For a number of my childhood years I was pretty quiet and tried every day to be the best Hmong daughter so that my parents would be proud and not lose face. I learned to not ever talk back, voice my opinion, and respect my elders by keeping my “red mouth”, as it is referred to in Hmong, contained. I have known from the day I was born in the jungle of Laos, I was Hmong nor was I to ever forget.
My family went to the church that sponsored us to come over along with our relatives. Christmas I learned that was what it meant to be considered American. One Christmas season, I was directed to go to the Salvation Army, by my mother to represent her in order to pick up Christmas gifts because my mother and father both had to work at their minimum wage /part time jobs. I remember as a child always wanting to put up a tree so when the teacher at school would ask I could say that we at least had one whether or not. Whether or not we had gifts underneath was a topic I avoided like the plague. I was so embarrassed my parents were on government assistance and couldn’t afford gifts. I had six other brothers and sisters. I was to attend this gathering with my aunt (my mother’s biological sister). My aunt came to pick me up early that morning. When we got there the line into the sailboat looking building was so long it curled around the block. The snow was falling which seems like there was no end to creating a blanket covering the world.
After the sun had slipped below the earth, we were finally inside the nautical themed building, still in line. It wasn’t until we were inside the building had I realized how cold my hands and feet were. I was wrapped up in my Walmart/thrift store/garage sale hat, scarf, and winter coat from head to toe, so all that was visible were my almond shaped eyes. While waiting for my turn to pick up enough presents for my six siblings, I began to wish my ears didn’t hear and my eyes went blurry, but more than anything I wish I hadn’t understood that same look and demeanor so well. It finally was my turn and the white women looked down at me, talking down to me in a very slowly, and LOUDLY. It was as though I was deaf, blind and dumb. I wanted to disappear. Immediately I found myself with this overwhelming feeling of this time I won’t let you do this to me, my aunt or anyone else who waited all day and night in line. It took all of the Hmong girl in me say to her, “ Just because they can’t understand English as well as you do but I can not only understand you but I hear and see how you are treating us through that smile of yours!” Immediately, I closed my dark almond shaped eyes expecting the worse from all the other Hmong elders around me and the white volunteers. She gave me a look of shock and how dare I question her good intentions and Christian heart. She gazed at me and I gazed right back. She looked down and looked up shaking her head, pausing only to have continued her demeanor as though she did nothing wrong and as though she didn’t see me nor heard what I said. I no longer desired those Christmas presents under the tree. I remember bringing those presents home with my aunt that day.
Until this moment and into my adulthood, I had worked so hard to not have an accent in English, the same accent I was so embarrassed by from my parents and other elders. You know that vow to yourself early on that I wasn’t going to have an accent, because I knew how life would be for me otherwise. Growing up knowing who I was helped me realize that though I couldn’t change without some major surgery to my physical self, but I could control the perfection of how I spoke English. I saw and heard how the white volunteers were treating all of the Hmong people who were there, but through the guise of a good Hmong daughter I didn’t want to stir up any trouble for my aunt, because I knew it would get back to my parents.
Do you know that look?
The look of pity,
“saving the world”
if only it looked, behaved, believed,
in order to keep white bodies feeling comfortable at everyone else’s expense,
with a smile on their faces
with the best of intentions
and no hard feelings
because you and I are all humans.
Of course at the time I didn’t know the words or terminology nor did I completely understand why it would happen and no one seemed to do anything about it? I did not know it was called white privilege or racism but I as a child I knew what it smelled like, felt like, looked like, and sounded like.
- Kia Moua
