Layout 1

A Publication of Life Experiences Written

by Students at North Hennepin Community College

2009–2010

Cover art painted by Leny Emmerzael-Wendel, Cover and Publication design by Jennifer Caudill

Realities is dedicated to all people who have had the courage to cross over their

boundaries, thereby enriching their lives by seeing how other lives are)lived.

Note from the editors:

To preserve the authenticity and character of the writings, they have been minimally edited.

Realities

A Publication of Life Experiences Written

by Students at North Hennepin Community College

2009–2010

North Hennepin Community College

7411 Eighty-fifth Avenue North

Brooklyn Park, Minnesota 55445

www.nhcc.edu

Mark L. Larson and Don Wendel

Founders and Editors

Realities is published annually

For Submission Instructions and Guidelines, please visit:

www.nhcc.edu/realities

Acknowledgements

................................................................................................ii

Introduction

........................................................................................................iii

Becoming A Student of The Other

Ichi-go, Ichi-e: One Chance, One Opportunity Brandon Cutler ..............................2

My Bond to Education Keng Xiong..........................................................................4

My First Day on The Island Elizabeth Waldmyer......................................................6

Cultural Differences Close to Home

A Different Kind of Different Ryder Grumbo ..........................................................8

Culture Shock in Brooklyn Park Erik Jerde ..............................................................9

Mixed Company Sarah Steensgard ........................................................................10

Life as A Refugee

A Place To Come To Tou V. Xiong..........................................................................14

It All Matters Lisa Nygard......................................................................................16

Just Life Dimitrije Zarkovic....................................................................................17

Clashing Cultures

España Johnny Bates ..............................................................................................20

Feeling Foreign on Both Sides of The Pond Ryan M.D. Tate..................................21

Japan at Dusk Ryan Murray ..................................................................................23

My Life Nicole Anderson ........................................................................................24

The Mother-Daughter Relationship is The Most Complex Cindy Yang ................26

Melding Cultures

Blending Nicole Rootes ..........................................................................................28

Growing Up Hispanic Thirty years Ago Michel Otten............................................29

Growing Up Vietnamese in America Annie Ngo ....................................................31

Lao-American and Proud of It Ashley Vongsouvanh ................................................32

My Father: My Motivation, My Inspiration, and My Hero Allen Yang ..................33

My First Powwow with My Father Christina Baker................................................36

Stuck Between Two Cultures Sitha Kim ................................................................37

Ten Families Rachel Albus ......................................................................................38

Traditions Bibiana Hassan ....................................................................................40

Encountering Nature

Close Encounter Taren Wang ................................................................................42

Air Boat To Chicago Beth Frykman........................................................................43

Fall Is Upon Us Carol LaFleur ..............................................................................44

Fireflies with Dad Sachiyo Baum............................................................................45

Back to The Past, Forward to The Future

A Truly American Mutt Linda Riegger ..................................................................48

My Parents’ Childhood Zhanna Shulyak................................................................50

Remembering My Childhood Days Aisha Sado ....................................................51

Remember When... Hoang Nga N Truong ............................................................52

Roots of The Spirit Marilyne Marion ....................................................................53

The Test for A Lifetime Chuan Wang ....................................................................55

Table of

Contents

{

Realities, 2009–2010: Acknowledgements

We thank the following people for their contributions

to and support of this publication:

Brigid Bechtold

Jennifer Caudill

Ana Davis

Mary Diedrich

Jean Fouilloux

Beth Frykman

Margaret Gile

Michelle Goode

Amy Johnson

Nancy Shih-Knodel

Yuko Okada-Larson

Tony Lemm

Abe Levin

Todd Luebke

Pamela McBroom

Jan McFall

Susan Nyhus

Packer

Jane Reinke

Suellen Rundquist

Laura Sargent

Carmen Shoquist

Michele Smaby

Sue Swenson

Leny Emmerzael-Wendel

Ann Wynia

Patty Yechout

Leanne Zainer

All the students who submitted writings

All others who promoted the mission of this publication

2009–2010

Acknowledgements

{

iii

Realities, 2009–2010: Introduction

Realities is a non-fiction student writing publication that brings to life true chronicles of students at our college who have

had significant life experiences gained crossing boundaries, such as boundaries of culture, faith, tradition, language, family,

and personal habit. Its goal is to promote campus and community-wide education and understanding of the complexities of

human experiences, which often go unnoticed in daily interactions.

As North Hennepin Community College is committed to educating a diverse community of learners to maximize their intellec-

tual, creative, and leadership potential, Realities, with its intensely written testimonies, serves as a tool to pursue this mission by

highlighting cultural experiences, demystifying inaccurate assumptions, and creating an educated and an empathic understanding.

Editors Remarks:

In his poem, Idea of Order at Key West, Wallace Stevens enjoins us to order words in “ghostlier to demarcations, keener

sounds”— to transform our sense of ourselves and the world around us by seeking experience beyond our everyday

perceptions, experience that moves us out of knowing the probable into imagining the possible.

The words in this second issue of Realities, as in the premier issue, do just so: they give order to the words of those who

have journeyed beyond the boundaries of their everyday perception of reality, the one held to filter out information that

does not fit our mission of getting through the day with some success, but the one that also keeps us from seeing others

and the world around us as anything other than a reflection of ourselves. We keep hold of the filter because it works; with

all the panache of a rock crusher, it grinds up anything opposite to our presumptive understanding of the way things work

— or ought to work. It verifies the given, and it discounts the different. It allows us to feel secure — but not at rest.

And so we bound our lives by the comfort zone we take for shield, though, as many come to know, it is no more than a

bubble that is likely to be burst from within by monotony as well as to be burst from without by challenge. When that

bubble bursts and we feel the weight of irony upon us for expectation suddenly unrealized, we can either blow another

bubble around us or listen to voices of those we may think of as the “other,” absorbing their reality into our own.

In that chilly moment of uncertainty, question becomes more important than answer; the once crisped-edged verities

wither, the old demarcations become ghostly, but in place of loss, we feel the primal sympathy of being to being, see anew

into the life of things, and as Shakespeare’s King Lear finally found the faith to do, “…take upon ourselves the mystery of

things.” We discover we are part of an unnamable whole in which we find our identity vaster than we thought. And so we

come to know what the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats came to know as he wrote in “Among School Children:”

O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,

Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?

O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,

How can we know the dancer from the dance?

So we invite you to listen to the authors in this issue, who in varying degrees recognized “ghostlier demarcations” and

heard “keener sounds,” coming to know that in the great mystery, we all dance together.

Sincerely,

Mark L. Larson

Don Wendel

Introduction

{

of The

Becoming

Realities, 2009–2010: Ichi-go, Ichi-e: One Chance, One Opportunity

s a person who has never been anywhere truly outside of American

culture, I have always been interested as to what it would truly be like

to go somewhere exotic. I love to read books where people go on exciting

adventures and see amazing places. Often times, I even find myself looking

up ticket prices for countries I’d like to visit. However, there is something

I have found on my travels to nowhere that has been a bit of a gateway to

another type of people. This eye-opener is Aikido, originally just another

credit for college but one that turned into a way of life.

At the beginning, I was a little nervous about the class and how the profes-

sor, Sensei, would act and what kind of homework would be assigned right

off the bat, just like any other college class. I filed in with the rest of my

new classmates at noon into a room brightly lit with windows and a

wooden floor. As we walked in, we were told by the teacher’s assistant to

take off our shoes and line them neatly against the wall and to do the same

with our belongings. Next, we were instructed to start helping lay down

some mats that were stacked neatly in a corner. Once completed, we sat on

the mats until the Sensei came in. He looked average, nothing I wouldn’t

have expected from any other teacher, except he seemed rather serene and

jubilant. As he walked, he greeted us and then came to sit with the group;

it seemed like being in kindergarten all over again. Although he was very

upbeat, he was very serious about his class. We were told stories about how

in Japan if you weren’t serious about training, you’d literally be thrown out

of the dojo, but, of course, he wouldn’t do that to us since we were new

students at an American college. Our new Sensei would not deal with goof

offs, however, and he made that clear because the things we would come

to learn could hurt someone very badly if done improperly or for the

wrong reasons.

For the rest of the semester we trained and learned, learned about respect

for ourselves and each other. Everyone was equal regardless of previous

martial arts experience, height, weight, religion, anything. We all sat on our

knees, bowed in together as a unit, bowed to each other before training,

and helped set up our Japanese environment every class period. I watched

many people become more humble from what Sensei taught us, and I my-

self became a better version of me. This new experience would soon change

the way I lived my life.

One Chance, One Opportunity

By Brandon Cutler

Ichi-go, Ichi-e:

I watched many people become more humble

from what Sensei taught us,

and I myself became a

better version of me.

This new experience would soon change

the way I lived my life.

Realities, 2009–2010: Ichi-go, Ichi-e: One Chance, One Opportunity

**************

Brandon Cutler graduated from NHCC with an Associate of Arts degree spring semester, 2010. His parents are from northern

Minnesota and Ohio, these also being the only major places to which he has traveled. English is his main language, but he took three

years of Spanish in high school.

Throughout the class we learned about Japanese culture by way of

stories, class activities, and our midterm projects. Our project was to

find something we enjoyed about Japanese culture and relate it to

Aikido. Everything from politics to weapons was covered, and some-

how everything had Aikido in it, the path to spiritual harmony. The

other activities we participated in were a traditional Japanese tea cer-

emony, where we were able to make our own matcha (powdered

green tea) and drink it with others. Another activity we did was cal-

ligraphy, where Sensei brought in brushes and ink from Japan, along

with each of our names written in Katakana, thanks to his wife. We

learned how to write “Aikido” in Kanji, and the correct stroke order

for each character. I found calligraphy to be very relaxing, and I

continue to practice it today.

Eventually, the class came to a close, and for the first time ever I felt

mournful for a class to be over. The end was not to be in my case,

however; this spring semester 2010 I signed up to be in the class

again because I loved it so much. Now I would be considered a

senior student, sempai, and would have the ability to gain even more

knowledge both technically and spiritually from the Sensei and my

new fellow classmates. During this semester I found Aikido truly

had become a way of life; I constantly do the wrist stretches we do

before every class, I treat everyone with some kind of respect, when

I vacuum at work I practice shikko (walking on the knees), I still

train outside of class whenever I can, and I find myself even more

aware of my surroundings than before. Today Aikido is practically

my mind set now, not a physical thing I do or something I merely

think about, but the way I function. I know that if I had the means

to go to Japan I would go in a heartbeat. I would love to experience

their way of life firsthand - all because of what Sensei has shown me.

“As soon as you concern yourself with the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ of your fel-

lows, you create an opening in your heart for maliciousness to enter.

Testing, competing with, and criticizing others weaken and defeat

you.”- Morihei Ueshiba

Realities, 2009–2010: My Bond to Education

he love of education is everywhere, from my parents to their

children. My mother never had a chance to pursue a good edu-

cation back in Laos because her parents would not let her, for she

was a girl. My father, on the other hand, was the oldest son in his

family and had to stay and watch his dad and work in the fields.

Neither of my parents had a decent education until they moved to

the United States. Growing up, I only had my immediate family,

which included my two brothers, my mother, my father and me.

My grandparents, my uncles, my aunties and my cousins secluded

us from any family activities. I was too young to remember why, but

I was not young enough to know that I only had my family. I did

not mind the isolation from my relatives. I was never lonely to

begin with; I had my brothers and my parents. Life in America was

hard for my parents because they had barely any education, family

support, and money, but they worked hard for the sake of their chil-

dren even with all the challenges of learning to live in a new world

and in a new culture. My parents still amaze me to this day. My par-

ents showed how much they loved my siblings and me and through

motivating us to reach our goals no matter what was ahead of us, by

teaching us about their life-long journey to pursue education, and

by showing their undying commitment to their children.

My parents came over to America from Laos during the Vietnam

War. After coming here, my dad was put into high school at the age

of fifteen. After graduating from high school, he married my

mother, who never had the chance to attend high school herself.

Soon my oldest brother was born, and that was the start of our

growing family. School was different for my siblings and me for

many reasons. For starters, my parents barely knew how to speak

English. I felt that the lack of my parents’ education hindered my

success in school. I was put into English as a Second Language

classes because I did not speak English well. At home, our primary

language was Hmong, and English was occasionally spoken.

There were times when I was a full time translator. At teacher con-

ferences, I had to listen to what my teacher said in English and

translate it into Hmong for my parents. Sometimes I had to call and

talk to people for my parents just like in Amy Tan’s story Mother

Tongue where she says, “in this guise, I was forced to ask for infor-

mation or even to complain and yell at who had been rude to her.”

Even though there were many setbacks from having parents that

lacked English, I always stayed strong because of my parents’ ac-

tions. Growing up my mother always said, “Mus kawm ntawm xwb

yeej tsis sab yu.” It meant, “Go to school because education can’t

hurt you.” They told me to always keep my head up and look at the

best in life and remain focused on school. At times when I was

scared, they would say, “We believe in you, why don’t you believe in

yourself?” There were many times where my parents would put our

problems first, even the small things like buying a pencil to buying a

computer to work on assignments and projects at home. Through

all the hardship and struggle, I am still going strong with the help of

my two greatest supporters.

Education is a rule we live by in our household. My parents not

only taught it to us; they would idolize it. Our small messy house

was always full of posters relating to education. In the left side of my

room, there is a poster of General Vang Pao reading a story with a

caption saying in Hmong, “Read More”. After feeling unable to

help communicate to our teachers, doctors, dentist and so on,

my parents took English classes at our local community center.

