“Excerpt from ‘Diaspora Blues'”

Cydi Yang

Oakdale, Minnesota | Hmong | She/her/hers

In elementary school, I recalled my class lining up and walking to the computer lab. My friends and I opened up Microsoft Word, giggling as we practiced typing different words. As I typed in “Hmong” a red squiggle lined the word; a word I knew so well. It labeled “Hmong” as a spelling error—non-existent. Maybe in St. Paul, I saw yellow faces like mine, but we must have been insignificant since Microsoft Word labeled my people as an error. 

Fifth-grade. White faces everywhere—except for one Black—another Asian. I looked down. I was scared that the unfamiliar faces heard my heart thumping. Relax—No Hmong faces in sight. Relax—how will I talk to all these White kids? My English is no good. I’m not going to make any friends. What a great start to my first day of fifth grade at this new school—White faces. I wore my synthetic tongue, but I couldn’t use it. It hasn’t sunk in. You’ll have to get used to this eventually, Cydi. Switching from St. Paul Public Schools, where I saw a comfortable amount of Hmong faces, to a school where I was one of the only Hmong face, showed me that maybe there was something off. Hmong people barely existed in this school. At the end of fifth-grade, I walked away making only two friends who were White –  yet, I never understood how to fit in with them.

For my seventh-grade country project, I wanted to present to the whole class about where I came from. My grandma always talked about the homeland. She sung her yearning in tunes, awaiting for our return to the mountains of Laos. My mom and dad reassured me that Laos was our homeland. Laos. Laos. Laos. That is where we were from. I researched on my school computer. My feet jittered. I desired to learn more about my homeland. Where do yellow people like me come from? When I typed in “Hmong flag” the Laos flag popped up. It read “Laotian flag.” I scrunch  my eyebrows and felt a drop in my chest. Where was the Hmong flag?—oh darn—non-existent—again. Google search. Laos. Google informed me about Laotian population, Laotian dishes, and Laotian culture. But, where was the information about the Hmong population, Hmong dishes, Hmong culture? I thought our homeland was Laos? 

Growing up in Mt. Airy public housing off of 35E, right behind Regions Hospital, I remember when the swing area behind my cousin’s house flooded with water to our ankles. My cousins and I played what we called ‘The Secret War.’

“Run! Run the soldiers are coming! Cross the Mekong!” My cousin Iab yelled.

My brother Randy held his imaginary gun and chased after us. My cousins, Siab, Iab, Mai K, and I ran frantically across the sandbox as muddy water splashed onto our clothing. I grew up with this narrative, but unsure of how that fit with me as a Hmong in America. I heard vaguely about crossing the Mekong River, Thailand refugee camps, the honorable General Vang Pao, and our homeland: Laos. But overall, Hmong history was nowhere in sight—only in the sight of our elders and our parents who spoke so little about it.