Last night I came home from a
trip to Minnesota. I went there with my boy, who has been home from his Minnesota
mission for about nine months. This trip was a gift to him.
I loved seeing his joy on
reuniting with the Hmong branch. Because it was a mission to the Hmong
community within the United States, he spent most of his mission attending the
same branch, much more time among the same people than other missionaries
usually spend. So he became very close to the members there. He had been given
a Hmong name and adopted into a Hmong clan. Visiting among the members there
(so many of them busy raising children and managing work and hefty church
callings, spread thin in ways that are probably common among non-Mormon-belt
members) was a beautiful experience. I learned much about the Hmong culture. I
know that it's probably wrong for me to assume I know anything about
Hmong-American Mormon culture, and that to make any universal statements
borders on stereotyping. But I'll report that I saw people who were very loving
and very down-to-earth. Also, people who love to talk and especially to bear
testimony on Fast Sunday.
While there, I bravely ate the
food that was given to me, though I did pass on the super-hot peppers, which my
hosts kindly kept separate. I ate pho (yes, I know that it's not originally
Hmong, and that you can get it here, and that many Caucasians eat it and love
it—I've just never tried it before) and a lot of rice and SQUIRREL! I survived
the squirrel—it really wasn't bad, and the broth was very good. I heard
interesting conversion stories. I smiled a lot as conversations went on around
me. My boy translated MOST of what got said, which was kind of him. ("You
should marry a Hmong wife!" "You've gotten taller!" "You
need a haircut.")
One of my favorite moments was
walking into the Hmong branch on Sunday and seeing the people's joy as they
recognized my boy and hurried over to greet him. Another favorite memory will
be the hour we spent at Hmong Village, a Hmong shopping mall. My son had so
much joy in greeting each stall's proprietors in Hmong. I loved seeing their
surprise and interest in his use of their language. I don't want to be so
ethnocentric as to think that they were grateful a "Mika" (non-Hmong
American) would take time to learn their language, but I think they were just
friendly people, willing to spend some time in chatter when it was clear that
he had so much enjoyment of speaking with them. I also loved seeing the huge
variety of fruits, vegetables, meats and herbs at that market, many of which I
hadn't seen before, ever.
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Dear Hmong people of the Twin
City branch, I can see that you loved my boy, and I am so grateful. I can see
that you fed him and clothed him and made him feel useful. He came out young
and a little awkward but full of a willingness to love you, and you let him. I
know that he is just one of the hundreds of missionaries who have passed
through there, but you are a big part of his world and his heart will be broken
to be separated from you for years and years to come. Thanks for giving him an
opportunity to try to show me what he loved about you. I can see that you
deserve his praise and love.
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