As graceful as he can be, the white boy jumped over the rope and landed on his feet just like how the Hmong girls did it. I was ashamed.
Who knew that a nameless white boy playing jump rope would have anything to do with my own journey of self-discovery. I first questioned my identity during a little game of jump rope during recess in elementary school. This wasn’t your typical jump rope. This one consisted of dozens of rubber bands interlaced with one another forming a chain about 7-10 feet long. Two girls held the jump rope at various heights as other girls took turns jumping over it. As the rope was held higher, it became more difficult jumping over. In first grade, I became friends with another Hmong girl in my class. She and a group of Hmong girls would play this game and they invited me to play with them. Let me just say, I was not good. I didn’t understand how the other girls could jump and kick their legs high enough to get over the rope. I never made it really far in the game. Too embarrassed to look like a fool, I stood to the side while all the girls played. It didn’t take long for some of the white kids to wander over to find out what this Hmong game was all about. When the white kids played, they looked the way I imagined myself when attempting to jump over this rope and it was entertaining to watch. Then a white boy made it over in the same form as the Hmong girls and I was put to shame.
I can’t tell you exactly what was going through my mind as I spent recesses watching all the Hmong kids playing a game together that was just as foreign to me as it was to the white kids. At first, I was uncomfortable playing such a strange game. When the curious white kids came over, I became proud. It was nice to be a part of something that was fascinating to them, but it was only temporary. My pride could not outlast the perplexity that followed when the white boy played the game better than me.
I’m Hmong, I should know how to play this game just as good as my Hmong friends, right? How come all the Hmong kids already knew how to play this but I don’t? No one ever taught it to me.
As I got to know my Hmong friends, I discovered how different our families were. Their families participated in certain traditions that my family didn’t. Sometimes they didn’t understand my Hmong because I spoke a different dialect they didn’t hear very often. I thought I didn’t know how to speak my own language well. Sometimes our values were the same and sometimes our values were different. There was this whole other part to Hmong that I didn’t even know about!
What is Hmong? Just because I was unfamiliar with some Hmong traditions, did that mean I wasn't Hmong?
I always knew I was Hmong before the jump rope game, but when things were no longer as simple as it used to be, I second-guessed myself.
The six-year-old version of me didn’t take these things very seriously. It was just a confusing time. It's possible this may have been a part of the beginning of my long journey to discovering my identity as a Hmong American. If only I did take myself seriously at the time, I probably would have been a better friend. After first grade, I no longer stood to the side watching the kids play jump rope. I made new friends instead.
----------
Photo used with permission by Wisconsin photographer, Kou Vang. Visit her website at http://www.inspiringelements.com/.
As graceful as he can be, the white boy jumped over the rope and landed on his feet just like how the Hmong girls did it. I was ashamed.Who knew that a nameless white boy playing jump rope would have anything to do with my own journey of self-discovery. I first questioned my identity during a little game of jump rope during recess in elementary school. This wasn’t your typical jump rope. This one consisted of dozens of rubber bands interlaced with one another forming a chain about 7-10 feet long. Two girls held the jump rope at various heights as other girls took turns jumping over it. As the rope was held higher, it became more difficult jumping over. In first grade, I became friends with another Hmong girl in my class. She and a group of Hmong girls would play this game and they invited me to play with them. Let me just say, I was not good. I didn’t understand how the other girls could jump and kick their legs high enough to get over the rope. I never made it really far in the game. Too embarrassed to look like a fool, I stood to the side while all the girls played. It didn’t take long for some of the white kids to wander over to find out what this Hmong game was all about. When the white kids played, they looked the way I imagined myself when attempting to jump over this rope and it was entertaining to watch. Then a white boy made it over in the same form as the Hmong girls and I was put to shame.
 |
| Hmong girls playing the jump rope game in Laos. |
I can’t tell you exactly what was going through my mind as I spent recesses watching all the Hmong kids playing a game together that was just as foreign to me as it was to the white kids. At first, I was uncomfortable playing such a strange game. When the curious white kids came over, I became proud. It was nice to be a part of something that was fascinating to them, but it was only temporary. My pride could not outlast the perplexity that followed when the white boy played the game better than me.
