Growing Up Hmong American
What is your culture? My nephew accepts that I am Hmong…
My nephew is five. He just started school this last August. At dinner one cheery winter night after spending a long, late afternoon assembling gingerbread houses, he beckoned me over.
Yes?
Auntie, what is your culture?
Wait, what? Say that again.
What is your CUL-TURE, Auntie? Don’t you know what a culture is?
Yes! Of course, I know what a culture is, I snapped.
I wish I hadn’t responded like that. It was the sardonic, inner anthropologist in me. Anthropologists study and are ostensibly experts in “culture” although it’s easier and incorrect to tell people that we’re just like Indiana Jones, who is admittedly, an awesome explorer, but a terrible everything else.
Nevertheless, it (culture) is our, my domain.
So what culture are you, Auntie?
I paused for a minute. I didn’t actually know the correct answer that would satisfy him, that might satisfy me. I reached deep inside and pulled out: I’m Hmong.
Oh, okay. He went back to his dinner.
Hey, I said, what’s your culture?
I’m Hmong too and Mexican.
I laughed. If only cultural identity were so simple, so private elsewise.
