The Hers: Our Roots

This post is dated January 3, 2016 however, I'm just posting it today, November 5, 2017 (It's been sitting in draft status all this time). I have written so little in such a long time. Moment after moment, lesson after lesson just fly by. Though this is from a year and a half ago, I don't want to lose the lesson. A lesson that seems timely considering Hmong New Year is just around the corner.

January 3, 2016
Today was a first for TeamHer. We dressed up in Hmong clothing (well, we each wore an article that had Hmong embroidery on it) for New Year at church. After the festivities, I taught Ayden how to re-pleat her Hmong skirt for safe storage until the next New Year. Although I have done this very rarely in my youth, going through this process brought back a flood of memories and emotions.

I have fond and vivid memories of the time I spent with my grandma Vang. My recollection is that we shared many moments gardening and doing needle work, but I am sure we probably only did it a few times. Despite my distorted memory, what remains is that I learned how to ua paaj ntaub (Hmong embroidery) from her. It was this process of learning that connected me to not only my grandmother but also my Hmong identity.

Needle work was not a "craft" back in Laos. It was a necessity. You had to know how to make thread from plants, weave the thread into cloth, dye the materials, and embroider using cross stitching. This skill was vital for two reasons. First and foremost, this was the only way to get clothes (if you had money you could buy clothing but most Hmong were farmers and could not afford this luxury). Second, it was a way to be industrious and make money. When women were not cooking, tending to the children, or in the fields, they were making clothing. Women often had one set of clothes which they wore to the New Year celebration and another which they wore everyday (less fancy version of their New Year’s outfit but similar in look).

Kong and I often talk about how quickly a family's history gets lost. In just two generations, the struggles of our parents are just stories. Our girls hear the words however, the intense emotions connected to those words are gone. I have so little to show my girls about where they come from, their history, and who they are. As we continue to achieve economic success, they identify more with being middle class Americans and grow further and further away from their cultural roots.

I understand that cultures evolve, change, and adapt so I am not surprised at what I am seeing however, there is a little part of me that is sad. In just another generation, my grandfather Yang's legacy as a Colonel in the Secret War, my mother-in-law's story as a 14-year-old nurse caring for injured soldiers, my father-in-law’s role in US Aid, my parent's role in World Vision, and all those who lost their lives in the evacuation will only be stories. Stories missing bits and pieces which could never paint the truth about loss, pain, suffering, love, and hope.

As Ayden and I sat quietly working on our skirts, I could not help but miss my grandma Vang. I thought about how we take the moments we have with those we love for granted and our inability to recognize the impact of those moments on our identity. I hope one day, when Ayden sees a perfectly bundled and re-pleated Hmong skirt, that she thinks about the day we shared and the hours spent quietly working. I don't know what this moment impressed upon her, but my wish is that she finds a little piece of herself and her identity.