Tally Marks | Teen Ink

Tally Marks

February 17, 2022
By krystalkazi BRONZE, Brooklyn Park, Minnesota
krystalkazi BRONZE, Brooklyn Park, Minnesota
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

It’s always been an issue. It’s always made you less than all the other Hmong kids. “I forgot how your generation is.” One mother said to you. “You kids just don’t want to learn.” Cried another. You thought to yourself, why would we choose this? Why wouldn’t we want to speak our own language? Why wouldn’t we want our culture to live on?

You remember trying to fit in with all the Hmong kids at the tiny k-12 charter school you attended from second to fifth grade. You remember wanting to curl into a ball and slowly, but surely wither away when they were having a conversation in a language that is your own but hasn’t laid its claim on you. That was the first time you ever marked a tally in the back of your mind, starting the collection of moments when you wished you weren’t you. You remember giving up in third grade. You remember being tired of feeling out of place. You made friends with the kids who weren’t Hmong because it was easier. Easier to talk to. Easier to laugh with. Easier to fit in.

You remember the Hmong dance team you were with for five years had finally disbanded. You tried out for another dance school. A bigger one. You remember sitting on the bumpy and rough black mats staring at yourself in the mirror that stretched across the wall thinking, just go talk to them. You can do it. You looked at your big sister who was already becoming a fan favorite and you asked yourself, how does she make everything look so easy? You remember when she left a year later, even though you didn’t. You remember that year being the only time dance wasn’t a chore but a hobby. Not because she wasn’t dancing, that was just a happy coincidence. It was something to look forward to. Something that brought an excitement you hadn’t felt in so long. You remember everyone being close and telling each other everything. You remember never feeling out of place. You remember it all now wishing you had soaked up every last bit of it. You know now that you loved them because they loved you. After all, the word “Whitewashed” rarely came out of their mouths and when it did, it was never directed towards you. You remember when it ended. That feeling of fitting in. You were at a competition having the time of your life until you decided to start singing the lyrics to the Hmong song your team was dancing to and having your teammates laugh. All in a lighthearted manner, so you laughed too. You laughed and mocked yourself but when they turned away, you marked an invisible tally in your head where all the times you wished you could disappear are on repeat. You also made a mental note to NEVER sing another Hmong song out loud and definitely not with an audience. You remember taking a year off but at the time, it was “quitting for good”. Then, you came back. You went back unprepared for the fact that it was a completely different team. Same name, same coach, same you, different team. You remember it being quiet. It was always quiet… until it wasn’t. Oh, how fun it was when it wasn’t quiet. You never felt like you fit in but you certainly didn’t feel out of place. It was good but you didn’t love it as you did two years ago. You remember when the final competition was coming up and you thought you were going on vacation so you caused the team so much stress as they tried to adjust the dance to your absence. You remember that terrible feeling that hit the bottom of your stomach when your mom told you the trip was canceled. You still think about it now. You think about how so many people probably assumed it was all a lie from the start. How they thought you were just lazy, unmotivated, not committed. You remember when one of the dance moms spoke to you in Hmong, even though she knew you wouldn’t have understood. She asked you if you’re going to the competition, even though she knew the answer to that too. You stared at her awkwardly, “I don’t understand Hmong.” You said, followed by an awkward laugh. She continued to speak Hmong to you. Just for fun, you assumed. You usually wouldn’t let this anger you so much but you knew she could speak English and she knew you couldn’t speak Hmong so what was her intent anyway? “You know what she’s saying.” Another parent added. Even now, you still aren’t quite sure if he was being genuine or trying to belittle you too. You aren’t even sure if she was trying to belittle you. He repeated, “You know what she’s saying.” You stopped forcing laughter out of your mouth and shook your head no. You remember walking away, knowing they thought you were rude but you didn’t care. You added another tally to the small closet of memories in your head of all the times you wish you could’ve found your voice and defended yourself. But you were only sixteen and these were adults. You knew how you acted would’ve been a reflection of your mother in their minds. You have never wanted to tarnish anyone’s good opinion of her.