My parents tried to perfect their skills, even though they would mix

up the pronunciation. By the age of fifteen, my parents became effi-

cient English speakers. I remember the first time my parents talked

English to our neighbor Mrs. Johnson, and she was so surprised.

I could not help but smile as I saw Mrs. Johnson so engaged in the

conversation. It was an achievement not only for my parents but

also for us, their children.

After moving here to Minnesota my mother soon registered for high

school. At the local ALC, Adult Learning Center, my mother strug-

gled to get her high school diploma. After four years of working at

the company RMS, running a household and attending school, my

mother obtained her high school diploma. I remember the day my

mom put on the shiny purple gown she bought for her graduation.

I never saw a person smile as wide as my mother did that day. Now

her diploma hangs right next to mine.

My father had his own success in education. He attended college,

Onondaga Community College in New York, near our hometown

and received his certificate in Blue Print reading, which was a

By Keng Xiong

“Mus kawm ntawm xwb yeej tsis sab yu.”

It meant,

“Go to school because

education

can’t hurt you.”

Bond

Education

Realities, 2009–2010: My Bond to Education

certification to operate heavy machineries. This showed me that

my parents not only supported education but they sought it.

They are my motivation to seek a higher education and to better

myself, so maybe one day I can spread the love of education to

my children as well.

Unconditional love was given to us every day from our parents.

I never understood why my parents worked as hard as they did until

I got older. I remember waking up one night to see my father come

home from work. His hands were all dry and scratched up, his eyes

were blood shot, and his face was as white as the winter snow.

My parents never said a thing when it came to money; whenever my

brothers and I asked, they would say we have plenty. Our house was

always full of toys, food, and books. We were spoiled by our parents.

When I look back on how my parents were, I would feel ashamed of

myself. My parents never asked for much in return. They would

only ask us to read and do homework, and then we were free to do

anything we wanted. I always thought turning in an art project at

school was a way to thank my parents and show them that we were

even. “Here’s my pretty picture in exchange for all you do,” my art

project proclaimed. Thinking about it now, I feel foolish. Now

I know a parents’ love is immeasurable.

My parents’ story is a great, aspiring, motivational one. From their

lack of education to their struggle in the States, my parents worked

diligently for what they believed in. As I look back at all the strug-

gles I encountered, I always remember two faces who never ever

gave up, my parents. I can see them shouting, “You can do it!” every

time I failed or thought of giving up and “That’s our son” every

time I succeeded. My parents’ struggle to learn a new language has

shown me that there is no end to learning and no end to their love.

Their triumphs show me that anything is possible as long as I am

willing to reach for it. Even though my parents did not have anyone

to support them, they both worked hard on their goals on raising

their children into adulthood and making sure their children were

always happy. My parents were never taught about the importance

of a good education, but they never stopped trying to pursue it

regardless of everything they had been through. They are the glue

that binds our growing family.

**************

Keng Xiong was born in Hartford, Connecticut, on July 22, 1990, in a family of four, which consisted of his mother and father

and his older brother. His small but growing family moved to Syracuse, New York, in 1992. In 2001, after Keng was in sixth grade,

his parents decided to make a life changing decision and moved the family of eight to Minnesota. He graduated on June 6, 2008,

from Park Center Senior High. After high school, he took a year off to work to find his calling. During his time off, he realized

he wanted to become a family counselor to help with troubled families.

Realities, 2009–2010: My First Day on The Island

y junior year of high school was spent on an island, literally.

I attended De La Salle High School on Nicollet Island for one

year. I learned and experienced more throughout that one year than

I ever could have imagined.

I spent one year outside of the public school system that I had know

all my life. I was forced to wear a uniform that included a polo shirt

and a black pleated skirt that was high-waisted. The shirts were to

remain tucked in at all times.

I remember my orientation, which took place in August, quite

clearly. I was so scared and nervous. Even though I grew up in

North Minneapolis, I had spent the entirety of my educational

career in the Robbinsdale Area School District. Robbinsdale is a

well-to-do suburb of Minneapolis. I had grown used to the comforts

of what was familiar to me. I did not like the idea of changing

schools, especially switching to a private school eleven years into

my education.

I had received the letter about orientation early in June of that year.

Uniforms were required. Lunch would be provided. I had no idea

what to expect. I had only visited the school a few times. I didn’t

even know where the ‘Robert Casanova room’ was located. Asking

in the front office when I arrived just before eight in the morning,

I remember feeling like a complete outsider.

I was anxious. What if I had read the letter wrong and mixed up

dates or times? What if I wasn’t supposed to be in my uniform?

What if I got lost? What if nobody liked me?

A kindly woman was waiting to greet me just outside of the

Casanova room. She was being overly-welcoming. She smiled and

graciously showed me to my seat, where a white notecard with my

name hand-written had been placed. The card to the right of me

read “Satavee” and the card to my left read “Juan.”

Satavee showed up just a few minutes after I had. She was a short

girl with choppy black hair. To my relief, she too was wearing her

uniform. Almost immediately, we began to chat. I learned quickly

that she was actually from Thailand. She and her father had moved

to the States for his job. Her mother had remained in Thailand.

I was amazed at her ability to adapt so easily not only to a new

school but also to a new country as well.

Juan was a little bit late. He was very tall with a muscular build.

He had tan skin and big eyes. I noticed almost immediately when

he began to talk that he had a profound Mexican accent. The

woman who had greeted me came back to our table. She explained

that Juan was from Acapulco. He had only arrived in the States a

few days prior to orientation. He had attended De La Salle’s sister

school in Mexico but had to travel to the States to finish his

education if he wanted to attend college in America.

For the next three hours, I sat with Satavee, Juan, and a handful

of other new students of various grade levels. One girl was from

Kenya, and she was just as scared as I was. I learned that Satavee

didn’t actually like the States yet. Juan went on for at least an hour

about the beauties of Acapulco. But both were very excited to start

the new school year just as I was.

I learned a lot that day. Not only did I learn where my new locker

would be, I also learned a great deal about culture. There I was,

having switched school districts and finding other kids who had

traveled across the world to attend De La Salle.

We were all afraid. But after spending the day with Juan, Satavee,

and the others, I realized that I really didn’t have that much to be

scared of. We are all people, and together we make up the perspec-

tives that form cultures, ideas, and the principles of life.

**************

As a PSEO student, Kaitlyn Gartner has enjoyed being a part of a college campus. She cannot wait to continue her learning

experience and hopes to major in pharmacy and continue writing creatively.

What if I got lost?

What if nobody

liked me?

My First Day on The Island

By Kaitlyn Gartner

Realities, 2009: Found Soul Mate on the Other Side of the World

Close to

Cultural

Realities, 2009–2010: A Different Kind of Different

A Different Kind

of Different

n my high school, the special education program was specifically

designed for people with mental and physical developmental

disabilities. That meant that it did not matter what kind of disabil-

ity you had – you were put into the same program as everyone else

with any disability in the district. I often worked right along side

students with mental disabilities. This made the curriculum very

tedious for me.

After many protests from my mother, I was finally moved into the

standard classes with the rest of the student population. I received

many strange looks because of my left side. It looked very different

from what the student body was used to.

When I was four years old, I woke up in the middle of the night

and somehow found a loaded gun. I was playing with it when it

went off, hitting me in the side of the head. The result was a partial

paralysis of the entire left side of my body. This is why I ended up in

the special education program in school.

When other students saw me, many of them started to tease me

because they did not understand what had happened to me. I was

unlike anything they had seen in their “culture.” In this culture,

I was unusual, and people tend to fear what they do not understand.

Believe me, people can be very cruel when they do not understand

what you are about. I was so used to people being very supportive

when I needed some help that it was quite the shock to me when

these people were not able to understand exactly how hard it can

be to have to learn how to do everything with one hand. Imagine

trying to do some of the everyday things such as tying your shoes

or getting dressed with only one hand.

It took me so long to get over being shy because of this so that

I could even try to make friends. Most people do not understand

that just because you are quiet and keep to yourself you are not a

bad person. Eventually, I did get over my shyness and started talking

to people, and they realized that my brain was not affected by the

accident. I was still an intelligent individual with thoughts and ideas

of my own, capable of contributing to society.

I definitely identify with those who are from other countries or who

have different religions because in many ways they are viewed the

same way as I was and sometimes still am. People today sometimes

do not take the time to try to get to know these people. This non-

action often contributes to the behavior of both sides.

**************

When Ryder Grumbo was four years old, he was involved in a gun accident. He was shot by a .25 caliber handgun at point blank

range. As a result, his left side is partially paralyzed. However, he has learned how to do almost everything with only one hand.

He is going to school with the goal of contributing greatly to society.

By Ryder Grumbo

When I was

four years old,

I woke up in the middle of the night

and somehow found a

loaded gun.

Realities, 2009–2010: Culture Shock in Brooklyn Park

ome people may think that a guy who has never been to

another country has not experienced a cultural difference.

I do not believe this to be true. I attended the very same school

from the very first day of kindergarten until the day that I graduated

from high school. The school that I attended was Orono public

schools. I had a lot of friends in my school, but I also had a lot

of enemies. I am what some people like to call a “Redneck.”

And I just so happened to go to one of the preppiest schools in the

entire state of Minnesota. My school was predominantly wealthy

Caucasians. Now I would have fit in being a Caucasian, but I was

not wealthy. And I really enjoyed the outdoors. As a person who

enjoyed the outdoors and attended Orono, I was hated. Nobody in

the school hunted, fished, or camped. The only people I can name

that actually enjoyed these activities were my friends. As a student at

Orono, if you did not fit in, then you were harassed and ridiculed.

You were made fun of and even pushed into lockers.

I am now attending NHCC and it is a total culture shock to me.

My school is no longer ninety nine percent Caucasians. There is so

much diversity here at North Hennepin. People come in all differ-

ent shapes and sizes. The people that attend North Hennepin seem

to be a lot more kind and open to differences in culture. I have not

once been made fun of for hunting or fishing. In fact, most of the

people I tell that I hunt and fish ask if they can go with me some-

time. When I hear these people say this, it makes my jaw drop.

Throughout my whole life, I’ve never met people so open to new

and exciting things. I have made more friends in three months at

North Hennepin than I have made all my life at Orono.

Every day I learn more about different cultures around the world

just in my class of thirty students. I cannot express how different my

life is now that I am attending North Hennepin. I feel more open to

sharing my culture with different people, knowing that there are a

lot of people that might not experience the same culture as me.

I also feel more comfortable meeting new people because the

individuals around me are a lot more kind. I have even made

several friends that share the same experiences as me. They love to

hunt, fish, and camp, and they went to a very preppy school.

I am shocked every day when somebody holds a door open for me.

At Orono, if you held a door open for somebody, you were thought

of as a “tool.” I now realize that the school that I formally attended

was filled with immature and insecure individuals that did not

genuinely care about others. People at North Hennepin are totally

opposite. They care for others and want others to be happy.

My professors are even different at North Hennepin. The professors

seem to care more about the individual student than the teachers at

Orono. Attending North Hennepin has been a complete change to

my life. And I would consider it to be the biggest culture shock

I have ever experienced.

in Brooklyn Park

By Erik Jerde

I am what some people

like to call

a “Redneck”.

culture

shock

Realities, 2009–2010: Mixed Company

have experienced several cultural differences within my lifetime due to

the great journey that my life has brought me through. I began noticing

differences back when I was about three or four years old up until now at

twenty five years of age. I have learned to respect everyone for their beliefs

and practiced religions and the way they choose to live their own lives.

I believe that is the only way in which one can truly live life in an honest

way to both themselves as well as each other.

Growing up in Saint Louis Park, Minnesota, I noticed the majority of the

community was Jewish, but others in our neighborhood were Asian. My

family practiced Christianity, so while growing up we were taught and read

stories from the Bible. I had a few Jewish friends that had a similar book

that they lived by called the Torah. I recall a time where I was taught that

the Bible was the only “true” religious book and that it was written as the

events had happened in history. However, when I started sharing some of

the stories from the Bible with my Jewish friends and they shared stories

from the Torah, I noticed how similar the morals and verses were in a

sense, for they all preached about honesty, respect, loyalty, and devotion

to life and your family. That is when I made my own first personal

rationalization that even though they didn’t read the Bible, it doesn’t mean

that they are wrong or bad. If their lifestyle is healthy and they are happy,

then I wanted to be happy for them.

When I was roughly about twenty years old, I took a job at Boston

Scientific. There I had met several people from different nationalities and

countries; there were definitely different types of lifestyles. I noticed one

gentleman that, at a specific time of the day, would take this beautiful rug

out of his locker and lay it out while he prayed on it. I was impressed with

his devotion to his beliefs and traditions and the fact that he did it for

himself and no one else. As time went on I met a woman about the same

age as myself. She was Hmong, and her name was Gao Lee. We eventually

became good friends, and I noticed that she carried on her traditional ways

within her life through cooking and bringing up her son. When I saw her

wedding picture, I was shocked that she wasn’t wearing a white dress;

instead, they were wearing her country’s traditional wedding ceremonial

clothing. I could not believe how intricate and beautiful the garments were.

It must have taken months to make them with all the fine woven details

and colors that had been meticulously placed.

Mixed

Company

By Sarah Steensgard

I noticed one gentleman that,

at a

specific time of the day,

would take this beautiful rug

out of his locker and lay it out while he

prayed on it.

