Water streamed from the showerhead and drummed onto the girl’s bare back as she sat balled up on her tiled shower floor. A reflection of the girl’s night ran through her head.
Fashion designers hold a special place in the Hmong community, especially from the Hmong history of Paj Ntaub to Hmong clothing and silver coin decorations on Hmong women’s, men’s and children’s apparel.
“Did you cook that?” asked her elder sister to her other sister. The girl was silent, observant. It was Nava, a traditional Hmong dessert of colored tapioca pearls and jelly in coconut and sugar syrup.
The girl pulled up her socks some more before entering through the restaurant door. Winter was starting to get to her. Her socks were Dollar Tree quality, threads porously woven into a thin sheath for her feet and ankles.
The girl’s heart dropped. Angst rushed down her chest and down to her belly and inside her intestines. A customer had marched up to the girl’s desk and pounded one hand down on the checkout counter.
As a child growing up, Xe Yang, a new Hmong author of the book, KUV POG, had always dreamed of traveling and experiencing new things like the character she wrote in her book.
“Hey, how are you?” asked the guy. The girl sighed louder than usual. Though it was Friday night, it felt like a Monday morning.
Bristles of hair stood erect on her bare legs as she tiptoed across the cracking ice sheets melting on the sidewalk. The girl wore a skirt again to work that day. She liked skirts, even in wintertime.
Hmong Archives Received Hmong Cultural Heritage Microgrant To Preserve And Publish Martha L. Zimmerman Paj Ntaub Collection
Dr. Brian Xiong: When my mother, Porche Yang, died in 2011, I didn’t get the chance to record her paj ntaub story.
“What changed you?” asked the bearded guy on the other end of the video line. This was the second time they’d video called, and the girl found most intriguing the red forest hairs invading the guy’s cheeks and upper lip, each bristle moving at every word he uttered.
I am amazed again and again by the power of Story Circles and creating from that place. As artists the time for deep listening, the curiosity and questions raised are such powerful roots to build what is possible.
“What are you doing here?” asked the girl, eyes staring toward the window. Cars drove away in single file like the migrating of birds. The workday was done, and traffic had to be beat.
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.