Winter settled on the girl’s palm as she turned the perfectly egg-shaped brass doorknob ever so gently. The subtle hairs on her forearms rose like spikes as a waft of cooked brown rice raped her nostrils.
The girl’s belly flipped as her phone dinged audibly from her left jean pocket. Shucks. How could she have left it on? The girl could have sworn that she’d silenced it.
As a child, Choua Xiong had always wanted to be an artist. As an adult, her passion, talent, and determination have led her to illustrate a recently published Hmong fairy tale, Puag Thaum Ub: Hmoob Xeem, written and told by Dr. Brian V. Xiong.
As a child growing up, Ya Po Cha had always wanted to become a medical doctor and give back to the Hmong community by helping Hmong patients and families.
“How was my day?” answered the woman with an elongated sigh. “My day was… good.” She tiptoed, lifted her hip, and planted her bottom firmly on the wheeled office chair, hands grasping at both armrests to maintain balance.
er Thao is currently pursuing her PhD in education and will be the first in her family to graduate with a doctorate degree. It is Thao’s hope and dream to inspire and develop curriculum that will support bilingual and multilingual students.
Many Hmong Americans can trace their families back to refugee camps and farming villages. They remember and were told stories about a time when walking to the nearest school took hours, and only a few boys had the privilege of receiving basic education in Laos and Thailand.
Dearest, My Love.
No matter how many times I think about it, I am not able to let you go, my love. Don’t mistake me. It has nothing to do with how you came into my life.
Funeral drums rumbled at the front of the crowd. A wedge of wood held the double doors wide open, as if welcoming spirits of all sort. Incoming was a trail of people, couples carrying Kawm (hmong backpack) on their backs, women and men wailed loudly like agitated children.
Niam Yim Leej
Snow didn’t know to fall on the refugee campground. That was the only home she’d ever known. Though she and her husband Yim Leej had settled their little family in Minnesota one fateful winter of year 1986.
A moment in time, Peng was driving from school. Farming was the worst thing on his mind. He hated the thought of farming. It actually made him sick. Sometimes, he even needed to lay down when he thought too much about farming.
Gaojia just nodded. She didn’t like to try her skill at responding in Hmong because, well, her Hmong sucked, and people often laughed at her accent whenever she did. She didn’t want to embarrass herself.
Funeral drums rumbled at the front of the crowd. Children and adults sat cross-legged on the ground, each holding an unlit incense stick, all bowing their heads as the Txiv Qeej bowed his qeej and raised a leg in fine performance.
This rich fairy tale, traditionally shared through oral, Hmong storytelling, is finally published by the Hmong Educational Resources Publisher, written and described by Dr. Kou Yang, with lush and colorful illustrations by Yinkong Vue.
Hmong Village, is it a village? Or a ghost town? Ntsuab has always seen it as the latter. Everywhere she looked, there was loss.
White flakes floated down slowly like falling feathers. Winter was here at last. A blanket of white fluff was all that could be seen where Yim Leej’s backyard garden of cilantro, green onions, and lemon grass used to be.
Snowflakes frosted the outside of Niam Yim Leej’s (Mrs. Yeeleng) living room window. The ice-cold windowsill shocked the pads of her thin fingers as she grasped for stability. Her legs were getting weaker, and the winter didn’t do much to help her frailness.
If it was up to Peng, he wouldn’t do it. No. He disliked, terribly. He hated it in fact. The thought of it made him so sick, and he doesn’t say that lightly too. The thought of it literally makes him physically sick.
The king lifted his hand and the ballroom silenced at once. “What is your talent, sir?” asked the king to the beggar. The beggar’s eyes searched the stage.
In a kingdom up on a hill, an old king lived with his seven daughters. The princesses were so delightfully named by their late mother who loved the sound of music.
It was already 7:30 in the morning. Her parents were usually up by now. Gao reluctantly ended the call. A warm stream of heated air rode up her leg, warming her calves nicely.
Nature is performed outdoors as a “walking play.” A professional ensemble of actors takes the audience on a journey through the natural environment as scenes unfold around them.
A Bold And Beautiful Season Of Regional Premiers That Break The Mold Of Asian American Stereotypes
Children swarmed out the double doors like busy ants. When had the schools gotten rid of the obnoxious brass bells that rang by the drumming of a sidearm? Sometimes, life had a way of making her recall how old she was.
The ideas for this series came into being when I was a junior in college. I was reading “Tragic Mountain” by Jane Hamilton.
One stormy night, a lonely housewife took a walk out in the fields that encircled their remote home. She was headed to their barnyard shed to obtain a few nails.
Today, Funny Asian Women Kollective, better known as F.A.W.K. announced that they will expand their collective. The group was originally founded in 2014.
“Our son cannot go through with the marriage,” spoke the elder. He pulled out $2,000.00 in crisp hundreds and laid it on the table. Nkauj Yiv’s father called Dib into the room.
The birth of this book was a result of the experiences I had as an introverted Hmong student growing up in an American K-12 education system in Minnesota. I was on a search all my life to find my voice in order to share my life experiences with the people around me.
Nkauj Yiv stared out the window for the fifth time that morning. She hadn’t the slightest idea why Nraug Txuj wouldn’t write to her. He had shown her so much attention and interest during their last encounter.
There was a sharp pain at the back of her left hand. She tried to lift her neck but couldn’t for she was lying on a bed elevated at the head. She also didn’t have enough strength to move even her neck let alone lift her head.
The days passed. Friday merged into Saturday, Saturday into gloomy Sunday. Monday came again and Nraug Txuj hadn’t called. He didn’t appear at their house. No email came into her inbox. Had he changed his mind about her?
Nraug Txuj’s brows creased when Nkauj Yiv shook her head, no. She gazed over at stepmother, surveying the twitch of her brow. She wouldn’t hear the end of stepmother’s wrath following Nraug Txuj’s departure if she happened to join the meal.
The Hmong people are an ethnic group in East and Southeast Asia. Stories of the Hmong people – an ethnic group from China and Southeast Asia – are passed down orally and can be told through paj ntaub story cloths.
“Get the door!” hollered stepmother from the back porch. Nkauj Yiv’s right hand stirred the steaming pot of zaub hau with great effort, her hand fanning down the developing smog with a great wooden spatula.
Nkauj Yiv’s felt her jaw hang. Her eyes did not blink at the sight of him. Just when she thought that she was only meeting with Richard, he appears before her.
The morning hadn’t gone as she’d hoped. Though she was able to cook a complete three course breakfast before leaving the house, Nkauj Yiv had forgotten the most important artifact before stepping out. Her shoe.
Created and Produced by Brad Barber (co-director/producer of the award-winning feature documentary Peace Officer), States of America is a new IFP supported documentary shorts series featuring one person in each of the 50 United States.
Soapsuds crawled up Nkauj Yiv’s forearms as she scrubbed the ash white Corelle dinner plate in a circular motion. Her scouring toughened, clockwise, counter clockwise, clockwise, scraping the food crud off the crevices of the plate.
Nkauj Yiv returned home that afternoon and immediately slipped out of her gown and got dressed before starting on dinner. Her father, stepmother, and stepsisters would be home any hour and she wouldn’t disappoint them without a cooked meal.