Realities, 2009–2010: Mixed Company

Around the same time I met a Puerto Rican girl, Dorita. The three

of us spent time with each other on the weekends. We attended a

traditional Puerto Rican play up at St. Cloud State University once.

The clothing and entertainment were great. We also got together on

several occasions and make food from our traditional cultures, and

then we would teach each other how to make it. I recall at one time

Dorita asked me if I would go back to Puerto Rico to marry her

brother so he could come back to the states. She told me all I had to

do was stay there for a while and then when the paper work came

through we could come to the States and then get a divorce. It was

a tough decision; I really wanted to do it for Dorita, even though

I didn’t believe it was the right thing to do in my heart and what

would I tell my family if I just up and went to marry some random

stranger. I decided against it and told her I just couldn’t bring

myself to it. We all still talk and have a wonderful time when we

meet up.

I was about twenty-one and I met another wonderful woman

named Abeer. She was from Egypt and had the most beautiful green

eyes and curly brown hair I had ever seen. As I got to know her,

I found out that she had been placed in an arranged marriage back

in Egypt where she had two baby girls; eventually her husband

became very abusive towards her and her babies, so she fled.

Her brother who already was living here in the States saved up

money to arrange another marriage and bring her over to the states.

Now in a much better environment and very thankful for where she

is, she throws several cookouts where she makes a ton of Mediter-

ranean food from her culture and invites lots of people. The first

time I attended one of the cookouts, was my first experience of

Mediterranean food, and I loved it. I began coming over for dinner

sometimes to enjoy both her family’s company and the food. Some-

thing that has stayed in my mind is that every day she cleans and

sometimes twice, and when her husband would come home from

work she made sure there was food on the table waiting for him.

I once asked her why she was so particular about this, and she said,

“He is my husband, and I am here to take care of him.” I love the

devotion and dedication she proclaimed in that statement.

Through all these experiences, I have learned to have a strong pas-

sion for those who still carry on their ancestral traditions to this day.

I understand that it is not easy to do while society and the govern-

ment continually urbanize the country on a daily basis. I struggle

myself, and respect those who still live the urbanized life while at

the same time continue to practice their traditions out of respect for

their ancestors.

**************

Sarah Steensgard was born in Robinsdale, Minnesota, in May of 1984. During her middle school years, she attended Zion in

Crown, Minnesota. At Zion she picked up soccer as a new hobby. She went to St. Francis High School and participated in both

gymnastics and soccer. After graduating in 2002, she attended Anoka Ramsey Community College for a year, but she was not

sure on what she wanted to major in. In the summer of 2009, she returned to college at NHCC to pursue a career in nursing.

you want to see

Be the

– Mahatma Gandhi

as A

Refugee

Realities, 2009–2010: A Place To Come To

A Place

ne of the best things that ever happened to me was coming

to America.

The United States of America has given me a new hope and a new begin-

ning. Here in America I am free; where as in Ban Vinai Refugee Camp

I was not. In America, everyone regardless of age, sex, and race is free, but

in Ban Vinai Refugee Camp I was locked up in a small camp surrounded

by razor-wire fences. Although I was still a child, every day of my life I felt

like a rat in a rat cage. The razor- wire fences blocked my path to the out-

side world. I and the rest of the people in the camp could not go out

beyond the fences. Even though we wanted to, we would have been unable

to because our flesh would have been pierced by the razor-wire fences.

Although my body was locked up inside the camp, my mind and spirit

wondered about what it was like beyond the fences.

The standard living in America is very different from Thailand, Ban Vinai

Refugee Camp, where I was born. There were no jobs or any way of earn-

ing income. One had only a small area of land, less than one hundred feet,

for farming. The only source of income and food supply was the aid from

the United Nation and those aids only came once a day. We would only get

a small portion of rice and meat, mostly fish, in the morning and nothing

else for the remainder of the day. Lunch and dinner, we had to provide for

ourselves. Back in those days the Tuna fish was really good, better than eat-

ing a bowl of rice and ginger or hot pepper dip with salt. Most of the time

when there were nothing to eat, my mom would give me one baht, which

is equivalent to one penny of States money, to buy a small slice of water

melon that she chopped it into smaller pieces, mixed them with a bowl of

rice to share with my siblings. If not that, we would buy a small bowl of

extremely hot papaya salad, no more than fifteen to twenty shredded strips

of papaya. The reason for the Papaya Salad being extremely hot was so that

we would eat very little and would still have some left for later. My mom

would only eat whatever was left after we had eaten, but most of the time

she would starve herself as long as I and my siblings had something to eat.

Then, there were other problems, such as not having new clothes, espe-

cially shoes because we could not afford it. Once a year we would get new

clothes, and then only because it was for the New Year Celebration.

Ban Vinai Refugee Camp was never a home to me because I never felt

secure, but it will always be viewed as a resting place for me to continue my

journey to America. America as we were told is a place of abundance with

By Tou V. Xiong

Although I was still a child,

every day of my life

I felt like a rat

in a rat cage.

to come to

unlimited food and clothes and nice houses. In Ban Vinai Camp,

our home was a small fifteen by ten wooden room with no bath-

room. There was no running water and there was only water that

was collected in wells and in a rusted metal container during the

rainy seasons. However, during the dry season the level of water

decreased to the bottom of the well. Trying to take whatever water

they could from the bottom, people stirred the water and turned the

water yellow with dirt. Still it didn’t stop them, for they knew there

were no other sources of water. Although Ban Vinai was a camp for

refugees, it had many good things. Even though we were very poor,

my mom, my siblings, and I developed a very strong bond together.

As a family we supported each other through the good and bad

times. And whatever adversities we came to face, whether it was

having no food or no money, we always managed to overcome them

together. We didn’t care about not having nice clothes, a nice house,

or money. Although we didn’t have much, we always had each

other. Our love and happiness kept us safe from the hunger and

possibly from the harm that the corrupted Thai official could do to

us. Those times of love and togetherness are priceless.

As of today, I am very fortunate to be an American citizen. As an

American I have a better home and a better standard of living. Also

as an American citizen, I have the opportunity to achieve my desires

that I was unable to achieve in Ban Vinai Refugee Camp. I have the

best opportunity to get an education and have a secure place that

I can call home. America will be my home now, but I will never

forget those priceless years in Ban Vinai Refugee Camp.

**************

Tou Vue Xiong is currently a full-time student with North Hennepin Community College. His goal is to graduate with a two year

degree in Business Computer Systems and Management by at the end of May 2011. After graduation, he wants to continue his

education by transferring to a four-year college or university to pursue a Bachelor’s degree in Business Management.

Realities, 2009–2010: A Place to Come To

Realities, 2009–2010: It All Matters

magine with me a world where even the smallest consideration or

act of kindness tipped the scales of a world that’s hanging in the

balance. After visiting Dachau Concentration Camp I came away

with a new appreciation for every act of kindness, no matter how

small. A hurt forgiven, a grievance released, a helping hand to those

on the margins of society–these are the things that matter in the

long run. Everything matters.

The somberness of this place met me like a cloud of mist that

settled on my heart as I emerged from the parking lot. The birds

held their songs in this place. The pictures and text on the museum

placards gave a snapshot of the horrors this place held as docu-

mented historical event after event settled on me like a bad dream

that just can’t be shaken, the kind that makes me wake with a pit

in my stomach. They told of things that happen when good people

do nothing. The twisted metal memorial sculpture met me with a

strange greeting, begging me to look deeply and study it, yet the

contorted, grotesque figures it represented repulsed me and made

me want to look away. The eerie quiet of the compound told me

this was no regular museum. This place held secrets: deep, horrify-

ing secrets. What happens when people look the other way, when

I look the other way?

Studying the layers and layers of tangled barbed wire lining the

outer perimeter wall, I remembered as a little girl how it hurt to

have one of those little barbs accidentally scrape my leg as I mean-

dered over and under fences that kept our rag tag band of cows in

the pasture on long lazy days of summer. I wondered, “what…

how... what would fuel this level of barbaric cannibalism that would

make one human being suppress, dominate and feed off another

human being?” Standing there, I followed the trail back in my own

mind how things like this get started. One little thought left

unchecked, one offense left unattended and the smoldering starts,

which, left unchallenged, provides the perfect kindling that raging

fires of this magnitude need to get started.

Once outside the gate, I welcomed the sense of life and beauty the

towering trees added to this otherwise desolate and God-forsaken

place. However, as I read the first memorial in this wooded area,

I realized the sense of life and beauty was but a strange capsule

holding the hallowed ashes of those who had succumbed to the

cruelty of this place. The trees became a line of somberly standing

sentinels guarding the sacred remains now at one with the ground

they were hastily cast into. Their presence acted as a silent memorial

announcing that someone would remember, honor and guard the

nameless, voiceless ones that were crying out from the earth for

justice. I felt the sacredness of human life in that place.

Dachau was where I felt in a real way how these kinds of atrocities

start. The magnitude of the soulish stench made me wonder deeply

about how the unimaginable becomes reality. It made me wonder

how much I have in my power as one person to change the environ-

ment around me for the good of all mankind. It made me face my

own hellishly illogical grievances. It made me realize that everything

starts somewhere, even the holocaust.

it all matters

**************

Lisa Nygard grew up in Alexandria, Minnesota. Although her family did a lot of camping when she was growing up, she never

traveled out of the country until about two years ago when she visited some friends in the Netherlands. On a day trip over to Germany,

she got the inspiration for this essay. This actually is her first essay of her first college class after over 20 years of being away from school.

By Lisa Nygard

The birds

held their songs

in this place.

Realities, 2009–2010: Just Life

t was late September 1995. My mother and I had just met up with

my grandparents and uncle in Serbia. This was to be my home for

the next five years, before I ended up in the United States. It was a

long and interesting journey and one of the biggest turning points

in my life so far. The process, transition, and new life style have

changed my views about people and life.

We traveled from Croatia, across the Bosnian border, and finally

into Serbia. It was a nonstop trip, taking three days and three

nights. I remember being hungry, tired, hot, along with everyone

else, but we had to endure. The road seemed endless, but I was

reassured–over the course of days–with “just a bit longer.” When we

were safe, we settled near the unloading docks of a railroad yard that

belonged to my uncle’s relatives.

My mother and I stayed with my aunt’s family for about a month

after escaping together, but then looked for my grandparents

and other uncle. They were staying in a refugee camp about

150 miles away. What we found when we got there was nothing

close to a camp.

The place where my grandparents were staying, along with about

a hundred other refugees, was nothing more than a high school

gym that was converted into a temporary shelter. Nevertheless,

we decided to stay with our family.

Everyone received rations according to the size of their family.

Everything from the number of sponge mattresses to sleep on, blan-

kets, the amount of meal servings, the loaves of bread and canned

Spam-style meat was rationed accordingly. We had no tables of our

own, so we were given school desks to use for eating. The book

compartments under the desks served as “mini-fridges” for many.

My mom found a job as a waitress in a nearby restaurant. Working

twelve to fifteen hour shifts, she earned about fifty dollars a month.

My grandma would sometimes get hired to clean stores or restau-

rants by the flea market. My grandpa and uncle would occasionally

work odd jobs or spend entire summers picking vineyards in

Montenegro. They’d come back as if they’d been cleaning chimneys

instead. The summers reached 48 degrees Celsius.

At school, some city kids would look down on the refugee kids.

In their eyes, we were poor, “dirty”, and we didn’t belong.

We were outsiders and should go back wherever we came from.

I overheard even high school kids complaining how “the damn

refugees had taken over our gym”. But at least we were a “step up”

from the gypsies, or the nomadic Roma people, who live in worse

poverty and discrimination.

I encountered prejudice from some of my classmates, but they

learned the hard way that I wouldn’t have any of it. After a good

brawl or two, we became good friends. From second grade on,

I had a teacher whom I liked very much. Mrs. Rodich was fair, but

many times let me slide when I got into trouble. She knew how to

motivate and challenge me, and I grew to love learning. In the dark

after “lights out”, I lay on mattresses with my mom, inches away

from the gym floor, and she’d tell me to study hard and go to

college. Before drifting off to sleep, the thought of going to college

excited me.

The government and other organizations improved our living

conditions. After two years in the gym, we got army bunk beds.

Now the cockroaches couldn’t reach us and many people came

down from sleeping in the stone bleachers of the gym. Some saved

enough to afford some luxuries and bought real mattresses, color

TVs, or bikes. One family even bought a small refrigerator.

For those that couldn’t afford extras, they found ways to make

living bearable. I remember catching my best friend’s dad eating

mushy, near rotten bananas. He said he loved them and shared his

enthusiasm with his children. On another occasion, after returning

from play, his kids said they were hungry. He asked where they were

and they told him that they were with me, playing with snails.

The recent drizzle brought out many of them. He told us to go

collect as many as possible and he’d prepare them for us. He con-

vinced us that they were a delicacy. We returned with our shirts

folded up to our bellies, filled with snails. He cleaned and then fried

them. They were a bit chewy, but other than that, just like chicken.

There were hard times, but I had decent food, shelter, and people

who cared for me. The people there became like a big family. I recall

Just Life

By Dimtrije Zarkovic

It was a

nonstop trip, taking three days

and three nights. I remember being

hungry, tired, hot,

along with everyone else, but we

had to endure.

