meant that I was more or less a second mom to my siblings, and layered on me were a myriad of responsibilities that no kid would ever really be prepared to take on — certainly not at twelve years old. Yet somehow, I did and so did the thousands of other Hmong girls like me. I looked after my siblings, cooked for them, cleaned for them, and made sure everyone stayed out of trouble. I knew that if anything happened, no matter who did it, the fault would fall on me. But if you are Hmong, you already know this.
I grew up in an environment where the women did too much and received too little. At eating events, the women would cook all day and yet not be given an equal seat at the table with the men; and when the men were done eating, they’d sit back and the women would then clean. Women would eat whatever was left in the kitchen, having given all of the best parts to the men. The first generation here in the US was especially rough on Hmong daughters where there was a great deal of friction between the two cultures. It was a struggle between American independence and Hmong obedience.
It wasn’t uncommon to hear about the men in our society beating their women and children regularly. I grew up watching my dad pound on my mom and on me and my siblings. I grew up hearing women told too often to ua siab ntev or to bear with it, to see if there was something she could change in her that brought on his anger as though him beating her bloody was her fault. I’d watch and listen from between the cracks of bedroom doors as clan councils encouraged the woman to go back to her abusive husband.
There were rarely any consequences for the men beyond a few words, but nothing really changed. In a few months, they would be back with the elders, her with fresh black eyes and him with fresh excuses. These women with their skins of steel, returning again and again dented and bent by the meaty hammers of their husbands’ fists — well, it took extreme cases before divorce was granted, and even then, the only victory was walking away with her life.
But how could we not expect men to be monsters when we raise boys to believe that they simply need to exist to be catered to? From the moment a boy slides out of the womb, he is favored beyond any girl that may come before or after him. I grew up watching the boys in our society coddled, becoming spoiled and entitled just like our fathers were, given more attention, money, permissions and goods than daughters would ever be allowed. It was rare to find the opposite, where a daughter was treated better than a son.
Daughters were meant to be obedient, to not talk back, to learn domestic skills and never reach too high or become too lofty. Even from a young age, daughters would be encouraged to become nurses, secretaries, and teachers. For many, there would be no encouragement to become doctors, lawyers, and administrators. Even in our career pursuits, we would play second fiddle to men, taking on roles of support and not leadership. I watched too many girl cousins married far too young to much older men out of pressure, out of fear, out of duty. But most of all, I watched some of these young girls marry horrible men to escape the cage of their parents’ home, only to find themselves in a brand new cage, and watched as the cycle began again.
It was heartbreaking, and it painted a cold, hard picture of living life half in tradition and half in modernity, where the exterior was mostly smoke and mirrors, but the interior was mired in secrets and sorrows. This duality brought about in me a focus that I would not be like them. I would not be a victim of the same atrocities as my mother, my aunts, and my cousins.
We are now in a new era with a new generation, yet so many of these institutionalized behaviors still exist in our culture. In the last year or so alone, there have been at least two Hmong women who were killed by their husbands because the women wanted divorces. I still hear women being told to have patience and to work things out when their husbands abuse and cheat. When a divorce happens, the woman is branded with a scarlet “D”. She carries all the shame and embarrassment as though she’s used and dirty goods. She is often left with their children and very little support from her ex-husband. Meanwhile, the husband goes on and finds some poor, barely legal girl in Thailand and is married again within six months.
Even cheating by the man is acceptable as long as he marries the other woman as well. Marrying a second or third wife by traditional standards is quite par for the course, however what is good for the goose is certainly not good for the gander. Morality and the responsibility for morality within the family unit is heavier on the shoulders of the woman than it is on her husband. The repercussions of her shaming the family carries a heavier stigma than it does for him. It is unthinkable for a woman to consider having two husbands. It’s just not done. She must be pious and obedient and accept the lot her husband places upon her. That is a good traditional Hmong wife.
Despite how much I hate the things that happened around me as I grew up, it taught me invaluable lessons in toughness and resiliency. It taught me how to not bend under pressure, how to dig my way through the dung that was piled on top of me, and it taught me to never give up. It is something that I see my brothers and many other men of my generation are incapable of accomplishing despite all the advantages that they were given.
In time, Hmong girls have shown how strong and resilient they are. Perhaps it is because of our strife and struggle that we try harder than our brothers. We first generation daughters had to trail blaze and pioneer beyond the ropes that bound us to our culture. We had to be fearless — not just for new frontiers, but also against the backlash and talk of our own people. It is because of our marginalization that we pushed against the grain. And though we’ve gained ground, we’re far from the finish line. It is amazing the number of first Hmong women in high positions as it is not only a win for Hmong people, but a win for Hmong girls everywhere. The first elected judge of Hmong descent is a woman. First Hmong senator is a woman. First Hmong VP of a large national bank is a woman. And the list goes on.
There is an old folklore that said Hmong women used to have wings, but that our wings were cut so that we could no longer fly away. Maybe it is time for us to grow new ones. Maybe it is time for us to redefine what it means to be a good Hmong, and in particular, a good Hmong woman. As the decades have passed, I’ve watched from afar as certain aspects of the Hmong culture died away — our language, our clothing, our ceremonies and our crafts — but one thing has remained too long. The toxic masculinity, the lack of support for our own sisters and mothers when they cry for help, the shame and blame that is showered on women for the failure of relationships, the second class citizenship of our daughters. These things need to be left in the past. And though these things are not just indicative of our culture alone, it is within our own culture that we are empowered to change things.
I may never feel the desire to learn how to do needle work, or to visit the old country, or to sit quietly in the kitchen while the men act important in the next room. I may never care if Hmong men think I’m too opinionated or find me too difficult to relate to. I may never compromise my self worth to be seen as a good Hmong daughter, but I know this much. I may not be a good Hmong for the traditionalists, but I am a necessary Hmong to help pave the path to the future. To be Hmong is to be free, and it is high time that we set our sisters free.
