Atonement
Everything happened like a nightmare on the night of November 24, 1995, the same night of the Saint Paul Hmong New Year. One of my friends was beaten up at the festival by a rival gang. In retaliation, two of my friends and I went looking for members of the gang later that night.
At the 800 block of Payne Avenue on Saint Paul’s East Side, the location I later learned from the police report, we spotted two of them and got out of our car to confront them. We attacked one of the boys as the other ran off. I didn’t see the knife but the amount of blood still haunts me to this day. In between the punches and kicks, my friend stabbed him several times puncturing his lungs and liver.
Early next morning the police came to my house and filled our front yard in a sea of Christmas lights. I learned that the kid we assaulted died earlier that night. His name was Lo Vang and was only 15, a year younger than me. We were all convicted and sentenced as adults. Two of us received eight years each. The friend who used the knife received 25.
The only family member who showed any emotion during the trial was my oldest sister, Ly. It broke my heart because I had disappointed her the most. I would like to think my mom would have cried too if she were still alive but she died when I was two. My father and step-mother were never at the trial. We had been estranged for several years since I moved out of his house and in with Ly and her husband.
The first six months in prison were the most difficult. I quickly realized that there are two types of people in prison: those who made mistakes and those who are mistakes. I considered myself as the former and tried to make the most of my time. Early on I met an inmate who advised me to, “Not let the time use me, but to use the time.” I took his advice and read books, took prison jobs, and even picked up a few hobbies.
Eight years later I was released but felt even more isolated on the outside. People who I used to know, friends and family members, wanted nothing to do with me or treated me differently. I returned to my sister’s house but didn’t feel welcome. Despite Ly’s protest, my brother-in-law said he would only let me stay there for six months.
The fateful encounter at the laundry mat would have never happened if I remembered to bring my detergent. An old Hmong lady using the adjacent washer was generous enough to borrow me some of hers. I’ve seen this lady around before because we both do our laundries on Saturday afternoons. On that particular day it was rainy and on the drive home I passed her walking as she struggled to balance her plastic laundry bag while shielding the downpour. I stopped and offered a ride which she accepted. I remember thinking her house was maybe two, at most three, blocks away. I was surprised when she directed me to a house which was almost a mile away! For the next several weeks I offered to drive her home. Each time she would refuse, as it was a Hmong custom to feign refusal, and say that she did not want to be a burden. And each time, after some persistence, she would relent. On days when she finished early she would help me with my laundry. On the other days I would wait for her despite her urging me to go without her.
In the following weeks she shared stories about her life and I offered small details in exchange. She lived by herself in public-subsidized housing and explained that her children were all grown up and had kids of their own. She lamented that they didn’t visit as much as she would like. A case worker from Ramsey County checks up on her twice a week to make sure she's doing well. Despite her age, she’s very independent and claimed to know bus schedules because she relied on public transportation. The laundry mat, unfortunately, was not on a bus route.
It was during the fifth time of dropping her off when we noticed a man standing on her porch. From the blue Accord in the driveway she said he was her oldest son, Koua. I pulled in behind his car and went to the trunk to retrieve her laundry. Koua walked towards us and when I caught a glimpse of him my body went numb with trepidation. I don’t remember seeing his face clearly but, despite being a blur, I recognized him.
Koua is the older brother of Lo, the boy whose life I took. I remember him because he was the one who erupted in court to curse me during sentencing. He also recognized me because his mother had to ask him twice to take her laundry from my hands.
I did not see the Hmong lady at the laundry mat in the following weeks. It was not until a month later, on a cold autumn day that she stumbled in. After putting my clothes away I asked if she would like a ride home and reminded her of the cold. She refused but, to my relief, soon agreed. On the way home she asked if I could take her to a grocery store to pick up some items. When we arrived at her place she insisted that I come inside and have dinner. There was no way I could say no.
The anticipated hour-long visit stretched until 10 that night. She talked about Lo and said he was a good boy but lacked a role model. Her husband never made it to this country and instead remained in Laos with his second wife. He eventually passed away three years ago. Her older sons took part in disciplining Lo but never got involved in raising him. She admitted not knowing who I was until Koua told her after the driveway incident. Afterwards he demanded that she find another laundry mat. He even took her to a new place for the first several weeks until it became a chore. She told me not to worry or feel guilty and that we all make mistakes. If we’re remorseful then we’re capable of redeeming ourselves. No one is beyond redemption, she continued. We also talked about other things. At one point she suggested that I find a wife and start my own life. Before I left she said I was welcome to stop by anytime.
I took her up on her offer and soon began visiting before starting my second shift job. Sometimes I would come by with fruits and vegetables. Other times it was to translate her mail. Or sometimes for no reason at all. Each time I came she would not let me leave without something to eat. As my visits became regular, she would call me if I wasn’t at her house by 1 in the afternoon to tell me to pick up the dinner she had packed.
On one occasion she gave me a three day advance notice to meet promptly at noon for lunch at her house. It was very unlike her and I suspected something. I arrived to find that she had two guests. One was a middle aged lady who she introduced as her cousin, and the other was the cousin’s daughter, an attractive girl in her early 20’s. I recognized her intention to introduce me to the young lady as she was always encouraging me to marry and settle down.