Realities, 2009–2010: Just Life

some of the happiest times being in those circumstances. I’d spend

hours playing on the pummel and vaulting horses, or swinging on

the parallel bars. They were the good, innocent times of my life,

careless and just enjoying each day with the people there.

Life is a cycle, however. In the years 1999 and 2000, four years after

escaping it, war had caught up with me once more. Explosions went

off in the distance, the ground shook, making the windows tremble

in their frames. I heard the sharp sound of fighter jets breaking the

sound barrier. Their bombs woke me up and forced us to get out of

the gym in the middle of the night. Many refugees were paranoid,

due to their previous experience. Often, bombs felt as if they’d

fallen only a few hundred meters away.

Kosovo held much of the Serbian history, pride, and culture, so

Serbs naturally “denied” the land by force. The States interfered and

for three months, Serbia was bombed and starved economically.

Additionally, even more immigrants from Kosovo poured into Serb

territory. The country was overwhelmed.

The sound of the air raid siren became a common occurrence.

Many times, the bombing caused the power to go out in the gym,

forcing people to cook on fires or mini gas stoves. Others cursed the

pilots for making the TV go out. They’d miss another exciting

episode of Baywatch or Beverly Hills: 90210. On those boring after-

noons, I snuck out to play despite the sirens, but found the neigh-

borhood empty. The basketball courts, the soccer field, and

sidewalks resembled ghost towns. There was an uneasy, eerie silence

to it all, and I briefly felt like the only human being on the planet.

Pinned onto clothes of many people were stickers or papers with a

black and white “target” symbol. It was a sign of patriotism, but also

an anti-war statement. Patriotic songs played on the radio, but there

were also some political spoofs, which focused on the then recent

affair Bill Clinton had with Monica Lewinsky. Even though the

country was getting chewed up, there was also celebration and pride

over the images of the downed F-117 bomber.

Over the years, some refugees dispersed to larger cities,

returned home, built new homes, or went to a different country.

Others joined alternative housing programs offered by the govern-

ment, or applied to refugee organizations that helped move them

overseas to more stable countries such as Australia, Germany,

Switzerland, Holland, and the United States.

My mother applied for one of the foreign country programs.

The selections are based on eligibility of the family. Within a few

anxious months, my mom got the “yes” from the organization.

The excitement was overwhelming and everyone was happy for us.

I told my classmates and teachers, who all responded with enthusi-

asm. While everyone was happy for us, they were also sad.

We formed close bonds with refugees and citizens alike, so it wasn’t

easy to say goodbye. However, it was something we had to do;

our futures depended on it.

After all the paperwork and traveling interviews, my mother and

I arrived in Minneapolis, Minnesota on July 27, 2000. In the begin-

ning, my mom was overwhelmed, stressed out, and wanted to go

back. It wasn’t the first time we had to start with nothing but neces-

sities in a foreign environment, but U.S. was a completely different

beast to tame.

I adapted and picked up on things quickly. In school, things

I learned in second or third grade were being taught here in the

fifth. Watching American TV shows in Serbia also paid off. Over

time, all those things I wished of having as a kid, and more, came

into my life. They were the basics here. My own room, my own TV,

my own shower, a big bed, a closet with a change of clothes every

day, a fridge, a large stove, a machine that does laundry, a sink,

a real kitchen table, a thick carpet, and even a couch.

Whenever I think back, I feel lucky and grateful to be here.

Living outside of the U.S. and in the transition, I’ve learned many

things. In war, the only thing I truly know is that people suffer.

After having my “dream materials”, I realized I could have things,

but I also realized not get lost in the pursuit of them and be grateful

for even the basic conveniences. If I ever feel sidetracked in life,

I look back on where I’ve come from and what I’ve been through,

and my priorities are set straight. What made my life wonderful

were the diverse experiences, the people, the relationships, and the

timeless lessons that came in that package. I wouldn’t change those

for anything.

**************

Dimitrije Zarkovic was born in Serbia to Croatian parents. After his parents divorced, his mother moved back to Croatia, taking

him with her. They lived briefly on his grandparents’ small farm and then moved to a city. From there, he was forced to move back

to Serbia due to the ethnic and religious conflict in 1995. He lived in Serbia as a refugee for almost five years before arriving in

Minneapolis, Minnesota, in 2000. He is still very fluent in Serbo-Croatian and knows some Spanish. Dimitrije has been taking

general classes at NHCC since 2008 and is employed at Target. He has found his diverse life experiences invaluable.

Cultures

Realities, 2009–2010: España

España

hen it comes to cultural differences, I am proud to say I’ve

experienced a clash of different cultures. Two years ago,

during the summer of my junior year in high school, I traveled to

Spain with my Spanish class. When I found out I’d be going to

Europe, I was ecstatic. It had been a dream of mine for as long as

I can remember. The trip was spread out over two weeks. The first

week was dedicated to touring by bus, and the second was dedicated

to learning the culture by staying with a host family. There’s no bet-

ter way to learn a culture than to stay with a Spanish family all alone

for a week, right? My feelings toward the trip flipped dramatically.

I went from ecstatic to terrified. Although I was literally scared for

my life to stay with a family full of strangers, I continued on with

my plans to go to Spain. I knew the offer was too good to refuse.

The first part of the trip was going great. I had an amazing time

touring museums, seeing famous sites, and eating delicious food.

Time flew by so fast. Before I knew it, I was being dropped off at

the doorstep of what was to be my home for the next week.

“Hola, Juan,” said Jose. He was the same age as me. He greeted me

with a soccer ball at his feet. I knew right away that we’d get along

just great. He introduced me to his mother and father. They did not

speak English. Jose knew about the same amount of English as

I knew Spanish. At first it was very difficult to communicate.

I became so frustrated, but I didn’t tell my host family. I didn’t

want them to feel at fault for not knowing my language.

I am a shy person by nature. By being put in this situation my level

of shyness skyrocketed. During my first night, when it became time

to sit at the table for dinner, I didn’t know what to say. Apparently,

noise is the key to a good family meal in Spain. They would not

stop talking. Back home I am used to eating alone. It was an

awkward situation because I knew I should be contributing to the

conversation, and I knew they knew I felt out of place. I just could

not get myself to speak.

On my third day with the family something happened that broke

me out of my shell. Jose brought me to the park. We met up with

four other boys that are friends of Jose. After being formally intro-

duced, we played soccer. We played for hours. We did not arrive

home until dinner time. I had so much fun with Jose and his friends

that I had forgotten that I was living with a family of strangers.

At the dinner table I spoke better Spanish than I had ever spoken.

I created conversations with a family that does not speak my

language, and the scary thing was, by the end of the night, I felt as

if I were one of them.

The last four days flew by so quickly they seemed they were never

even there. I didn’t want to leave. There was so much more to learn.

I felt as if I were leaving with work still to be done.

It’s amazing how my views changed. At first I was angry and frus-

trated with the culture, but after giving it a shot, I learned to love it.

After only seven days, I had learned so much that I’ll never forget.

I cannot wait for my next opportunity to visit Spain again — I have

so much left to do and see!

**************

Johnny Bates likes hands on science classes and hopes to become a dentist. However, he likes candy, specifically Airheads, Starbursts,

and Werther’s Originals. He has traveled to Canada and Spain. His favorite song is constantly changing, but for now it is Michael

Jackson’s Smooth Criminal.

By Johnny Bates

I went from

ecstatic

to terrified.

hen it was still dark outside, I used to wake up and polish my

shoes. My math teacher insisted on being able to “see his

pearly whites in them,” although his teeth were never pearly, never

white, and had a distinctly bad smell, which I recognized later as

coffee. His eyes, sunken under his lids, would survey our shoes

along the single-file line we assembled in every morning, waiting to

be allowed entrance into the gymnasium. My friend Alistair’s

‘Windsor’ knot was always too big, and we’d all have to stand

outside and wait for him to retie it. Since we were only six,

we wore gray shorts and underwent inspections of our knocked

knees to make sure we hadn’t been “mucking about” and got them

dirty. If someone’s legs were soiled, they’d have to go wash them,

and the rest of us had to wait. Usually someone like Alex would

make some scoffing sound, and we’d all have to wait even longer.

Once inside, the gym was set up with wooden benches in the

middle and chairs along one wall where the faculty would sit.

The pupils sat according to years and waited in silence for the

Headmaster to arrive and conduct morning assembly. We all stood

when he entered the room until we were told to sit, and then he

made announcements. One predetermined student every morning

had to come to the front to make a Bible reading, lead a prayer, lead

a hymn, and then stand up front until our Headmaster was finished

with assembly. The teachers paid little attention to what our

Headmaster had to say. They scanned for troublemakers, who were

usually the older boys that had reputations. They were the ones that

would pass along notes with words like “shit” on them, for us six

year olds to read and ponder over, before going home to ask our

parents about what they meant. That’s the exact way I found out

what a “puff” and a “vagina” was.

We all knew who the troublemakers were. While usually older,

they were also usually the boarders, whose parents worked far away

or lived in another country. For the most part, they got away with

murder, since the school was their home. But when they didn’t,

they’d have to run laps around the cricket pitch, which was in the

center of all the school buildings. Teachers would walk by, leading

us younger ones to the cafeteria, and say “Oh, look at those naughty

boys.” Usually they were the same group of boys that would think

during assembly, while 120 bodies were crammed into the small

hall, that it was an opportune time to let out a nasty, silent fart and

smell all the rows up like rotten potatoes. Then we’d all have to sit

there and pretend like we didn’t notice, and that it wasn’t funny,

but, of course, it was.

My first day of school in England went something like that. I was

acknowledged in front of the whole school–everyone–and was

obviously out of sorts, wearing a blue sweater with green dinosaurs

on it since my gray uniform jumper was on back-order at the school

shop. My mom made me wear it since it was chilly that September.

“Where’s your jumper?”

“I don’t have one yet. I’m wearing this ‘cuz it’s chilly.”

Blank stares. “Chilly? Like as in the food? American’s must be mad!”

Everyone else wore wax jackets with a smell you’d never forget and

Wellies outside when it rained. Wellies were these green boots that

everyone had, but sometimes someone would have blue ones with

Power Rangers on them, and a whole fad would start.

I had moved to England when I was five years old after my dad

accepted a job transfer overseas. For over a decade I lived in

Durham, where I’d see Japanese and American tourists come and

take pictures of local churches, mistaking them for the Cathedral.

Then I’d walk past them in my uniform and they’d look over and

smile. My mom would laugh and say, “They probably look at you

and think you’re a little English schoolboy; little do they know

you’re an American, too.”

The ten years I spent in the UK have had such a big impact on me

as a person; I’ll probably never know exactly how much until I’m

gray and old. I definitely didn’t experience much of American

culture when I was young, like sports, which is why I went out for

running when I was in high school instead of football, baseball,

or some other sport that I didn’t know the rules to. Later someone

asked me why I didn’t play soccer. I told them, “‘Cuz I wasn’t very

good.” And they responded, “Yeah, in comparison to English kids

who played everyday since they were old enough to walk.” I suppose

that was true, in a way, but definitely a stereotype.

My return to America was curious. Having received a job transfer

back the states, my dad told us we were coming to Minneapolis,

which I only knew from the Mighty Ducks movies. Originally we

were from Illinois, but my parents were just happy to be able to get

back on the same continent as their family. I remember my dad

sitting with us around the dinner table once we arrived state-side

saying, “So, the governor here is an ex-pro wrestler! Can you believe

that? Like on TV.”

Feeling Foreign on

Both Sides of The Pond

By Ryan M.D. Tate

Realities, 2009–2010: Feeling Foreign on Both Sides of The Pond

My first day of school in the states involved many firsts. I’d never

ridden a yellow school bus or sat in those green seats, never seen

football jerseys or real cheerleaders, never been able to wear casual

clothes to school, never sat in on a ninety-minute class, and never

been at a school with any girls. As fate would have it, someone de-

cided it was a great idea to make my first class of my first day, P.E.

I entered into the gym and there were all these girls, all in my grade,

running and jumping around in little shorts and tank tops. It in-

spired an email I wrote later that night to my friends in the UK

saying, “Girls are nice. I love America.”

But arriving in the U.S. was so much more than that. I was only in

the country about two weeks before September 11th happened. At

first I didn’t even know what the World Trade Centers were, or even

why a terrorist attack was such a big deal since I grew up hearing

about IRA terrorist bombings in London and Northern Ireland all

the time. When my Physical Science teacher turned on the TV

though, I understood a lot better. This was different. This was big.

I remember asking my mom in the car, not long after, “Why do all

Americans have flags outside their house?” I didn’t quite understand

what 9/11 meant in a country I barely knew. Then again, I don’t

think people who knew it well understood what it meant, either.

I learned over the next few weeks that terrorist attacks just didn’t

happen in America, and this was a matter of vulnerability.

What’s probably unique about my transition into American life

was that it was not only in a post-9/11 America, but an immediately

post-9/11 America. I learned about America at a time when every-

one was remembering it, and reliving how much they loved it.

People at the time were showing their love out loud; frequently,

they’d say, “I love America,” just like that, all the time, like they

were talking about their wives or something. I had never experi-

enced anything like that before.

While the country was still grieving, it was nevertheless one of those

unique times where everyone just came together. That was my first

real impression of this country. The ability to have had a first

impression of my home country at all was pretty remarkable,

but having had it at that particular time, was definitely aberrant.

