From ticky@gladstone.uoregon.eduSun May 7 18:05:55 1995 Date: Sun, 7 May 1995 14:08:17 -0700 (PDT) From: souDARY kittiVONG To: Amphon Guy Phiaxay Subject: A Journey--In Search for Ourselves (fwd) Here it is. *SK ---------- Forwarded message ---------- Date: Thu, 27 Apr 1995 19:47:21 -0700 From: Satjadham To: laolit@tuddy.cc.monash.edu.au Newgroups: soc.culture.laos Subject: A Journey--In Search for Ourselves Little Refugee Me There was a time when I didn't like who I was--how I looked, and what I was. I was and am--a Lao refugee. But for a long time, my goal to be more "American" had lead me astray from my culture and thus also my past. I see a photograph in our old family album...ThereÕs Grandma--her face is still young and full of color, yet she holds a face of worry. And Grandpa, looking straight into the camera, is right by her side. My mother, two years until her 30th birthday, stands in the center of the photo--leaning to support my brotherÕs weight as she balances my 9-month-old baby brother on her hips. She looks too thin--her eyes too big for her tiny frame, overpowered by her cheekbones that resemble those of GrandpaÕs. Behind Mom to the left is Dad, clutching a medium sized suitcase in one dark, sun basked hand. His hair wet from the rain, he stands with both arms down at his side--not standing like a soldier, but like a wall--towering over the others in the photograph. And there, sandwiched between my mother and grandmother was a child of 5 years. Wearing a red Addidas jogging suit (the kind with pinstripes), and completed with a red cap and addidas shoes, the girl could be mistaken for a boy, for her hair was cut short and cropped to less than an inch. I do not recognize her face, but I do recall her eyes--they are mine. That picture was taken in front of a bus the day we were to leave Nong Khai, Thailand, a refugee camp set up by the Thai to temporarily house refugees who had fled the new Laos--a communist Laos. My parents, my brother, myself, and my 18-year-old uncle--my DadÕs brother, were to leave that night. The expressions of those who were to leave were of unknowing anxiousness. The expressions of those who were to stay were of dread--for how could they have known if we were going to be ok? We were to leave Nong Khai, just like eight months before, when we had left Laos. Barely five years old, my body was tired from the lengthy flight which had stopped in several airports before reaching its final destination--Anchorage, Alaska. My father and mother, carrying my baby brother in her arms, my uncle and myself walked out to the gate as we met up up with family. A Monchichi Doll. That was the gift my uncle--my motherÕs younger brother, gave to me when we first arrived in 1980. It was October, and I donÕt remember if there had been snow in the ground, but I knew it was definitely not the same place from which we left. The bus, and plane where had it sent us???? It had sent us to "America," or to put it in Lao terms, "ahmehliika." So what was this "America" and what did it mean to be "American?" When I was younger, what I knew of other races, I knew as Òkhon ahmehliikaÓ (white), Òkak dhumÓ (black), ÒMexicanÕÓ (all Latino/Chicano), and ÒEskimo.Ó Those were the terms I had heard my parents, aunts and uncles use when they were talking about so and so at work, one of my friends, or a certain character on television. In the Lao language, the words are not derogatory, yet I learned the opposite when I said the word ÒEskimoÓ to my grandmother. I donÕt recall what we were discussing. But I do recall the surprise when Grandma told me to never say it again. Or else, she explained in Lao, ÒtheyÕll slap your mouth in.Ó I figured it was a bad word because Grandma said so, but at 7 or 8 years old, I had no clue that Native Alaskans would be offended by the term "Eskimo." I found the word ÒwhiteÓ when I came to college. Before, it had been used in my vocabulary, but it never came with definitions or real meaning. ÒWhiteÓ used to never mean anything to me. It was "American" that I had unknowingly struggled so hard to be. Junior high and high school are times when conformity is the ultimate goal. Given, during junior high and high school, most everyone does try their hardest to conform...And I was no different. I permed my hair, I lightened my hair with Sun-In, and wondered what I would look like with hazel eyes and red hair...I even decided to stop speaking Lao to my family and friends during my Junior High years--to make myself more identifiable with being "American." But while trying my best to fit in, and be "American," I lost a big part of myself, which I am still trying to recover. I was in danger of disregarding the teachings of my parents and granparents; and almost lost any fluency in speaking Lao. In short, conformity through those years had almost succeeded in killing my Lao heritage. In high school, I continued trying to fit in. I tried the dances, the student council meetings, the clubs. I even once tried to go to a Multicultural Club meeting my first year. But as I walked to the door, I shied away as I saw most of the members were black...I recall being scared that they wouldn't accept me into their club. So there I was--not white, not black, just making a u-turn in the middle of the hallway. In the later years of high school, I began to realize that no matter how hard I tried to fit in, I would always be on the outside looking in. And when my friends would ask about Laos, I would never say the word "refugee." I was ashamed of it. I began to hang out more with my friends who were Lao, even though we all went to separate high schools. Since coming to college, I have come to terms with myself through the different stages of realizing my Lao-American identity. I cannot say honestly that I won't learn more or grow, but I am more aware of who I am. I have also accepted that I will never be seen as "American" by the mainstream. Someday I will be able to truly say that that fact doesn't bother me; it would be too soon and presumptuous to say that all ideas of being "American" are zapped from my head in just two years since I've been to college. One thing I can say honestly is that I have learned that I cannot reject my Lao culture in favor of the second American culture--I am both, no matter how others may view me. Without the ingredients that make up the whole, it is like curry stew without the curry. Without the curry--there is no taste. Without the curry, it is bland. Without the curry, stew is thin and colorless. Soudary Kittivong please email any comments to ******************************************************************************