often he would berate himself for this. It was wrong, it was stupid, it was
Mai-Nu mixed a drink, her second by Benito’s count, and padded in the direction of her tiny kitchen. She was out of sight for a few moments, causing Benito alarm, as it always did when she slipped from view. When Mai-Nu returned, she was carrying a plate of leftover pork stew with corn bread topping. The meal had been a gift from Juanita Hernandez. Benito’s mother was always doing that, making far too much food then parceling it out to her neighbors. She had brought over a platter of
It wasn’t much of a place, he had noted sadly. The living room was awash in forest-green except for a broad water stain on the wall behind the couch that was gray. Burnt-orange drapes framed the windows and the carpet was once blue but now resembled the water stain. The kitchen wasn’t much better. The walls were painted a sickly pink and the linoleum had the deep yellow hue of urine. Just off the living room was a tiny bathroom—sink, toilet, tub, no shower—and beyond that a tiny bedroom.
There was no yard. The front door opened onto three concrete steps that ended at the sidewalk. The boulevard between the sidewalk and curb was hard-packed dirt and exactly as wide as eight of Benito’s size ten- and-a-half sneakers. Mai-Nu had no garage either, only a strip of broken asphalt next to the house that was too small for her ancient Ford LTD.
“It is only temporary,” Mai-Nu had told Juanita. “My parents came from Laos. My father helped fight for the CIA during the war. They did well after they arrived in America—they owned two restaurants. But they believed in the traditions of their people, so when my parents were killed in a car accident, it was my father’s older brother who inherited their wealth. He was supposed to raise my brother and me. Now that we are both of age, the property should come to us.”
But six months had passed. The property had not come to them and Mai-Nu was still there.
Benito wondered about that while he watched her eat. Mai-Nu did not have a job as far as he knew, unless you would call attending law school a job. Possibly her uncle helped her pay the rent on her house. Or maybe it was her brother—Cheng Song was not much older than Benito, but he had quit school long ago and was now the titular head of the Hmongolian Boy’s Club, a street gang with a reputation for terror. They had met only once. Outside of Mai-Nu’s. She had been shouting at him, telling a smirking Cheng that he was wasting his life, when Benito had arrived home carrying his hockey equipment.
Benito was only a sophomore, yet his booming slapshot had already caught the notice of pro and college scouts alike. Several D-1 schools had indicated that they might offer him a scholarship if he improved his defense and kept his grades up, which Juanita vowed he would do—
Mai-Nu took the remains of her dinner back to the kitchen. When she returned she mixed a third drink and retrieved her law book. She kept glancing at her watch as if she were expecting a visitor. The phone rang, startling both her and Benito. Mai-Nu went to answer it, slipping out of sight.
There was a mumbling of hellos and then something else. “Yes, Pa Chou,” Mai-Nu said, her voice rising in volume. And then, “No, Uncle.” She was shouting now. “I will not!”
Benito wished he could see her. He moved around his bedroom, hoping to get a better sight angle into Mai- Nu’s house, but failed.
“I know, I know… But I am not Hmong, Pa Chou. I am American…But I am, Uncle. I am an American woman…I will not do what you ask. I will not marry this man…In Laos you are clan leader. In America you are not.”
She slammed the receiver so hard against the cradle that Benito was sure she had destroyed her phone. A moment later Mai-Nu reappeared, her face flushed with anger. She guzzled her vodka and orange juice, made another drink, and guzzled that.
Benito wished she would not drink so much.
The next morning, Benito found Mai-Nu at the foot of her front steps, stretching her long legs. She was wearing blue jogging shorts and a tight white half-T that emphasized her chest—at least that is what he noticed first. He was startled when she spoke to him.
“Benito,” she said. “
“Huh?”
“It means ‘good morning.’”
“Oh.
“I’m probably going to melt in this heat, but I really need to exercise.”
“It is hot.”
“Well, I will see you…”
“Mai-Nu?”
“Yes?”
Benito was curious about the phone call the evening before, but knew he couldn’t ask about it. Instead, he said, “Your name. What does it mean?”
“My name? It means ‘gentle sun.’”
“That’s beautiful.”
Mai-Nu smiled at the compliment. Suddenly, she seemed interested in him.
“And Cheng Song?” Benito asked.
“Cheng, his first name means ‘important’ and my brother certainly wishes he were. Song is our clan name. The Hmong did not have last names until the West insisted on it in the 1950s and many of us took our clan names. I am Mai-Nu Song.”
“What about Pa Chou?”
“Where did you hear my uncle’s name?”
Benito shrugged. “You must have told me.”
“Hmm,” Mai-Nu said. “Chou means ‘rice steamer.’”
“Oh yeah?”
She nodded. “‘Pa’ is a salutation of respect, like calling someone ‘mister’ or ‘sir.’”
“Why does he have a salutation of respect?”
“Pa Chou is the leader of the Song clan in St. Paul. What that means—leaders are called upon to give advice and settle arguments within the clan.”
“Like a
“Yes. Also”—Mai-Nu’s eyes grew dark and her voice became still—“also they arrange marriages and decide how much a groom’s family must pay his bride’s family to have her. Usually it is between $6,000 and $10,000.”
“Arranged marriages? Do you still do that?”
“The older community, my parents’ generation, they really value the old Hmong culture. That is why they settled here in St. Paul. It has the largest urban Hmong population in the world. Close to 25,000 of us. They come because they can still be Hmong here. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
Benito attended a high school where thirty percent of the student body was considered a minority—African- Americans, Native-Americans, Asians, Somali, Indians, Latinos—all of them striving to maintain their identity in a community that was dominated by the Northern Europeans that first settled here.
“It is changing,” said Mai-Nu. “The second generation, my generation, we are becoming American. But it is hard. Hard for the old ones to give up their traditions. Hard for the young ones, too, caught between cultures. My brother—he likes to have his freedom. I asked him, my uncle asked him, where do you go? What do you do? He says he is American so he can do whatever he likes. You cannot tell him anything. Now he is a gangster. He brings disgrace to the clan. Maybe if my parents were still alive…”
Mai-Nu shook her head, her ponytail shifting from one shoulder to the other.
Benito said, “What about you?”
“Me? I am bringing disgrace to the clan, too.”
“I don’t believe that.”