Another impact of arriving in the U.S. was my sparked interest in

American history since everything, to me, was new and fresh and

exciting. I came here able to talk all about the Magna Carta and

1066, but didn’t know anything about John Smith, or the Recon-

struction, or Harriet Tubman. Here, it was an American Revolution

and not a Colonial Rebellion, and we weren’t taught that throwing

tea into harbors was somewhat ungrateful. I recognized this

influence recently, as I started preparing to transfer to a four-year

program and major in history.

Still, there’s a lot of “what ifs” I think about: What if I had never

lived overseas; what if I had stayed in England; what if I had applied

for my dual citizenship, instead of procrastinating until it was too

late. I’ll never know how different my life would be, but I do know

that these things make a difference. I am who I am because of where

my life has been and taken me. Most definitely, one of the greatest

strengths my cross-cultural experiences have brought to me as a per-

son is my understanding of the world as a larger entity and requires

ideas and responsibilities of global citizenship. None of us around

the world are all that different. We all have people we love and

know people who drive us crazy, have influences on the people

around us, and share commonalities of just being human. That’s

what I am most grateful for learning: that this world is greater than

the sum of its parts. And recognizing that is really pretty humbling.

**************

Ryan M.D. Tate was born in Peoria, Illinois, and moved to Durham, England, when he was five years old. He resided in England

for a decade, returning to the United States and settling in Plymouth, Minnesota for high school. Ryan has been at NHCC for three

semesters and plans to transfer to a four year college to pursue a major in history. Outside of school, Ryan enjoys reading, writing,

traveling, playing guitar and spending time with his fiancé.

Since we were only six,

we wore gray shorts and

underwent inspections

of our knocked knees

to make sure we

hadn’t been

“mucking about”

and got them dirty.

Realities, 2009–2010: Japan at Dusk

JAPAN

“The true science of martial arts means practicing them in such a way

that they will be useful at any time, and to teach them in such a way

that they will be useful in all things.”

— Miyamoto Musashi (The Book of Five Rings: Miyamoto Musashi)

am a coach at the Minnesota Martial Arts Academy here in

Brooklyn Center, and I have taught Thai-boxing and stand up

fighting as my specialty for the last six years. I usually help other

Thai-boxers or Mixed Martial artists when they train for their

fights, spanning from experienced professionals to people who have

never fought a day in their life. A friend and fellow training partner

asked if I would accompany him to Japan for his fight under the or-

ganization “Sengoku”. It was a thirteen hour flight from Minnesota

to Japan, and, although star trek was the in-flight movie, the trip

was torturous.

After arriving in Japan we were to be driven to our hotel in Tokyo,

near Senjuku Station. The drive was three hours, all through a

cityscape; I’ve never seen so much city, not even in New York.

The next day Nick (the fighter) had nothing to do, but diet and get

ready to cut weight. So Derrick, my fellow corner man, and I,

decided to walk around at four in the morning. We walked and

took pictures, waited for things to open, people watched. The first

thing we noticed was that there was beer and whiskey waters in

vending machines. I remember being amazed at this, I especially

took time to read the can that said “whiskey water” as if it were a

joke or I was misreading it. But, lo and behold, it was alcohol in a

vending machine, so what’s a guy to do?

About a minute later, we were walking down the street, I with a

beer, he with whiskey water, and we spotted a familiar sight:

a McDonald’s. We walked in and saw some things on the menu like

“teriyaki burger” and a burger with an egg on it. I tried a teriyaki

burger and was not impressed, but their fries tasted exactly the

same. Later after things opened we found another restaurant and

decided to try it out. When we were served, they gave us a big bowl

of cabbage, a mortar and pestle with black sesame seeds, and some

other type of seed. By watching others, we saw that we had to crush

the sesame seeds and add a sauce to it and dip our pork tempura in

it. It was by far the best tempura anything I’d ever had.

Walking back to the hotel, there were groups upon groups of people

lining the streets, everyone with a beer or two regardless of age. But

the amazing thing was that it was silent, and I mean completely

quiet. I thought how in America with this many people plus beer

would probably mean riot, or at least a hell of a loud party. But here

it was hundreds of people drinking, and it was peacefully quite.

It was quite surreal.

**************

Ryan Murray has studied Muay Thai, the martial art of kickboxing, for over ten years, and it has afforded him opportunities like the

cross-cultural one he writes about. He is currently in school studying anthropology, but his passion for fighting and Thai-boxing has

never faltered.

By Ryan Murray

I thought how in America with this

many people plus beer would

probably

mean a riot,

or at least a hell of a

loud party.

at Dusk

Realities, 2009–2010: My Life

rowing up, for some people, is a real challenge. The need to fit in

with our peers can sometimes lead us in a dark direction. In high

school there were the jocks, the stoners, the nerds, and then there was me.

I tried to be every single one of those types, and I ended up being very

overwhelmed. I cared so much about who liked me and who I fit in with

that at a very young age, around 16 or so, I ended up in very frightening

situations– places that no one should ever see in their lifetime.

The feeling of not being good enough goes back as far as I can remember.

Being raised by alcoholic, drug-addicted parents always left me with the

need for attention and the feeling that I needed to take care of everyone

around me, especially my little sister. My parents divorced when I was five.

My father was awarded full-custody of me and my sister. This led to a

battle, which is still present in my life today, a battle between my family

and me just trying to make sure that everyone is happy.

My dad, being a single parent of two daughters, kept us very close to him.

Sometimes this was hard to handle because I felt as if I had to take care of

him and make sure he wasn’t lonely, sacrificing my own happiness. My sis-

ter and I were his everything, his whole meaning of life. Most of his life has

been dedicated to taking care of us and making sure that we have every-

thing that we need–it still is this way today. The older we got, the farther

we would pull away. After all, it was not considered “cool” to hang out

with your dad on a Friday night. The more freedom I wanted, the tighter

the reigns would be pulled in. My dad found a girlfriend and eventually

married and divorced her. She was the closest thing I had to a mother. All

that my dad wanted was for my sister and me to grow up healthy, happy,

and content. My step-mom was in and out of our lives quite frequently.

One minute she would be there and we would all be a happy family, and

the next minute, her stuff would be packed and she would be gone– we

wouldn’t see her for months. This was very confusing and disturbing to

me. We didn’t have any structure in our lives, which was hard for me to

handle because all that I wanted was a “normal” family and life where

I would sit down to dinner every night with everyone being nice to

each other.

As I finished up my 8th grade year of school, I discovered marijuana,

which made me feel as if I didn’t need to care about anything but how

My Life

By Nicole Anderson

Before I could even blink, I had become

homeless, unhealthy, depressed,

and had nothing

and no one in my life whatsoever.

This all happened within just four years

of using drugs and alcohol.

Realities, 2009–2010: My Life

comfortable it made me. My friend and I were waiting for the bus,

and she had some on her that her neighbor had given her. I smoked

the weed and nothing seemed to happen. We got on the bus, and

the weed started to have an effect on me. This warm, happy, care-

free, feeling came over my whole, entire body. It was as if I were

floating on a bunch of soft, fluffy clouds and didn’t have a care in

the world. All I could do was look at my friend and laugh hysteri-

cally. Finally, I had found something that brought me complete and

utter joy. We got to school and our other friends knew something

was going on with us. When we told them that we had smoked

weed before school, they were upset with us. I wasn’t going to share

the fact that I was finally happy and that I had the weed to thank

for it. Instead, I got rid of my judgmental friends that didn’t

support my weed use and found some friends that did. I suffered

no consequences from this first time. My dad and my teachers

had no idea. My plan from that day on was to feel that way again,

forever if possible.

I waited way too long, so it seemed like, until the next time I got

“screwed up.” I found a group of kids in high school that enjoyed

getting messed up also. I quickly latched onto them, and that is

what we did. School was meaningless to me now, and all that

I cared about was when and how I was going to get “messed up”

next. My grades began to slip, and my family-life started to become

really unpleasant.

I started getting caught because I would come home really drunk,

over and over again. My dad’s reaction to this was to call the cops.

My reaction to this was to try to kill myself by taking aspirin.

This resulted in me going to treatment for the first time at age 16.

It wasn’t the last time either. I went to treatment very frequently

only because my behavior would land me there on several

different occasions.

With my 18th birthday approaching, my dad and I had the biggest,

scariest, loudest, fight we had ever had. I had come home 15 min-

utes late from my older boyfriend’s house. My raging father became

aggressive and violent with me as I walked in the door. With my

door slamming into me and random things being thrown at me,

I packed up my stuff and had one of my good friends pick me up.

I went to stay with her, eventually going to live with my older

boyfriend. By that time, I had graduated to doing harder drugs like

cocaine, ecstasy, and oxy-contin. My dad knew I was doing these

things, which made him very angry with me.

Before I could even blink, I had become homeless, unhealthy,

depressed, and had nothing and no one in my life whatsoever.

This all happened within just four years of using drugs and alcohol.

I dropped out of school and had no job. I got into trouble with the

law. I was facing two felony charges in two different counties. Being

in jail and having plenty of time to think about all of these things

gave me a sense of an awakening. Like I had the choice of going

down road A–continuing with my behavior that landed me in jail

and possibly prison, or road B–getting sober and doing something

with my life.

I chose road B, which is so wonderful to me. My life now is

completely different. I am a great daughter, sister, friend, student,

employee, and am also able to help other women achieve sobriety

and a better life by sharing what I did and how I did it. I am so

incredibly close with my father because we have sobriety in com-

mon. I am able to maintain my great life, along with my sobriety,

by attending different groups with people that share my same

problems. I also have a woman in my life that directs me on how

I should be doing things so that I don’t go back to how I did them

before. Because of all of this, I have almost three years of sobriety.

I am 23 years old now and have so many great things going on in

my life. These things are possible because I’m sober and had the

willingness to change all of the things in my life that were not

working out for me. I no longer care what crowd of people I fit in

with or what everyone is doing on Friday night. Things that matter

to me now are: if I had a good day or not, if I was mean to some-

one, if was able to help someone else, and if I know I did the best

I could do.

**************

Nicole Anderson is 23 years old and currently enrolled at NHCC, pursuing a paralegal degree. She recently moved from Champlin to

Brooklyn Park. She took College Writing 1 and really enjoyed not only discovering her ability to write but also being able to put every-

thing that she has been through on paper. Her narrative of her trials and tribulations has helped her to see what happened to her in a

different way rather than just speaking about it.

Realities, 2009–2010: The Mother-Daughter Relationship is The Most Complex

The Mother-Daughter Relationship

is The Most Complex

others and daughters are like best friends. A daughter usually

looks up to her mother. A mother usually sets a good lady-like

example. A mother and daughter can talk about anything. Well, my

mother and I don’t have a good bond. It’s hard to find time to

spend some mother-and-daughter time. She follows the traditional

way; I follow the American way.

I’m a part-time student and part-time worker. She is a full-time

worker. I’m barely home during the day because I either go to

school and work right after or hang out with some friends after

school. My mother and I don’t see each other much because our

schedule doesn’t fit. But when we get a chance to be home at the

same time, it gets a little awkward. We don’t see each other enough

to communicate. So when I have something to say, it’s kind of hard

to speak my mind around her. My mother and I are like strangers.

In the Hmong culture, women are expected to be a great house wife

before they get married. Also families are honored by the high

education one has. My mother believes that a good daughter should

be at home to watch over the siblings, clean the house, and pursue

an education. I’m very limited to things I can do and cannot do.

It’s difficult to meet my mother’s standards because I have to

balance my life as an American girl and a Hmong girl. When I hung

out with my friends, my mother would call me constantly to come

home. We would get into a huge argument about this all the time.

The more we argue about this situation, the more we distance

ourselves from each other. When I would buy McDonald’s for the

family, she wouldn’t eat it because she prefers Hmong food.

This disappoints her because I’m more into American food than my

own native food.

My mother and I don’t see eye to eye sometimes. This causes big

arguments because I believe that one would find herself if she

experiences the world, but what my mother sees is that I’ll always be

partying and get a bad reputation. I’m attending school to have a

good career, and I’m working for a little money to spend on the

side. I am an adult who is searching for a future, but in my mother’s

eyes I am still a child. I’m almost 20 years old, and I believe I

should have the choice to make my own decision. For an example,

my parents pay for my phone bills, and I decided that since I work

and want to be more independent and committed, I would start by

getting my own cellular phone line. I calculated my spending and

savings, and I had enough to pay the bill each month. But my

mother insisted that I do not get one. She lectured about how

I’m not committed enough and can’t take on such a responsibility.

Friends and family have always told me mothers will be mothers.

I understand that a mother worries about the daughter often,

but it’s a lesson a daughter needs to learn or a life that one has to

live. A daughter without a mother is like a nice day without the sun.

My mother and I may not get along or have a strong bond, but as

long as she is still my mom, at the end of the day that is good

enough for me.

**************

Cindy Yang is American-Hmong student at North Hennepin Community College. She was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, on May 25,

1990, to Tou Yang and Ying V. Yang. She has two younger brothers. She graduated from Anoka high school in 2009 and is the first in

the family to attend college. She claims to be an ordinary, typical girl, who is searching for the best.

By Cindy Yang

I’m very limited to things I can do

and cannot do. It’s difficult to meet

my mother’s standards

because I have to balance

my life as an American girl

and a Hmong girl.

Cultures

Blending

Realities, 2009–2010: Blending

I am standing in a room mixed with the scent of perfume and food

in the air. Everyone stares at me; I’m white and they are not.

I grew up with my mother until I met my sister’s father when

I was nine years old. My mother never married him, but we started

living with him when my mother got kicked out of our old place.