It’s not surprising that her three grown sons and lone daughter, Pang, disapproved of her taking me in as a surrogate son. The sons, however, were not especially close with their mother to voice a strong opinion. Pang soon became cordial with me since she cared about her mother and visited the most. The compassion she showed more than made up for what her brothers lacked. It’s common for Hmong women to talk about the difficulties of being daughter-in-laws, and as a result the challenges that men face have gone unnoticed. Hmong men are regularly caught in a tug-of-war between wife and parents, and that’s the reason her sons have distanced themselves from her.
I’ve always called her ‘niam tais’ which is a polite way to address an unrelated Hmong lady. It translates to maternal grandmother, maternal aunt, or mother-in-law. I reasoned that it was polite because of the last definition. A man would address an unrelated Hmong lady by that name in flattery, suggesting that he would marry one of her daughters and thus make her his mother-in-law. Finally one day when I called her by that name she quipped that I shouldn’t call her that anymore. Instead she insisted that I called her ‘niam’ which means mother. I was happy to do so since I never had anyone to call mother before. And she, likewise, addressed me as her son.
That spring I moved in with my mother after the six month stay with my sister and brother-in-law. My sister and mother met on several occasions and got along well. Ly approved of the move but constantly reminded me to be a good houseguest and pickup after myself. It was a sisterly advice, albeit one that I didn’t need because I loathed untidiness more than my sister.
The main floor windows of the house were covered by thick heavy curtains that my mother refused to draw during the day. She said that it would let the cold air in during the winter and the heat during the summer. I argued that the house needed natural light and said I didn’t know of anyone who keeps their windows covered all day. It took some time but I was able to convince her. She even agreed that the sunlight made the house feel warm and inviting. Another change I made was the addition of a washer and dryer. I was able to find a second-hand set at a reasonable price. My mother said that we didn’t need them and that they would only increase our water bill. I’ve come to understand her well enough to know when she was feigning refusal.
It was also shortly after my move-in that my mother had an urge to start gardening again which she hadn’t done in years. She leased a plot of land from a relative who she could also commute with, and was gone almost every day that summer. Sometimes I would go help her out on the weekdays before work and other times on the weekends. There was noticeable pride in her as she would march up and down the fields of crops. She was also very happy when her grandchildren came to visit her at the garden. The younger kids would challenge each other to see who could find the largest cucumbers and zucchinis.
The gardening work must have given her renewed energy because that fall she started working again. She went with relatives who worked jobs that paid in cash as opposed to paychecks. These are known as under-the-table jobs because they are sub-minimum wage, labor-intensive, and offered by employers to circumvent government taxes and regulations. Her first shift schedule meant that we saw each other less on the weekdays. However, most mornings she left a still-steaming pot on the stove as she rarely went a day without making a meal for me. The work was sporadic and seasonal. Sometimes I would wake up to find her stitching an article of traditional Hmong clothing by the window, another interest she had rediscovered.
My mother continued gardening again the following summer until she complained of a sore shoulder in late July. She worked through the pain for a couple of days until it became unbearable. We tried various traditional and western medicines with only temporary relief. Finally one day she failed to get out of bed. I wanted to take her to the hospital but she said she just needed rest. Before leaving for work I called Pang’s husband to come over and stay with her since he works nights.
It was around six ‘o clock when I received the emergency phone call from Pang. She was on her way to the hospital and said that my mother had fallen unconscious and was in the emergency room. I arrived to find the waiting room filled with family members, with more still trickling in. The preliminary diagnosis from the doctor was that she suffered a massive stroke. Everyone waited on pins and needles for several hours until the doctor, accompanied by a psychologist, returned to give us the update we dreaded. He was unable to reduce the swelling in her brain and she passed away. The psychologist remained with us to offer grievance counseling, which was especially useful for the teenaged grandchildren.
I used to think it was hard growing up without a mother; I found out it was much harder to lose one. She was both a great mother and a great person. She single-handedly raised four children into adulthood and suffered through the heart-breaking tragedy of burying a son. Yet she had the strength and courage to welcome another son into her home- the very same person responsible for her tragedy. Cynical relatives gossiped that I was a curse which caused my mother’s death. To my defense, Pang, and even her brothers, has publicly admonished those gossips. They said the final year and a half of her life were one of her happiest moments.
After the funeral I found an apartment not too far from my mother’s house since the county needed her home for another family waiting for public housing. On moving day I was joined by all the siblings and their spouses to pack up my mother’s belongings. It was only then that Pang’s husband remembered on the day my mother fell ill, she had left him instructions to give me the contents of the old suitcase in her closet. Inside it contained neatly folded traditional Hmong clothes and silver jewelry. He said that it was her wedding gift to me.
I brought the last of my mother’s belongings to Pang’s car and returned to find the living room dark as one of the siblings had covered the windows with the heavy curtains. I drew the curtains back and let the sunlight fill the now empty space. On the way out I took one last look at the room and marveled at how the vinyl floor tiles reflected the sunlight to create a warm but empty void.
