Memorial Day 2025

This Memorial Day, I pause to honor the soldiers who sacrificed their lives on the front lines—and to reflect on a war that shaped my family's story in ways I’m still uncovering.

My father was just a teenager when the Vietnam War reached the hills of Laos. In a lesser-known chapter of history, the American government recruited the Hmong people as allies in the "Secret War" against communism on the Laotian front. My father was one of them. He survived—but the war never fully left him. Decades later, after a series of strokes, he lost much of his speech. I carry a deep regret: I didn’t ask him more questions before that door closed. My mother knew only fragments, and I didn’t preserve even those.

The Hmong are an indigenous people with ancient roots scattered across Southeast Asia and southern China. My family’s roots trace through the mountains of Laos, and before that, into the villages of China. Though much of our history is oral—and much has been lost—I do know this: I descend from village leaders, from those who guided and protected their people. That legacy humbles me.

And yet, as a Hmong American born in the United States, I often feel like I’m standing at a crossroads between two worlds. I don’t speak our poetic language. My fingers don’t know the intricate stitches of paj ntaub. I was never raised with the animistic beliefs of my ancestors—my grandparents were among the early converts to Christianity. The rich tapestry of Hmong culture that my parents carried was not fully passed down. In many ways, I am a seed planted far from its original soil.

Growing up first-generation in America meant we often lived between the lines. We interpreted for our parents at school and government offices. We filled out paperwork for benefits they didn’t understand. Slowly, institutions caught up, and more services became available. But by then, many of us had already shouldered adult responsibilities far too young.

Ours was a generation of dual identity—Hmong and American. That meant navigating two cultures, two sets of expectations, and a unique set of struggles. Some of us got lost in that in-between space. Gangs rose among young men looking for belonging. Teen girls became wives and mothers before they were ready. Some climbed out—earning degrees, becoming professionals, balancing roles as students, employees, wives, daughters-in-law, and mothers. Others didn’t make it. Like my husband, some ended up in prison. Some were laid to rest far too early. The late '70s through the early 2000s were decades of survival and learning—for our refugee parents, and for us, their American-born children.

Meanwhile, others in this country—those whose families have been here for generations—have had time to establish roots, build wealth, and pass down knowledge and opportunity. Their place in American society feels anchored, solid. Ours has been more like planting seeds in unfamiliar soil—but we are growing just the same.

Now, my generation is finally beginning to bloom. We’ve dug in. We’ve earned degrees, built careers, started businesses, entered public service. We are raising a new generation of Hmong Americans—children who will speak English with confidence, learn our history from both books and stories, and have the freedom to pursue their dreams with fewer barriers than we faced.

My husband and I work hard—not just to make a living, but to give our children something more: a foundation. A rooted identity. A life filled with possibility. We are blessed to be American citizens, to have constitutional rights, to have the freedom to choose the kind of life we want. We choose to pass down blessings, not burdens.

This Memorial Day, I remember the soldiers—American and Hmong—who fought and died for the freedoms we hold today. Their sacrifices echo through our family histories, and their courage gave us the chance to build something new.

I am proud to be Hmong. I am grateful to be American. I am both—and from that union of heritage and hope, something beautiful continues to grow.