My sister’s dad isn’t really my dad through marriage or blood,

but I respect him as much as anyone would respect their father.

I call him dad.

When I tell people about the blending of my dad and my mom’s

culture, they tend to stare at me with a look of confusion. I tell

people my dad raised my sisters and me with the thought that fam-

ily is everything; even your neighbors are like your family. However,

my mom is the complete opposite. She keeps to herself and hates

people, especially family, because that is how she was raised.

I see familiar faces of family and extended family. Do I belong?

I love the Afghan culture and how different it is from the culture

I grew up with. I adore listening to my dad talk about it. He talks

about his younger days of living and growing up in Afghanistan.

“I remember back in the day when I met the love of my life,”

he would say with a sigh, “but my father said he would disown me

if we were to marry. She was from a poor family, and at the time

I wasn’t making any money.”

“What did you do?” I asked my dad.

“I took off from my home and tried to make enough money for the

both of us. I traveled around Europe and came to the United States

in the late seventies. I never saw her again.”

Other times my dad will talk about his family: “One day my sister

and I were fighting. I don’t remember why but I remember what

I did to Mariam.” He told with a smile on his face and took a sip

of tea.

I smiled and asked, “What did you do?”

“I took out all of her school books from her backpack and filled

them with rocks. Her books were so heavy anyways that she

couldn’t tell the difference. Then at school her teacher asked for an

assignment. Mariam opened her backpack and started to cry. I don’t

know why, but I still find that funny.”

Chatter fills my ears. Are you talking to me or about me?

My favorite part of the culture is the language. Even if I don’t know

Farsi well, I can still pick up a little bit of the conversations when

I’m surrounded by the family. However, family gossip travels just as

fast as a person blinking. Whenever I’m around them, they think

I can’t understand them. I can… a little bit at least.

I’m alone. I don’t know what to do next. Should I sit at the table with

them or at another alone?

A big part of my dad’s culture is family parties. Every time I walk

into a room, I see vibrant bright colors everywhere and smell the

spices from the food. The women are dressed, too, in expensive

gowns and have make-up caked on their face, and I look plain in

my black dress. The music comes on, and my ears are filled with the

beats of the Tablas and the singer, who is also playing an organ.

Dancing immediately starts in the center of the room. The dancers

look like they are stepping to the beats of the music while screwing

in light bulbs.

Greeting is a part of the respect each family gives to one another.

Three kisses on the cheek for women, one kiss on the cheek for

men. I’m about to give respect to my “aunt” when I inhale her

mystery blend of perfumes. I turn around to see the face of my

cousin. She is smiling.

“Nicole-Jaan, Salaam!”

I do belong. I dance alongside them no longer standing by myself.

**************

Nicole Rootes is transferring to the University of Minnesota to major in Elementary Education. She loves to read memoirs and any cul-

ture books. She enjoys music; her favorite bands are Vampire Weekend and Lydia. Her favorite singer is Michael Buble. She loves watch-

ing The Office and Flight of the Conchords. Family means everything to her, and she has enjoyed laughing and learning with them.

“I remember back in the day when I met

the love of my life,”

he would say with a sigh, “but my father

said he would disown me

if we were to marry.

Blending

By Nicole Rootes

hen I was seven, my family moved to Minnesota from Col-

orado. My mother is Panamanian and my father was born in

Minnesota. It was not obvious to me or my siblings that we were

different than other kids. My parents raised us like other parents

with love and discipline. We never noticed the difference in the

family until we moved to Minnesota.

I am the oldest of the kids. Once we were settled in a school and

we started to get to know my father’s family, I started to see that

we were different. My grandfather was much like Archie Bunker

(a white man in his 60’s with a very bigoted point of view). I started

to notice that the family favored the blond haired, blue eyed boys

that were my cousins. My brother was the opposite, with black tight

kinky curly hair much like an African-American’s hair. His skin

was olive colored much darker than mine and even my sisters.

My sister had a looser curl but it wasn’t the smooth wavy curl that

I had. Though her skin was white in comparison to mine, it seemed

that her hair singled her out more. Now this is the family singling

her out.

I felt that because I resembled the closest to white out of the three of

us that I was also favored. This bothered me a lot. The older I got

the more I noticed that my family held some pretty ugly prejudices.

I heard all the slang terms for all different races and found it to be

very offensive. No one could have known that a seven year old girl

would pick up on the terms and within five years learn to under-

stand them to be hateful and hurtful.

By the time I was in third grade we had switched to our second

elementary school in Coon Rapids. The first school was not bad and

outside of my family I still felt pretty normal. But this new school

was another story. On the way to and from school we heard kids

calling us names. At first I didn’t notice; I thought they were being

called out to someone else. As the year went on I gradually realized

that these names were being called out to me and my sister.

I had heard the names come out of my grandfather’s mouth but

they were never used towards me or my siblings. I didn’t know what

“jungle bunny, porch monkey” were. At first, I didn’t have a clue as

to what they meant or who they were meant for. So I started to pay

attention to what they were talking about at home.

I learned that the names were derogatory names for African Ameri-

cans. I heard the kids call us the names and knew that they thought

we were black. I told my sister that they were calling the names to

someone else and told her to ignore those people. I walked back and

forth to school everyday with my little sister and held my head high.

I never returned or exchanged words with these ignorant children.

I knew that their parents were probably like my grandfather and

felt sorry for the narrow minded fools that would teach hate to

their children.

I still didn’t think of myself as different, even though it was

painfully obvious that I was different. The next school I went to was

a little better, but I did have some issues with the girls. I would

never be popular, and I would never be part of any group. I would

have a few select friends who saw beyond the color of my skin.

My brother on the other hand suffered greatly for his appearance.

The children he went to school with picked on him terribly. They

teased him, constantly calling him the “black nerd.” Although he

was highly intelligent and tested at genius level for math, he was

treated as an outsider until he hit junior high and high school.

When I was in the Eighth grade, I was taking a speech class.

You know the ones where you get up in front of the class and give

speeches? Well one day in my speech class a boy named Roger told

me that I was black. I told him that in fact my mother was

Panimanian and therefore I was Hispanic. This boy decided that

I was wrong about my nationality and race. I let him know that he

was incorrect and that I was fully aware of my background where he

would not be. The argument caused such commotion and distress

for me that the teacher had to get involved. I could not understand

how this white boy who didn’t know anything about me could

argue with me about my heritage.

By the time I got to high school there were several real black kids in

the area and people quit harassing me. I learned at a young age that

prejudice is a very nasty thing. Looking back, I could not have

Growing Up Hispanic Thirty Years Ago

By Michel Otten

Realities, 2009–2010: Growing Up Hispanic Thirty Years Ago

I felt that because I resembled the

closest to white

out of the three of us that I was

also favored.

Realities, 2009–2010: Growing Up Hispanic Thirty Years Ago

handled any of those situations differently. I ignored those that

could be ignored and addressed the ones that could not be, even

though they believed what they wanted to.

I never really let others’ perceptions phase me outwardly. I always

stood with my shoulders back and my head held high. But on the

inside for me it hurt that my brother and sister suffered more than

I did. They were taking on a brunt that no child should have to

suffer especially at the hands of family. I was very angry with my

dad’s family and stepped away from them because of the favoritism

for the other children and for the “favoritism” I felt towards me.

I was ashamed that I was the one they treated best out of the three

of us. It angered me that color of skin determined who people were

in the eyes of many people.

I believe that my experiences made me a stronger more confident

person. I feel for the most part that I rose above the ignorance by

not giving in to their antagonisms. I know who I am and the color

of my skin is just that, a color. I determine who I am and who I will

be, not the color of my skin.

Times have changed and this type of thing is not so prevalent, but

there is still ignorance out there, and we need to be strong in who

we are and not allow others to affect us negatively. I am a Hispanic

woman who will not let my skin color determine who I am or who

I will be. Don’t let your skin determine who you are.

**************

Michel Otten is a 35-year-old student and mother of two daughters. Her parents met when her dad was transferred to Panama

during his time in the Army. Her family moved around a lot but finally settled in Minnesota, where her father was raised.

Realities, 2009–2010: Growing Up Vietnamese in America

grew up knowing that it was my duty to follow in my mom’s

footsteps to learn how to cook, clean, and take care of my family.

My mom still tells me stories about how she grew up. She would tell

me tales about waking up early in the morning with her sisters to

make breakfast for the whole family. My family on my mom’s side

still resides in Da Nang, and they all live in a little community of

houses that are quite close to each other. My mother would go to

school till two or three in the afternoon then meet up with my

grandma at the market to sell whatever food we could make for a

little bit of money. Once my mom had made just enough money,

or ran out of food, she would go and buy rice and some fresh

vegetables to cook dinner that night.

Homework always came after dinner was fully made and eaten and

dishes were cleaned. Being family oriented, my mom cooked for her

eight brothers and sisters because she was the oldest and was always

the last to eat. I grew up learning the same cooking and cleaning

techniques my mother did. It was always so different for me because

my mother spoiled me a little bit. She wanted the best for my

brother and me, so she did everything in her power to make sure us

kids never had to lift a finger. That never stopped me from helping

out my mom with whatever I could. I learned how to cook a full

Vietnamese meal by the time I was ten, and I’m very grateful for

what I’ve learned.

It was truly difficult growing up in Minnesota knowing that the rest

of my family suffered in Vietnam. The best holiday any Vietnamese

child celebrated was New Years. It’s called Tet over in Vietnam.

I’ve never actually been able to experience Tet in Vietnam, but I’ve

heard plenty of stories. Everywhere you turn and look, the streets,

buildings, and even children are all decked out in a vibrant red.

Candy is sold everywhere and streamers are constantly going off.

The most significant part about Tet is all the money we kids receive.

It has always been a tradition to pass out money in little red

envelopes to any kids or anyone younger. It’s a way of wishing that

person good luck, an amazing new year, prosperity, happiness, and

lots of love. Although I celebrate my New Years in Minneapolis with

my community of Vietnamese friends, I still send home money

and words of happiness to my family in Vietnam. I know that even

though it’s not a lot it’ll just be enough to show my family that

I’m thinking of them and I wish them all the best.

Being blessed with the opportunity to grow up in the land of the

free has changed my life completely. I’ve visited Vietnam a couple

times, and each time, I understand the pain and suffering of my

fellow aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews. I wish I could

better help them out so that they don’t have to live day by day.

The lives of kids over in America greatly differ from the lives of

kids Vietnam, and I’ve learned to not take what I’ve got for granted.

I hope that one day, more people will come to realize that we’ve

honestly got it all, and the little things we don’t really need, should

go towards a better cause. I will never stop learning about my

culture, and I’m going to make sure that my kids know their roots

and understand they’re pretty lucky where they are.

Growing Up Vietnamese

**************

Annie Ngo was born in Da Nang, Vietnam. Her family of four — mom, dad, brother, and she — immigrated to the United States

in June of 1991. Her dad passed away in 1997, leaving her mom to take care of two kids in the American society.

By Annie Ngo

I’ve learned not to

take what I’ve got for granted.

I hope that one day,

more people will come to realize that we’ve

honestly got it all.

in America

Realities, 2009–2010: Lao-American and Proud of It

rowing up in America was like having two lives, cultures,

family, friends, religions, and experiences. As I grew up,

I quickly learned how to behave as a Laotian daughter as well as

being an average American teenager.

When you grow up in an Asian family, you quickly learn that you

can’t always live up to the high standards that your parents grew up

with. At a young age of nine, my mother knew how to cook and

take care of her parents. Every day, she would attend school, come

straight home, cook, clean, and study. For me, that life style didn’t

work so well. I didn’t want to be locked up in my home feeling like

a prisoner. I wanted to go out and explore with my friends, have

sleepovers, stay out late, and basically just enjoy life to the fullest.

I didn’t want to be the typical Laotian girl that everyone wanted to

see. I felt that life was different because I was in America and that

the Laotian traditional life style just wasn’t in me. In the long run,

I didn’t listen to my parents. But I still respect the rules and aspects

that they both grew up with. They showed me that hard work pays

off and that I should always try no matter how hard life gets. My

parents came to America with basically nothing: no education, little

money. But they always had family. They built their life back up,

and for that I thank them every day. Sure, I don’t always listen to

them, cook traditional meals every day, or follow the rules in my

culture, but I still am a Laotian girl trying to find my way in life.

My favorite part about being Laotian is celebrating the Lao New

Year. My friends don’t understand why Lao New Year is in April,

and to be honest I have no clue either. But I like the idea of getting

to celebrate the New Year in January and then again in April. Laot-

ian traditional music is blended with different types of instruments

that make you want to get up from your feet and dance. I love being

around my friends and family and sharing Laotian traditional meals,

speaking in our language, and just spending time with them. I like

having two different lives while living in America.

Another strong connection I have is with my religion, which is

Buddhism. As I was growing up in my teenage years, I was always

open-minded and curious about how people view the world from

their religion. Since I was a little girl, I was raised as a Buddhist.

Although I don’t follow all the norms, I still respect my religion in

every way. My father has had the biggest impact on me. Every time

we would visit our temples in Farmington, he would take off his

shoes and pray with the monks right away. Before bed, he would

pray, and every time something important came up, he would do

little culture rules to bring good luck. As a Buddhist, we strictly

believe in reincarnation. Everything we do in our life will bring

good things to happen in our next. I remember one time I

disobeyed my father’s wishes. Because he was strongly a Buddhist,

he didn’t want me step foot in a church as long as I lived.

