Following the Threads

Following the Threads

What are the gaps in your history—the ones you fill with imagination—the ones that keep you up at night? My gap is my mom.

WORDS BY SUNNY THAO

There will always be gaps in history and we will always find a way to fill these gaps with art, whether it’s through myths, folktales, music, or urban legends.

This summer I had the opportunity to conduct research with the Ronald E. McNair Program at Augsburg University. The program is meant to help underrepresented undergraduate students gain research experience and help prepare them for graduate school. For ten weeks during the summer, students attend workshops that cover a wide range of topics including how to apply for graduate school, manage time during summer research, and navigate graduate school as an underrepresented student.

My research focused on tracing the Hmong’s roots in Southern China through stories told by Hmong people. While conducting my research, it was frustrating not being able to find many books about the Hmong’s history in China.

I had to remind myself that in times of political turmoil, those who emerge victorious are often the ones in control of the narrative.

Through this struggle, I learned about the importance of storytelling in communities with no writing system or practices.

Though it wasn’t until the arrival of Baptist missionaries that the Hmong adopted a writing system, they have always documented their history through art forms like paj ntaub, or stitching patterns (there is another form of paj ntaub that was created in the Ban Vinai camps, but the stitching patterns of Hmong clothing hold significant meaning and can be dated back to when the Hmong were in Southern China). They have also documented their history through music and stories. The stories passed down from generation to generation are reflections of that community’s history.

Though they may contain fiction or exaggerated truths, they reveal a great deal of history.

What are the gaps in your history—the ones you fill with imagination—the ones that keep you up at night?

My gap is my mom. I have long known about the stories of the Secret War and its aftermath, but not in full detail. My own mother lived this history, yet I know so little about her experiences.

During the war, many families were split apart and being an orphan was common. Ever since I could remember, my mom always talked about being an orphan and the mistreatment that came with this label. Without parents, it was difficult to survive on her own. I remember a story about how she was so hungry that she stole a bit of salt from her uncle to help ease the hunger pains.

She hid in the dark when everyone was asleep and licked the salt off her hand, convincing herself that she would be full afterwards.

Like many children, she was forced to learn how to navigate around land mines and through the dark jungle. Eventually, she made it to Xieng Kham refugee camp in Northern Thailand. This is where she met my dad and they started their journey together.

In 1987, my mom left the refugee camp with my eldest brother in her belly, my dad, and all of his family members. Although she was with so many people, I wonder if she felt lonely. I wonder how long she ran in the forest and how she felt when she walked into a refugee camp for the first time. I wonder how she felt when she stepped onto the bus to leave the camp and I wonder about all the bits in between that are too hard for her to remember.

I yearn for these answers. I know I have to ask the questions first, but they always get stuck inside.

Three years ago, I participated in a simulation of the Secret War through an Augsburg University Asian Student Organization leadership retreat. In the simulation, the goal was for the refugees (participants) to make their way to the safe zone, which was a campfire that represented a refugee camp located somewhere in the forest. Communist soldiers walked the refugees through the forest. The deeper we were, the more disoriented and confusing our mental map of the forest became. Firecrackers were used to simulate the sound of guns and bombs.

I remember lying on the forest floor, covered in leaves, waiting for the simulation to end. My whole body was freezing and I was so mad at myself. I was too afraid of running to the campfire because I was afraid of getting caught by fake soldiers who couldn’t actually harm me. Out of frustration, I cried.

This was nothing compared to what my mom went through. A child at the age of 12, she laid on a forest floor covered in dead leaves and prayed to survive the night so she could cross a river, even though she couldn’t swim. And here I was in a similar environment, petrified even though I wasn’t in real danger. In the last moments of the simulation I noticed the stars and their beauty. I wonder if my mom noticed them as she laid in hiding.

There are more questions for my mom, but as much as I want to ask them, I don’t. I’m afraid that my questions may seem too stupid and I know that they will conjure painful memories. Asking these types of questions means I will have to brace myself for answers I can’t even imagine. What if I can’t handle her reality?

I’ve been so privileged to be born and raised in America— to be sheltered from the gruesome violence and spared the arduous journey to a different land—that I wonder if the stories I try to uncover will break me.

I want to believe that all my experiences, from the pursuit of Hmong narratives and the gradual uncovering of my family’s history, to the Secret War simulation, are the threads that connect me to my mom. I may not be ready to ask all the questions I seek to answer, but I can stitch together what I’ve learned to create a fuller picture. My experiences and what I know of my family and my people’s histories are the only concrete pieces I can use to fill my gaps.

The rest I can fill with imagination. —S.

This photo was taken in Laos. The middle child is my mom. This was taken before my grandmother passed away. As you can see, she had cloth wrapped around her because she was sick.

SUNNY THAO is a senior at Augsburg University and an emerging playwright. Most of her work explores her own identity and what it means to be Hmong American and Asian American. She focuses on the past and aims to bring their stories into the present. She is also passionate about discovering the unwritten history of various communities and finding where these histories are hidden, whether they lie in folktales, oral histories, or books.

Website: letterstomai.weebly.com

Email: sunnythao16@gmail.com