By Zoua Vang, Hugo

“You like Hmong girl? Eat it,” my mother said, politely challenging him.
I was 26 years old. Darrell was the first man I brought home. Darrell is Chinese and Japanese, born in California and grew up loving baseball. I am Hmong, born in the mountains of Laos and grew up having to learn English. We are both Asians but we couldn’t have come from more different worlds.

Darrell asked, “Oh, what is that?”

“Cow stomach,” my mother said. “If you like Hmong girl, you have to eat it.”
I looked on but other family members acted like they were watching TV. Their bodies were positioned elsewhere but I knew their ears were all tuned into the show that was unfolding in the kitchen. Darrell stared at the bowl of steaming tripe. The pungent dish saturated the house.

Darrell responded nervously, “It looks different, a little grayish.”

I explained to him it looked different because it wasn’t the bleached honeycomb tripe he was used to seeing at Chinese dim sum. My mother’s tripe was harvested from a cow we had killed at the local slaughterhouse. I saw how her skilled hands clutched a small knife which masterfully danced with the tripe as she swiftly cleaned and cut it.

Her tripe dish was seasoned with only a dash of salt to ensure the natural odor and flavor lingered. Tripe is a delicacy. At Hmong parties, you can hear the elderly instructing those preparing the tripe not to clean it too well. Some believe tripe is best when there is a pronounced scent.

My mother anxiously waited for Darrell to start eating. Annoyed, she said, “If you don’t like Hmong girl you don’t have to eat it.”

Darrell let out a nervous laugh. A bowl of rice was next to the bowl of tripe. He scooped rice onto his plate. Then, he slowly spooned a few pieces of tripe on his plate. Finally, he combined a lot of rice with a little tripe and as casually as possible, lifted the spoon into his mouth. He chewed. He swallowed.

“It’s good,” he said with an unconvincing smile.

My mother laughed. “Yes, it is very good,” she said.

And just like that, Darrell pried his way into my mother’s heart and began to make room for himself in the Hmong community. If you like a Hmong girl, having an open heart and open palate goes a long way. A year after Darrell passed that test we were married in Hmong, Chinese and “American” ceremonies.

Our children are Chinese, Japanese and Hmong-American. They have grown up with Hmong Hu Pligs (spirit calling ceremonies), Chinese red egg parties, Japanese Obon Festivals and endless baseball games.
Asian Minnesotans may look alike, but we come from unique cultures and have rich stories. I wish our neighbors could see and appreciate how blessed Minnesotans are to have such a diverse, vibrant, and thriving Asian-American community.

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