I’m Hmong, I should know how to play this game just as good as my Hmong friends, right? How come all the Hmong kids already knew how to play this but I don’t? No one ever taught it to me.
As I got to know my Hmong friends, I discovered how different our families were. Their families participated in certain traditions that my family didn’t. Sometimes they didn’t understand my Hmong because I spoke a different dialect they didn’t hear very often. I thought I didn’t know how to speak my own language well. Sometimes our values were the same and sometimes our values were different. There was this whole other part to Hmong that I didn’t even know about!
What is Hmong? Just because I was unfamiliar with some Hmong traditions, did that mean I wasn't Hmong?
I always knew I was Hmong before the jump rope game, but when things were no longer as simple as it used to be, I second-guessed myself.
The six-year-old version of me didn’t take these things very seriously. It was just a confusing time. It's possible this may have been a part of the beginning of my long journey to discovering my identity as a Hmong American. If only I did take myself seriously at the time, I probably would have been a better friend. After first grade, I no longer stood to the side watching the kids play jump rope. I made new friends instead.
----------
Photo used with permission by Wisconsin photographer, Kou Vang. Visit her website at http://www.inspiringelements.com/.
Who knew that a nameless white boy playing jump rope would have anything to do with my own journey of self-discovery. I first questioned my identity during a little game of jump rope during recess in elementary school. This wasn’t your typical jump rope. This one consisted of dozens of rubber bands interlaced with one another forming a chain about 7-10 feet long. Two girls held the jump rope at various heights as other girls took turns jumping over it. As the rope was held higher, it became more difficult jumping over. In first grade, I became friends with another Hmong girl in my class. She and a group of Hmong girls would play this game and they invited me to play with them. Let me just say, I was not good. I didn’t understand how the other girls could jump and kick their legs high enough to get over the rope. I never made it really far in the game. Too embarrassed to look like a fool, I stood to the side while all the girls played. It didn’t take long for some of the white kids to wander over to find out what this Hmong game was all about. When the white kids played, they looked the way I imagined myself when attempting to jump over this rope and it was entertaining to watch. Then a white boy made it over in the same form as the Hmong girls and I was put to shame.
|
| Hmong girls playing the jump rope game in Laos. |
I can’t tell you exactly what was going through my mind as I spent recesses watching all the Hmong kids playing a game together that was just as foreign to me as it was to the white kids. At first, I was uncomfortable playing such a strange game. When the curious white kids came over, I became proud. It was nice to be a part of something that was fascinating to them, but it was only temporary. My pride could not outlast the perplexity that followed when the white boy played the game better than me.
I’m Hmong, I should know how to play this game just as good as my Hmong friends, right? How come all the Hmong kids already knew how to play this but I don’t? No one ever taught it to me.
As I got to know my Hmong friends, I discovered how different our families were. Their families participated in certain traditions that my family didn’t. Sometimes they didn’t understand my Hmong because I spoke a different dialect they didn’t hear very often. I thought I didn’t know how to speak my own language well. Sometimes our values were the same and sometimes our values were different. There was this whole other part to Hmong that I didn’t even know about!
What is Hmong? Just because I was unfamiliar with some Hmong traditions, did that mean I wasn't Hmong?
I always knew I was Hmong before the jump rope game, but when things were no longer as simple as it used to be, I second-guessed myself.
The six-year-old version of me didn’t take these things very seriously. It was just a confusing time. It's possible this may have been a part of the beginning of my long journey to discovering my identity as a Hmong American. If only I did take myself seriously at the time, I probably would have been a better friend. After first grade, I no longer stood to the side watching the kids play jump rope. I made new friends instead.
----------
Photo used with permission by Wisconsin photographer, Kou Vang. Visit her website at http://www.inspiringelements.com/.
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