Growing Up Second-Generation American: I Am Hmong

A question I got asked a lot growing up was, “Where are you from?”

Even at the age of twenty-two, I still get asked this all the time. The funny thing is, people never believe me when I give them an answer.

“Where are you from?”

“Michigan.”

“No…where are you really from?”

“…Michigan. I was born there.”

I mean, I guess I get it. When you see me, I’m not your typical WASP, blonde hair-blue eyed, all-American girl. I look different–dark hair, even darker eyes, a yellow complexion–and obviously Asian. Now, that I am much older, I honestly don’t care about how people view me. Years of self-love and acceptance can do wonders for the human psyche. However, surprisingly…or unsurprisingly, my appearance bothered me considerably growing up.

When I was two-years-old, my family moved to the south–North Carolina, to be exact. I really was born in Michigan; and sometimes, I wonder how different my life could’ve been if my parents decided to stay in the midwest. More specifically, how different I could’ve been.

Growing up in the south with Asian parents–along with an entire extended family of relatives living in the same house because that’s just how it is–as a child, I really didn’t think anything about the color of my skin. By ethnic definition, I am Hmong (a small group of people from the mountainous regions of Southeast Asia). Both of my parents are Hmong. My family upholds Hmong cultural customs; well, most of them. And I didn’t even speak English until I started going to school. Of course, I watched American television and had an entire collection of Disney movies; but still, we strictly spoke our native language at home.

So, because of my upbringing, being Hmong was the norm for me. Until I started school.

I guess I should clarify that North Carolina does have some decently sized Hmong communities…just not where I grew up. The county my family decided to move into barely had any Asian people, which means there was–is–an even smaller Hmong population. So, I’m pretty sure I was the only Hmong person in my grade. I would say entire school, but I have younger siblings so I guess they count.

During my first few years of school, I knew I looked different from other kids. However, it wasn’t a big deal at the time. There was one other Asian girl in my class, so that helped a little. I think. But things began to change once I got older.

Since there were not many other Asian-American students, I didn’t have friends who were like me. The other Asian kids I did know didn’t vibe with me–we were too different. And I don’t know if it’s because I started to become overly self-aware or because of society’s standard of beauty, but I found myself comparing the way I looked to my friends.

It’s embarrassing to say, but I wanted to look like my non-Asian friends. I wanted curly hair, green eyes, and a totally different complexion.

I know. But I think it was more than just looking like my friends; it’s because I wanted to look like everyone else. I wanted to blend in with the crowd and fit in. Being different is always hard, especially in middle school and high school. Some people can be really ignorant and rude. For no reason.

Furthermore, I feel like it’s even more difficult growing up second-generation American. Both my parents were born outside the United States–Laos and Thailand, respectively. My dad’s family came to the US in the late 70s, when he was just a boy; and after spending over a decade in France, my mom’s family came in the early 90s. Unlike many of the people I went to school with, I don’t have deep roots in this country.

In high school, I knew people whose families had been living in the same area for at least 100 years. As cool as that is, I can’t relate. At all. Add that on top of standing out, and bam–a recipe for awkward identity.

Even though I had an identity crisis, my grandmother used to always tell us grandkids that since we were born Hmong, we had to embrace our culture. However, I’ve always struggled with finding a balance between the two different parts of me–especially because I hated being Hmong so much when I was younger.

Interestingly enough, the older I get, the more I appreciate the fact that I am different. I love having such a colorful culture, with delicious food–nqaij npua xyaw zaub ntsuab is something I crave all the time–and beautiful textiles. However, being American is still undeniable. I was born and raised here. It’s present in the way I think and speak.

These days, I am still trying to find the balance. I think it helps that I love who I am more and more each day, but there are still many things that bother me about Hmong culture (and that is a totally different story). I also think a lot about the future–like my significant other and children. Will I marry someone who is also Hmong? Or will I not? Will my children embrace this culture too? Or will they reject it even more than I did?

Although the future is still unknown, I do hope that I can embrace all aspects of myself one day. I know it was hard for me to accept being different, but I know that deep down I want my children to love being Hmong too–whether they are 100% or not.

Because at the end of the day, it’s a part of me. It’s an identity that I share simultaneously with my American one. So, yes, to the John Doe’s of the world who keep asking me dumb questions–I promise I am actually American. And no–for the thousandth time–I am not Chinese. Thank you very much and have a good day, John Doe.