“The Mystery of Bert”

Bert Lee

Saint Paul, Minnesota | Hmong | he/him/his

“Yog koj tis nws lub npe zoo ces nws ncaj ncees, yog koj tis nws lub npe phem ces nws tsis ncaj ncees.” My mother was tasked with giving me a worthy name. 

Let me first share my family’s journey to the U.S. Laos was a land with the most precious and beautiful animals. It all changed in 1962 during the Secret War, when my dad joined the military at the age of 19. The horrific turn of events left my family no choice but to flee and cross the monstrous Mekong River.The loss of my dad’s uncle was the price we paid crossing the river. My family resettled in Thailand for eight years before moving to America.

Living in the United States was tough on my parents. The language barrier and cultural shock prevented my parents from getting the kind of education they needed to get decent jobs. Luckily, we settled in Saint Paul, which already had a large Hmong refugee community. That was comforting and allowed my parents to assimilate and adapt to Western culture. 

In Laos, my parents had an outhouse made of bamboo. So my mom was not used to the Western style bathrooms in America. They seemed so luxurious compared to that bamboo outhouse. My mom had never seen a bathroom lined with ceramic tiles, a toilet, and sink. At first, when she needed to wash her hands she headed to the toilet bowl; this made total sense since it was a bowl with water. Yes, my mom washed her hands in the toilet for a week. Mom learned her lesson.

My dad loves hunting, the wilderness, and my mother. But what he most loved were his chickens. America is about freedom, so dad did just that – he let his chickens roam free; just like in Laos. However, not many families in our neighborhood keep chickens as pets. Imagine waking up on a beautiful morning with the sun beaming on you. You grab your coffee and walk up to your window. You’d normally see squirrels, but instead you see chickens running loose. Who knew you needed a license to raise chickens? Dad learned his lesson.

In January 10, 1995 at 7:53pm, I was born and welcomed into mother’s warm and comforting arms. She was given the task of naming her baby boy. My uncle was in the room with my parents, and mom wanted him to give me a name. 

“Names are important, you give your child a bad name and he will be mischievous, you give your child a great name; he will be righteous,” mother said.  So, my uncle named me Robert. 
Mother loved television shows and was influenced by the show Cops. She noticed how people looked down on thieves in the show, so she told uncle, “My son will not be named after a thief.” She thought my uncle meant the word “robber.” She didn’t know that “Robert” and “robber” were not the same words. As the Hmong language does not have the “t” sound, she  couldn’t pronounce the “t” in Robert; making her say “Rober.” That is how I got my name. Not a thief. Just Bert.