A Foot in Both Worlds

It’s August, Western Pennsylvania, when I finally see the hummingbird outside my bedroom window. It hovers in the humid air as if suspended by wires, wings that beat so fast I try not to blink, but all I can see is a ghostly blur, an iridescent aura. The oblong body is smaller than an egg. The long beak, the maxilla, dips into the cone-like flower drawing nectar from the apricot colored Trumpet flower. The maxilla plunges like a sewing machine needle as the Ruby Throated Hummingbird pulses in mid air. An eye to eye view from the second floor window. I have been waiting for you.

Weeks later my husband and I drove miles upon miles to see you, Mee. You live in the Midwest. Flat and lush. You depend on glacial black soil for your subsistence life. This is my second trip to see you. The first time was my birthday, back in February. We met at your home. You gave me a tour of your house, every room filled with laundry baskets exploding with cucumber and pepper seedlings. Your sunshine drenched bedrooms were not used for slumber, but rather a plant nursery. The last bedroom, where you sleep with your children. It’s a mattress room, close and cozy.

You struggle to communicate. I feel like a failure. I teach you English and Citizenship so you can become a citizen. We Zoom once a week.

You live in the Hmong community. My daughter Julie works as an art teacher there. She introduced us so I could teach you English. The Hmong, I am told, are a minority ethnic group, with no homeland. But now you live under the shadow of the capitol dome in Madison, Wisconsin.The enclave is dominated by survivors of the Secret War. A war I’ve only come to know through knowing you. Many Southeast Asians were recruited by the CIA to help fight the North Vietnamese. When the Americans left, the Hmong people, who fought beside them, were abandoned. Most fled to the jungles and to Thailand to await asylum. Many survivors are here, elderly and broken from years of trauma.

I walk past toothless smiles and shattered hearts to your front door.

When we meet I hug your four foot nine body. My body bent in half to pull you in. You exude agapic love, the highest love. Past you, I see the table piled high with specialties.

“Is this a party? How can I help?” I ask.

Paaj, your daughter, relays,” Wash your hands.”

She lifts a tea towel. “This is a Black Chicken.”

I think she is telling me about dark meat and white meat. I creep closer.

A whole boiled chicken with limp claws, a floppy neck and an open beak. I see the bubbled black skin.

“You can rip it apart,” Paaj translates.

I step back from the table “How would I do that? I try not to scrunch my nose.

Paaj dives in, rips off the breast and then twists the neck. I watch in awe. It looks like a steamy crime scene. I think that Paaj's thick fingers must be made of fiberglass.

You pass me a plate piled high with rice, prepared in your tradition; rinsed and soaked overnight. I shake my head. “Too much,” I say. Enough for a family of five.

“It’s our tradition, some Hmong don’t give as much rice, but we have to give two scoops, One for the dead, one for the living,” Paaj says.

When you speak it sounds like music. Hmong language is tonal, the same word, with the same spelling can have different meanings depending on how it’s pronounced. Hmong language was unwritten until the Fifties. A French monk transcribed the language and now when I read the words I skip silent letters.

The kids are barefoot and the air is close. Alia, the nine year old, is the size of a six year old. She jumps on the couch, The little ones sprawl on the floor with Legos.

Paaj sketches nearby.

You encourage them to eat, but only Yer, the baby, scurries back and forth to your lap.

I have taught English as a Second Language on and off for thirty years. Most of the time I taught a group of multilingual students in person, but we are online. We met during COVID.

Although I want to teach you American English and American Culture for your sake and your children's success in school, you insist on teaching me about Hmong culture and language.

When I say “Breakfast” you say “noj tshais” which sounds like ‘no chai.’

When I say Dinner you say “noj hmo” which sounds like ‘no mo.’

One day on Zoom we read the story of a couple that met, fell in love and married after being stuck in an elevator for nine hours.

I imagine an engagement, a pear cut diamond and a wedding gown.

Your face is a puzzle.

“Did they have to get married?” You ask. “Did they get in trouble from their family or the community?”

Your soft brown eyes pierce my soul.

You then explain, through Paaj, that in Hmong culture a man can throw a watch or any object at a woman. Then they must marry. It’s tradition.

Then, for the first time, I notice a scar below your eyebrow.

I wonder how you got married. I’ve never seen your husband. The only things I know are what my daughter Julie tells me on the phone.

“Mom, Alia, carries a stick, shaved into a pointy spear. I told her to put it down so she wouldn’t hurt herself.” Julie explained.

“It’s for my dad,”Alia says.

“The dad is in his Sixties.” Julie says.” I think he was a child soldier.”

After dinner,we follow you in my car through the streets of neat bungalows. You pull over in front of one and send Paaj to us. She will be our only link to you..

In rush hour traffic we lose you. We panic. My husband is twitchy, then agitated, because Paaj doesn’t know where to go. My husband growls “ She doesn’t know directions.”

We talk about the field, highway exits, the Walmart nearby, to jog her memory.

Julie gives me a look that pleads, “please, give her a break.”

Julie knows about anxiety. Julie knows how my husband’s energy can ignite a melt down.

I squeeze my husband’s arm and push a reprimand through stony eyes.

In time, with breath she guides us to your garden.” Mom’s garden,”

“I’m better at translating than directions,” Paaj says.

My heart sinks. She's just a kid.

We drive onto the soil ruts, between patches of watermelon, green beans, pinky sized peppers and corn. Once on my feet all I see is farmland. I think I must teach you a new word: farm. There is land far and wide. Paaj, introduces your garden as if it’s a long lost friend.

In the distance I see you, hunched over tending vegetables, knife in hand whacking weeds.

“All organic,” you say.

I cannot see your face, a blue bonnet swallows your head. Your pointy chin disappears like the beak of the hummingbird deep in bloom.