However, as I was growing up in my teenage years, I was always

open-minded and curious about how people view the world from

their religion. A good friend of mine converted to Christianity

after finding things she agreed with more in that religion than in

Buddhism. So I was curious one day and decided to attend. I went

for two days, and I thought it was interesting how two religions

could be different yet the same. I was crossing a boundary that my

dad didn’t agree with, but being at the age of fifteen, I wondered

what else set people apart. In the end I’m glad I got to experience

something different from Buddhism.

Since growing up as an American, I have a life filled with different

cultural experiences. When I am in a public area and someone else is

speaking Laotian to me, I understand it as if they were speaking

English. I find it kind of cool, and I am proud to be who I am

today. I still have many life lessons to learn and different experiences

to encounter, but I will always know that I will carry my Laotian

and American culture with me throughout my life.

**************

Ashley Vongsouvanh is a second generation Lao American writer and student who is currently studying Liberal Arts at NHCC. Music

is her inspiration and she loves to sing for a hobby. She plans to be in the business world in the future, but is still undecided on what

career path she wants to follow. She wrote this journal to show others how interesting life can be to grow up with two different cultures.

She one day plans to move to California and wants to open a sushi restaurant. This past summer she interned with poet and play-

wright, Saymoukda Vongsay, during the 2010 Lao American Writers Summit held at The Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis.

Lao-American and Proud of It

By Ashley Vongsouvanh

I like having

two different lives

while living in America.

Realities, 2009–2010: My Father: My Motivation, My Inspiration, and My Hero

t was a hot sunny summer day in room 152 at Palmer Lake Elementary

School. My best friend Kevin tapped me on the back and asked me when

we were getting out of there? I just shrugged. I mean, I didn’t know what

time we were out either. At that moment, I saw a twinkle of sweat running

down his forehead. The classroom was intense, agonizing, and

unbearable. The kids wanted out and we wanted out right now! At that

moment, my teacher, Mrs. Lim, suddenly stood up like a twenty-foot giant

to make an important announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you are all welcome to tonight’s carnival hosted by

Palmer Lake Elementary School! There’ll be snacks, drinks, and prizes!

Everyone’s invited!

“Yeah, we’re coming!” we all cried out.

“And everyone, one last reminder. Bring your whole family!” said my

teacher with a smile on her face.

One after another, all the kids ditched their backpacks and ran for

their lives.

“Hey kids! You guys all forgot your backpacks!” Mrs. Lim yelled

back outside.

“Don’t worry Mrs. Lim! We’ll be back for it later after the carnival! That

way, my family had to come, no matter what,” I said in return anxiously.

I grouped everybody in my classroom in a corner and told everybody to

come to the annual carnival that night. Everyone agreed and promised one

another they would make it to the carnival. It was an only once in a life

time experience when fifth graders got a chance to hang out after school.

I ran all the way home and not once did I stop to take a break. I was too

excited. This would be the first carnival of my life and the most memorable

one. I remembered as a kid watching carnivals on television, and I always

envisioned myself in a carnival. There would be funny looking clowns

walking around with balloons, there would be big prizes to win, and there

would be everyone at the school there. This was my day. That night, I was

going to have fun with all my friends! What kind of eleven year old boy or

girl would say no to a free carnival? I had to make it tonight. I told all of

my buddies they also had to make it.

I reached my house in a matter of two minutes. Out of breath, I searched

the whole house for my father. I searched through the dusty attic.

I searched the kitchen and living room. I ran down the creaky stairs into

the dark basement. Where was he I wondered? I almost gave up until

I heard my Dad whistling. My father’s whistling was so loud I covered my

ears for a second or two. His whistling kept leading me on going until

I finally found him outside in the backyard.

“Dad, we have a carnival tonight at school, and we’re all invited! I just

wanted to let you know so that you can tell mom. I’ll tell everybody else in

the family. Okay?” I screamed out.

My Fath r:

My Motivation,

My Inspiration,

My Hero

By Allen Yang

and

Realities, 2009–2010: My Father: My Motivation, My Inspiration, and My Hero

“Who go?” My father asked me with a puzzling look.

“Well, I want to go. And I want everybody to go with me. I also

need you guys to take me.”

“No, me sorry. Can’t.”

“Why not?!”

My father wouldn’t answer. As a Hmong immigrant, he rarely

attended school functions. I persisted. I didn’t care. I wanted to go

really badly. If I was granted one wish right now, my wish would be

attending the carnival with my family and friends. I tried again and

again. With despair, I asked one last time, and again I was rejected.

I walked to my room depressed and discouraged. I told all my

friends to be there. I promised them we would all have fun together.

I especially claimed that tonight would be a night to remember.

Everything went down the drain as if it didn’t even occur to anyone

I desperately wanted to go. Out of frustration, I went to my room

and fell asleep quietly by myself.

It was not until a couple of years later that I finally found the true

reason for my father’s rejection. My father was scared to face the

outside world, and he didn’t want to confront an unknown world.

He’d rather not face a world where everyone else’s language was not

his. His level of English had not met a standard of correctness yet.

Many confusing years have gone by and life went on; I still ponder

as to why my father continuously rejected facing the world outside

his home. Only just last year, my family had been foreclosed on our

home due to inefficient payments for the house. I was worried

about the situation, so I asked my father what we were going to do

about the problem.

“Dad, did the bank mail us a letter about our house? They’ve

requested us to find a lawyer. What are we going to do about

this situation?”

“I don’t know, my son. Don’t worry,” my father replied in Hmong.

“Why not? We’re required to look for a lawyer as soon as possible.”

“No!”

“Dad! Don’t you see that the bank will take us to court if we don’t

do it the right way, the professional way! What is your issue?”

“I am your father, you don’t speak that way to me.”

This persisted for another ten minutes. The conversation got

rough. My father and I began yelling at one another. My father

and I blew up! This wasn’t going anywhere near a nice father and

son conversation.

“Dad! What are you so scared of?!” I said in rage.

“Who do you think you are to criticize me?! I don’t want to go out

and find a lawyer! I’m scared! Your father, the one who brought you

up, the one who held you as baby is scared! I don’t want to face the

outside world. People look at me as if I’m different. They take me as

uneducated. A fifty year old man, who doesn’t know how to speak

proper English. I’m embarrassed and ashamed. I’ve been living here

for eighteen years. I don’t want to take this anymore. I’m sick and

tired of it. I’ve given up hope. I’ve tried and tried again to learn

English, but it’s so difficult. It’s too difficult.”

I stared at my dad and I saw a tear roll down his eyes. I looked away.

My father, my hero, was terrified of facing the outside world. I’m

not ashamed of my father. I look up to him as my idol. After that

conversation, I looked up to him even more than ever. Even though

my father was embarrassed, I give him props for trying. He’s been

trying for eighteen years to gain a good education and be part of

this new land.

It was not until a week ago that I read Amy Tan’s essay, “Mother

Tongue,” and that essay opened my eyes to possibilities of my

father’s insecurity facing the public. In the essay, Amy Tan expresses

her mother’s way of talking in English as “broken” and “fractured.”

The way she explained her mother’s English is somewhat similar to

my father’s own accented English:

Du Yusong having business like fruit stand. Like off the street kind.

He is Du like Du Zong – but not Tsung-ming Island people. The local

people call puton, the river ease side, he belong to that side local people.

That man want to ask Du Zong father take him in like become own

family. Du Zong father wasn’t look down on him, but didn’t take seri-

ously, until that man big like a mafia. Now important person, very

hard to inviting him. Chinese way, came only to respect, don’t stay for

dinner. Respect for making big celebration, he shows up. Meaning gives

lots of respect. Chinese custom. Chinese social life that way. If too im-

portant won’t have to stay too long. He come to my wedding. I didn’t

see, I heard it. I gone to boy’s side they have YMCA dinner. Chinese age

I was nineteen.

It was not until this passage that I fully realized that my father spoke

like Amy Tan’s mother. Amy Tan has described immigrant families’

English as “broken or fractured English…as if it were damaged and

needed to be fixed, as if it lacked a certain wholeness and sound-

ness.” I’ve described my father’s English “broken” to people around

My father was scared to face the outside world,

and he didn’t want to confront an

unknown world.

He’d rather not face a world where everyone

else’s

language was not his.

Realities, 2009–2010: My Father: My Motivation, My Inspiration, and My Hero

**************

Allen Yang was born in Fresno, California, on October 2, 1991, and lived there for about five years before moving to St. Paul,

Minnesota, in the summer of 1996. He attended elementary, middle school, and high school in Minnesota. Now a PSEO,

he completed his first semester at NHCC during the spring, 2010, and is proud to be part of this school. Born in Laos, his father

and mother survived the Vietnam War and came to the United States of America in 1990 after spending five years in Thailand.

His family and he speak Hmong. English is their second language.

me, and I never took into account how my father felt deep inside.

Yes, I knew he didn’t speak proper English, but I would never have

guessed he felt that way about his own potentials because, to me,

it was understandable, nothing out of the ordinary. As Amy Tan

explains, “That was the language that helped shape the way I saw

things, expressed things, made sense of the world”. In the world

between my father and me, the way he spoke English to me didn’t

matter. That’s why I never comprehended why my father declined

to go out. My father was not scared like a mouse would be scared of

a cat. He was scared because of other people’s perspective on him,

and how he would be viewed based on his English.

As a child, it would have been meaningful to me if my father took

me to places outside the house. I would have loved it if my father

brought me out to after school activities, sports, or conferences.

But my father constantly gave me an answer of “No.” After a couple

of years hearing it over and over again, I slowly gave up on my dad

and never fully understood why he always said No. I never quite

understood how my father felt inside about his own English or how

his own English stopped him from allowing us to be like the fami-

lies of my fellow students at Palmer Lake Elementary.

In a way, my father understood the powers of language. He under-

stood its potential, its impact, and its effect on a person. The powers

of language can also put out a negative view on a person as well.

My father believed that his lack of English evoked an image of

himself as an uneducated and ignorant man to the outside world.

But my father is my hero. Whether or not my father speaks English

well, I look up to him. My father never once gave up on this new

land. My father, afraid and scared, never once told his kids we were

leaving the States and going back to our Laos and back to our

people, a place where he felt comfortable, where everyone spoke the

same language. Even though my father lacked proper English in the

United States and felt ashamed of it, he never let us kids down.

Although he was mortified and humiliated from his absent English,

he held his head strong for us kids and never allowed us to know of

his deprivation through all the years here in the United States.

Realities, 2009–2010: My First Powwow with My Father

y father was part Ojibwa; he had grown up in Northern

Minnesota, on the Cass Lake Reservation. He had been

adopted into a Caucasian family when he was eight and moved

to the Twin Cities. His adoptive parents changed his native name,

and he was made to conform to his new identity and lifestyle.

My father never liked the Cities. Cass Lake was his home.

After my parents’ divorce, that’s where he stayed.

I must have only been about five or six years of age when my father

came for a visit with me, and he brought me to my first Pow Wow.

Perhaps I had been to many powwows before, but being my first,

this particular Pow Wow I remember. That day is burned in my

memory for life. It is not only a memory of my first cross-cultural

experience, but one of the few memories of my father.

He brought me to a large brick building somewhere in Minneapolis.

He parked his van, turned to me and said, “There’s a powwow

inside that I want to take you to.” I wondered what in the world a

Pow Wow even was. Inside people sat on folded chairs arranged in

large circle. A large drum sat in the center ring. Men with weird

costumes and feathers on their heads sat on the floor and pounded

on the drum. They sang a strange song; I remember their song

made me feel uncomfortable. I started to laugh. I remember looking

up at my father to see his reaction to these strange people, but his

gaze was on me. I remember he had a serious look on his face as he

leaned over and whispered to me, “be respectful and try not to

laugh”. He wasn’t angry with me, but I could tell he held high

respect for these people that he had brought me to see. I heard

noises behind us. I turned to see more men with costumes and

feathers in their long black hair. They walked down the aisle

towards us. They were followed by beautiful women with feathers in

their braided hair. The women had on long dresses made of animal

skin and wore moccasins on their feet. Some had bells strung from

their dresses. The belled dresses jangled loudly and appeared to be

heavy. I studied their movements as they danced around the

drummers and chanted their song. Around and around the drum

they went. The men’s feet leaped high off the ground; they turned

and jumped as they danced. The women took small steps and

gracefully spun their shawls in the air.

The moment I remember most vividly, however, is when the little

girls my age came out to dance. They were dancing in a contest,

and the winner was to be crowned Princess. I thought that they

were absolutely breathtaking with their beaded dresses and shiny

black hair. Some had bells on their dresses like the older women.

I remember being green with envy; I wanted their tanned skin and

dresses made of bells. When the winner was crowned with a jeweled

headpiece, I thought that I could not handle one more second.

I was so jealous that I began to cry. My Father saw my tears and

asked what was wrong. I told him that I had wanted their dresses

and tanned skin. I will never forget what he told me. He looked me

in the eyes and said, “Never wish to be someone else; you are

special because of who you are.” After that we got up and joined in

the dance.

My First Powwow with my Father

**************

Christina Baker has been a student at North Hennepin for one year. She is a mother of two children, and is an employee at North

Memorial Medical Center. She is studying to be a nurse.

