An excerpt from this past weekend that will go into my latest book,
"Glimmer of White."
One Saturday morning in May 2010, the phone rang at 8:00AM. We were just getting up, but this was common, as my wife’s parents were early risers. As usual, I was the last to know, and as usual this was kind of “last minute” anyway. The Hmong don’t send invitations, but we did apparently get a phone call. Unfortunately the caller was using my sister-in-law’s name when calling and we were used to creditors calling for her and her husband. Regardless of all of this, I learned that my Saturday would include a lengthy Hmong gathering.
We picked up my father and mother-in-law and proceeded to the “school” where the gathering was taking place. I was wondering about this, because public schools don’t tend to rent space for parties. When we arrived at the location, the school was locked up tight. On the cell phone trying to get new directions and driving through the neighborhood, I happened to notice
another school, next to a church. We drove to it, and the numerous Toyotas parked along the street were a sure sign we were in the right place.
As I had by now, gotten food poisoning twice before from eating Hmong prepared food, I was hoping to avoid eating at all—though eating is a primary focal point of such events. I participated in the
string ceremony, which is one of the
Hmong rituals at gatherings such as this. I also ate a banana during the long speeches, and was hoping to avoid eating the prepared foods—and therefore being poisoned again.
As I sat toward the back of the gathering with my wife, the clan leader stood up from his seat at the main table where all (the important) men were sitting. He walked back toward me and then said, “Please come with me.” I hadn’t seen “my uncle” for over a year, and I asked him if I could just stay where I was. He replied, “No, please come with me.” With that, I decided I could not refuse this man who was my uncle-in-law and also an influential family leader. I followed him, and he asked me to sit next to him. He said something to the other men at the table, and then said to me, “Please, serve yourself.”
Now that I had been honored by this man, I was now “forced” to eat, or risk being rude. I
was hungry, though I am not particularly fond of traditional Hmong food. I avoided the boiled meat and the Laab that had been sitting out. I had some fruit, rice and fried chicken wings. I watched as the men used their forks and spoons to serve themselves, and I decided that I was done. Thankfully I remained healthy after eating! I brought my plate and silver wear to the kitchen and deposited it in a pile. The women would clean it up.
My wife was eating with the women, so I wandered around a bit. Outside I noticed where the propane tanks and stockpots had previously been boiling various meats. The irony and amusement was not lost on me. While trying to blend in (though I was the only white guy present), I had been brought to the table of honor and my plan to avoid eating had subsequently failed.
Later my wife asked if I knew what our uncle had said to the other men when we sat down. Of course I did not. Apparently he declared that I was part of the family and he was like a father to me (Note* family relations are different in Hmong than I am used to. Many family relationships are figurative, meaning everyone seems to be a cousin, brother, sister, etc.). He said I would join them at that table as it was right that I should.
Kevin J. Curtis6-1-2010