Your mother. You love her. Of course, you do. Just like you love your father. They have always tried their hardest and have never made you do anything you didn’t want to do. They are like other stereotypical Hmong parents but they are also different. You know they support your dream to be an author. You know they’d be okay with you marrying a person who isn’t Hmong. You feel bad, so very bad for being angry with them for never teaching you Hmong. For putting Barney and Mickey Mouse on as a kid instead of Hmong movies. For only speaking English growing up and never Hmong unless it was to each other. You remember your mother once told you about how hard it was for her to catch up when she moved here from Laos. How hard it was to learn English and learn as fast as the other students in her class. She told you that she didn’t speak Hmong to us when we were kids because she didn’t want that to be our first language. She didn’t want us to have the same struggles. You admire your mom for that, even though you wish she had spoken Hmong to you, you understand. You admire your mom because you can see how hard she’s worked. You admire her because she’s one of the smartest people you know, despite how little she was given. You admire your dad too. You know that even though he doesn’t talk very much, he’s just as smart and works just as hard. You never stop wishing people would finally realize that just because someone isn’t smart in English, doesn’t mean they aren’t smart at all. You are fully aware of the fact that you’ll never stop wishing your parents spoke Hmong to you while you were growing up and there will be times when you will still be angry but you can empathize with them. They are hard workers and great parents who’ve always wanted you to have your best chance. You do everything and would do anything to make them proud.

You think about the Hmong teacher you had when you were a freshman, how she once said, “The Hmong language is dying.” You always knew that to be true but it didn’t click until then. You also always think about finding love. Finding your person. You think about how scary it is for your language to die. You want to marry a Hmong person so that they can teach your kids your language because you don’t have that ability. But then it dawned on you that you could never be enough for their parents. You aren’t what any Hmong person wants in a daughter-in-law. You don’t have the best grades, you have no interest in being a doctor or lawyer, you don’t know how to cook, you have no knowledge about shamanism or any religion for that matter, you can’t speak Hmong or even understand it. The fear of your language dying is constantly at war with the fear of being a disappointment for the rest of your life and the latter is winning.

You lay in bed daydreaming about what your perfect life might look like. You think about the future, say mid-thirties. You’re married with kids. You married for love and not for convenience. You love your kids and have lots of family dinners where you talk about your day. You are a published author, some have even been best-sellers. People love your work because you have a certain quality, one they can’t quite pinpoint, but they know they love it. You think about the days you were unhappy with yourself as a teenager and how different it all feels now. You remember feeling like a burden to your family because your brain doesn’t work the way everyone else's does. You remember feeling so small when an older Hmong man or woman talks to you and you have to repeat the same five embarrassing, belittling words, “Sorry, I don’t understand Hmong.” You remember never feeling like you fit in. Like you are constantly floating above the world watching everyone else live their lives, like an outsider. You smile softly to yourself knowing all of that is gone. You’re happy, you’re content, and for the first time ever… you are in love with life. For the first time ever, you finally feel like you're living it.

You snap out of your daydream when you feel the wetness of your faint tear fall out the corner of your eye and slowly run a stream to the behind of your ear. You close your eyes shut wishing for the day you stop dreaming and start living. You wonder how you’ll ever be able to accept the fact that not knowing Hmong is not your fault and it’s not your parents’ fault either. You wonder when you’ll stop feeling alone. You wonder when the day will come when you finally find your voice. You wonder when all those tallies you made in your mind that bring back horrible memories you wish you could forget turn into tallies of all the best moments of your life that you only tuck away until you have someone to share them with. You remember. You wish. You wonder. And you survive. One day, you hope you’ll live too. 


The author's comments:

This article is about the struggles that I and many other young Hmong men and women have faced as we are looked down on because we lack the ability to speak Hmong. I have been called whitewashed more times than I can count and it hurts. It hurts because I know so much about our Hmong culture. I know superstitions, traditions, heroes, etc. but because I can't speak Hmong, I'm deemed less than others who can speak it but lack knowledge in the things I've previously named. Personally, I think the term "whitewashed" needs to fall out of use. When a person calls me whitewashed, it's almost like they're saying my identity is not my own. I'm not allowed to claim myself as Hmong because I don't know enough to be truly Hmong. I hope you enjoy my piece and if you can relate, I hope you know you're not alone. Thank you!


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