By Christopher Loke

Na Vongsa Vue was only 21 when he was asked to marry. But Vue had other plans. He wanted to marry a woman he loved instead of a stranger.

Even so, he could not deny the fact that he was betrothed. He was forced. And things got nasty when he wanted a way out.

The night was quite windy outside a double-story house at Hickory, N.C., on a summer evening. The atmosphere was calm. But inside the house, tension rose. Vue's mother was hitting her chest with her hand. She was screaming, yelling and crying.

"You listen to me!" she said. "I raise you and I will determine who you marry! You are my son, and we are not like the whites! Do not forget where you come from and your heritage! You listen to me!"

All the while, Vue had his hands over his ears, his eyes squinting closed, trying to look away.

"You look at me when I am talking to you!" his mother said, stomping the kitchen counter with her fist. The yelling and scolding had been going on for the past few days soon after Vue expressed his desire to not marry a stranger. He wanted to call off the betrothal. It all started off with naggings here and there. But today, all hell broke lose. His mother was crying, beating her chest, kicking the walls, and wailing with horrific agony. If her son disobeyed her, he would have been better off dead. He would be disowned.

And Vue was well aware of the consequences of his decision.

He was aware of his culture.

"If you don't stop, you'll wake up one day and I'll not be here anymore. I will leave and not come back!" Vue said.

A week later, Vue had his luggage ready at the door. He was going away.

"What is all this?" his mother asked, pointing to the bags piled up at the door.

"I am leaving, Ma," Vue said. And that was the day he flew to Utah.

Such is the way of the Hmong people. You either live up to your parents' expectations or you are banished, Vue says.

Although raised in the United States, Vue has always known that he is different from the people around him. He is Asian, 5-foot-6, has spiky hair, and likes sports cars. But those are not the things that single him out from the rest of the American population. Although he looks like any Asian-Americans in his community, goes to school and works like everyone else, there is one aspect of his life that is unique. He is Hmong, a tribal people who come from the mountains in the jungles of Laos.

Hmong people are extremely traditional and superstitious, Vue says. They are expected to be committed to their own people and traditions no matter how absurd they may be. And in this modern world, the call to carry on the old traditions is stronger, he says.

"Often times, being too traditional can be bad," he says. "For example, you could be discriminated upon."

To Vue, when he moved to North Carolina, he was shocked to find discrimination and prejudices everywhere against his people. He was never treated the same, he says.

"One reason I came to Utah was because my friend, Travis, lived here, and also because this is Utah, the place where friendly Mormons live," he says. "But unfortunately, there is more discrimination here compared to North Carolina."

Shaking his head, Vue inhales a deep breath and releases a sigh.

"We did not choose to be here," he says, his tone a notch higher, firmer. "Americans brought us here because my people had no choice. We helped the Americans fight the Vietnam War because they asked us to. And as a result, we got kicked out of our country."

Vue now stands, pacing back and forth in his room.

"We came because we had no choice, and they didn't treat us right," he says. "Why are they prejudiced? Why are they like that?"

The room is quiet. There is no response. No answer. He sits back on the chair and props his head on one hand and starts to think. Another deep breath.

"If only they know the truth," he says, rather gravely.

To Vue, living in the U.S. as a Hmong has been difficult. First, he has to uphold his family virtues and traditions. Second, he claims to be discriminated upon. He says his family, for some reason, has been treated differently by the Americans.

Vue recalls the stories his father would tell him about the war.

"My father fought for the Americans in the war, you know," he says, chest up, head up high. "And still, they didn't help him back."

Vue says his father would work very hard to survive when he was growing up in California. His family basically lived in a "ghetto," he says.

"I remember one day when my father came running into the house, cheering," Vue says. "'I made seven bucks per hour now because I just got a raise,' he said. I was like, 'That's not much. I start out with seven bucks just working here.'"

Vue says whenever he sees his father, he automatically assumes a sense of responsibility. He needs to uphold his heritage and his culture. But sometimes it is difficult, especially when two cultures collide.

Raised in the U.S. as an LDS, he is often faced with cultural conflicts. The whole betrothal incident is an example, he says. After his family joined the LDS faith when he was 8, he says things felt weird. Because the strong Hmong traditions that his family practiced sometimes clashed with LDS church values, he often questioned his father.

"One day, I asked my father, 'Are we members or partial members of the church?'" he says. "And my father said we were half and half."

For example, Vue points out that he is supposed to marry his own kind, while the LDS church encourages its members to marry within the same faith. In other words, he says, he will have to marry a Hmong Mormon in order to satisfy both ends.

But to XouYang, another Hmong here in the valley, things are a little different. First, he is not LDS, thus the pressure to find a Hmong Mormon is not there. Second, Yang was born in the U.S. He was not raised in a strong traditional setting.

"One thing I like about being Hmong is that we help each other. Your business is my business," he says. "For example, my uncle wanted to buy a mall and everyone in the family chipped in and helped raise $1 million."

But being Hmong is not always good news, Yang says. He says the one thing he does not like about Hmong people is that they are always related to gangster fights and the macho image.

Vue, on the other hand, thinks that being Hmong is something to be proud of despite the prejudice upon his people.

"I like the fact that my dad was in the war," he says. "He would tell me all the stories when he fought in the war. I wish I have stories like that to tell my kids."

But when it comes to food, Vue admits that Hmong cuisine is very different and -- many times -- weird to Americans.

"We eat intestines and organs of animals," he says. "If you're Hmong, you're taught not to waste. When you live up in the mountains where food is scarce, you learn to eat everything. When you kill a cow, you do not waste a single thing."

Vue stretches his hands and smacks his lips.

"You know, I wouldn't want to be anyone else in the world," he says, smiling, sitting straight up. "At least I can say that I am pure Hmong. If I am dog, I would be worth thousands of dollars."

He laughs, mouth gaps open, taping the table with his fingers at intervals.
"You want to know the meaning of my name?" he asks.

He explains that Na means rodent, while Vongsa means opium. Vue, he says, is just a last name, but if it is said incorrectly, it could mean crazy. The Hmong language is a language based on tones, he says. A slightest shift of tone could change the meaning of a word completely, he says.

"So, in other words, I am a crazy rat on opium!"

Vue now ventures into the kitchen and starts to prepare some traditional spring rolls dipped in fish sauce. In a few moments, the kitchen will be filled with the aroma of Hmong food. Before long, his apartment will be the hibernating place of the smoky smell of dead pungent fish and salted pork meat. Garlic and chili will add to the sting of the nose-watering odor. To Vue's white roommates, it will be as if tear gas has been released.

But to Vue, it will be the pure enjoyment of Hmong foodóhis soul food.

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