By Christina Baker

He looked me in the eyes and said,

“Never wish to be someone else;

you are special

because of who you are.” After that

we got up and

joined in the dance.

cultures

Realities, 2009–2010: Stuck Between Two Cultures

STUCK BETWEEN TWO CULTURES

was born in America but my parents and ancestors are from

Cambodia. During the years of growing up, I’ve always had to

battle between the stereotype of being the traditional Cambodian

girl or living as an American. To be a traditional Cambodian girl

means to obey your parents and respect their wishes. My parents

always wanted me to get the best education possible because they

weren’t given the same opportunity in Cambodia. Along with my

schooling as a teenager, I was to be at home by a specific time

during the week or weekends. The Cambodian culture has the

stereotype of teenage girls being the ones that cook, clean, and tend

to household chores rather than running around with friends in the

mall. It’s like you’re being trained to be a homemaker.

Throughout my teenage years, I struggled to follow my parent’s

wishes or should I say follow the stereotypes that had been set for

me. I always felt stuck between two cultures because I wanted to

please my parents but I also wanted to be happy with my life.

Eventually, I chose my own route and did what I wanted, the true

American way. It got to a point where my parents became disap-

pointed with the decisions I made. Rather than staying at home

after school doing my homework, I was outside playing sports.

I remember being 16-years-old and wanting to spend the night at a

friend’s house. It was a big deal for my parents because it could

cause other Cambodian parents to think something is wrong at our

house and that’s why I’m sleeping over at a friend’s. Sleeping over is

looked down upon within the Cambodian community. If I had

spent too much time at someone’s house, my parents would inter-

pret it as I didn’t like our house. Traditionally, a Cambodian teenage

girl shouldn’t be hopping from house to house. It doesn’t look good

to other Cambodian people. Dating was also another thing that

I had to do secretly, but sometimes my parents would know but not

speak about it. My parents wanted me to focus on getting my

education and fulfilling my goals: a boy did not need to be in the

picture because that can always come later and they knew of plenty

of parents with sons my age that could be with me when I was

ready. The clash between Cambodian culture and American culture

has only opened my eyes to experiencing new ways of thinking

about different cultures around the world. It has allowed me to

understand other individual’s cultural differences and accept them

for who they are.

There are many Cambodian girls that I’ve grown up with who

either chose the stereotypical route they received from their parents

or they made their own way. Some of them became teenage mothers

and the talk of the town because their parents were too traditional

and the girls rebelled. These girls chose to do what they wanted

to do and became teenage mothers, which stopped them from

doing other things with their lives. I believe in making your own

choices, but I know that I have not shamed my family in any way.

Although my parents were not accepting of some of the decisions

I made, I know that they’re mine, and I am proud of them.

Growing up in America has been a struggle for me and also for

other Cambodian descendents. It’s something that Americans will

never understand. I was born an American citizen caught between

two completely different cultures, but I have learned to adapt to my

environment. I know that I will never lose touch with my Cambo-

dian heritage, which will always be my true heritage. Culture clashes

will always be a struggle for me and other generations to come, but

hopefully we will be able to gain a common understanding by being

open-minded and thoughtful.

**************

Sitha Kim is the youngest of four children and the first to be born in America, which is a pretty big deal to her parents because she

has been blessed with great opportunities to gain the best education possible. Her father stressed education almost every day from when

she was a child. She has learned to value it because it is not a right but rather a privilege. By spring of 2011, her goal is to have

completed an AA degree; then, she plans to attend the University of Minnesota to earn a BA. She is considering teaching abroad once

finished with the BA, which will also give her an opportunity for her to see the rest of the world.

By Sitha Kim

I always felt

stuck between two cultures

because I wanted to please my parents

but I also wanted to be

happy with my life.

Realities, 2009–2010: Ten Families

hinking back to this past Thanksgiving, I remember the overwhelming

social experience I encountered when spending that evening with my

boyfriend’s large family. I had wanted to meet them for quite some time,

but had not expected to all in one night. I had felt a slight panic while

walking into the house full of people, but I reminded myself that I wanted

to know these people. They could one day be my family, too. Although

being introduced to a large family all at once is intimidating, the joy of

meeting the family your loved one comes from is well worth the adversity.

As a child, I grew up in a typical home with two sisters. Our family was of

average size and our extended family was, too. The largest family gathering

I have attended was also rather small. Sure, I have several great aunts and

uncles who have a lot of kids and grandkids, but I barely ever see them and

never all at once. However, my boyfriend, Kevin, is one of five and from

extended families with more. His mom is the oldest of seven and his dad

the youngest of ten. His dad’s side is the family I met on Thanksgiving.

I don’t do well in new situations. Usually I avoid them altogether; however,

in this case I was doing it for Kevin. He had met all of my family, and after

two years of dating, I figured I owed him. After spending the afternoon

with my family, I drove the hour from my aunt’s house back to his house

just to get back in a car and go another hour to his aunt’s house. Both car

rides all I could think about was what his family would think of me. I was

worried they would think I was too quiet or antisocial. But I was afraid if

I were too loud they would see the really weird side of me and not like it.

So I resigned myself to only speak when spoken to and join a conversation

only when I knew I would be heard but wouldn’t be asked too many ques-

tions. I could just follow Kevin around and all would be fine. That wasn’t

what he had in mind.

As I walked into the house, those in the living room on the couches looked

up to greet us. I was the last one in the door and got a few quizzical looks

as I stepped out from behind Kevin to put my shoes on the designated rug.

I smiled politely and took Kevin’s hand for security. Inside I was shaking

with nervousness. Walking into the other room to put our coats away, the

nervousness made its way out and my hand started shaking. Kevin noticed

and before walking out into the crowd again, he gave me a huge hug and

thanked me for being so willing to do this for him. I took a deep breath,

relaxed my shoulders, and walked down the hall into the sea of people.

Ten Families

By Rachel Albus

It was just as I was about to open my phone

to see how much longer I would

have to stay here

that one of the youngest cousins

came up to me with a bowl of popcorn.

10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010

Realities, 2009–2010: Ten Families

Being introduced to so many people all at once is slightly terrifying

to me. I knew a few family members from previous meetings but

that was only a small fraction of the people there. A few of Kevin’s

aunts came up to say hi to him and he introduced me. Obviously

having a sense of humor similar to mine they asked, “Getting to

know the family? There will be a quiz on names later.” I laughed

nervously and gripped Kevin’s hand harder. Misinterpreting the

squeeze, he turned to me saying, “Don’t worry, they’re just kid-

ding.” I was so embarrassed. I knew what they meant and would

have been the person saying the same thing had I been in their posi-

tion, but now I feared they thought I did not have a sense of humor.

Quite the distressing and embarrassing start to the long night.

We went into another room with a very large couch where cousins

from two years old to twenty-five were talking. This was obviously

the room where all the younger cousins always stayed while their

parents and oldest siblings talked elsewhere. Soon they were plan-

ning to play catch phrase, a game I personally am not fond of at all.

I told Kevin I’d rather not play and he reluctantly said okay.

However, his sister decided to be more aggressive in making me play

the game saying, “You’re only a part of the family if you play catch

phrase.” I knew she was pretty much joking but at the same time

feared those who agreed with her were not. To this day, I wish I had

played just to feel more welcomed, but a situation later helped this

one fade.

After the kids, middle school and younger, had left the game, the

rest continued playing more competitively. It was clear nobody even

noticed me anymore. I was feeling like a shadow, sitting towards the

back of the couch, behind Kevin, silent, only moving every once in

awhile. I felt uncomfortable. I tried laughing when they did but that

didn’t help. I thought maybe I could slip out and go talk to Kevin’s

mom, but I was trapped behind the circle the players had formed.

I did not know what to do and didn’t want to disrupt Kevin playing

his game since I knew better than to bother him with something he

already knew: I was bored. He was used to me in that state.

It was just as I was about to open my phone to see how much longer

I would have to stay here that one of the youngest cousins came up

to me with a bowl of popcorn. In my discomfort I hadn’t noticed

her bringing the bowl around to everyone. With beautiful blue eyes,

she looked up at me and smiled. Taking a handful, I said thank you

and her smile got larger and eyes brighter. I couldn’t help but smile,

too. In that one moment I knew I could make it the rest of the

night without being uncomfortable. The child saw me through the

shoulders, behind the heads, and way at the back of the room. She

made it a point to offer me popcorn. She made me feel welcome.

For the rest of the night I continued to laugh with the players and

pay attention to what was going on. I tried to make eye contact

with everyone and smile just to be polite so I didn’t seem rude or

too antisocial. At one point in the night, I even got to participate in

a funny little game made up by another of the youngest cousins. She

had silly rules that always changed. One moment we were standing.

The next we were sitting. Sometimes we were all ordered to be

silent. Other times it was to stop playing catch phrase. Throughout

the whole time she was ordering us around we couldn’t help but

laugh and still go along with it. I felt included and accepted.

As the night ended and people were leaving, every family was

getting a picture taken. I stood off to the side at first, but then one

of the aunts insisted I get in the picture. Nobody could sit still and

several pictures had to be taken. I was unable to stop smiling and

laughing. I truly felt like a member of the family when the aunt

looked at me and said with a laugh, “How do you put up with these

people? Aren’t they so crazy?” Before I got the chance to respond,

Kevin said, “Oh, she is crazy too.” I just knew the night had gone

well when everyone laughed.

Looking back at the night I realized I had been trying to stay within

my comfort zone, but that was more uncomfortable than crossing

the social boundary. I had to be among so many people who were so

tight and still get through the guard they put up. I had to be myself

and open to letting them see it. It was hard but I did it, and I

learned more about myself. I learned getting out of your comfort

zone truly is not leaving it. All you are doing is expanding that zone.

That is what I did, and I was very happy with the results. My social

and familial boundary crossing did not cost me more than simply

my old and outdated comfort zone’s boundary. However, it gained

me a new family I will one day be legally apart of.

**************

Rachel Albus is a first year student at NHCC. She attended Robbinsdale Cooper High School and graduated in June of 2008.

Her favorite hobbies include gymnastics, reading, writing, and singing. She coaches gymnastics through the City of New Hope Parks

and Recreation and would like to one day run the gymnastics program after she is married. Plans for school are simply to get her degree

in Liberal Arts.

traditions

Realities, 2009–2010: Traditions

am from two different cultures, American and Guyanese. My

Mom is American born from Coon Rapids, Minnesota and my

Dad is from the country of Guyana in South America. Growing up

with two different cultures had its ups and downs and also confu-

sion. For my Dad’s side we had religious functions for just about

everything including birthdays, weddings, graduations, and special

Muslim holidays. These celebrations usually included at least one

hour of reading from the Holy Quran, their version of the Bible.

Then there is a talk by one of the uncles explaining the readings.

The most difficult of these is the one after a death. There are 40

nights of mourning and readings to help the deceased pass over

peacefully. After the readings there is always lots of food, usually

curry, rice and more curry. No one ever leaves hungry.

For my Mom’s side, we celebrate the traditional American holidays

such as Easter, Christmas, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, and birth-

days. The birthdays are usually filled with lots of family members,

cake and ice cream, and games. There are no long readings involved

with these holidays, which is a plus, and when there is food, there is

always enough. We celebrate Christmas with presents, trees, decora-

tions, food, and games whereas on my Dad’s side we get together

for a small dinner at my Grandma’s house with anyone who wants

to show up. We used to get together with gifts, but since the family

grew immensely bigger that ended; now we just eat and talk with

multiple conversations going on.

There are food restrictions for me and my brothers because my

dad is Muslim. We cannot eat any pork product such as bacon,

ham, pepperoni, salami, sausage. We can, however, eat the turkey

versions. My Grandma, aunts, uncles, and cousins can only have

meat that is halaal, which is meat that has been blessed by an

Imaam or a Muslim priest before it is killed.

I love dressing up for the weddings and functions for my Dad’s side

because there are beautiful shalwars that I get to wear along with

shiny jewelry and bangles which are bracelets. Don’t get me wrong,

I like dressing up for my Mom’s side too, but I like mixing it up

a bit.

A traditional Muslim/Indian wedding consists of at least three days

of celebration. The celebrations usually begin on a Thursday or

Friday and end before the weekend is over. The first day is usually

reserved for religious activities which include Duahs – blessings for

the bride, groom and family members. There are also readings from

the Holy Quran plus speeches to explain what was read. In addi-

tion, there is also Meelaud Shareef, which is the singing of religious

songs. The second day is for the marriage ceremony. One very inter-

esting aspect of the ceremony is when the Imaam has to secure the

bride’s permission to wed before the ceremony begins. It seems so

ironic that after so much planning for the wedding, everyone still

waits anxiously for the Imaan to return with the bride’s answer.

Instead of the traditional white gown being worn by the bride, she

wears a red and gold shalwar with bangles going from her wrists to

her elbows and all the makeup and the groom wears a cream korta

which is a traditional male outfit that consists of an extra long

button tunic shirt with matching pants. The marriage ceremony is

very short and quick. Then the couple is congratulated with a

wedding song. Of course, lots of feasting follows.

**************

Bibiana Hassan was born in Coon Rapids. Her mother is from Coon Rapids, MN, and her father is from Guyana in South America.

She has two brothers, one older and one younger, and three dogs. She has traveled to many places including Canada, Florida, Arizona,

Maryland, Wisconsin, Iowa, Illinois, New Jersey, Washington D.C. and New York. She speaks English, but took a few years of Spanish

at Champlin Park High School. She enjoys reading, quilting, cooking, playing with her dogs, and watching movies. She finished her

first year at NHCC spring, 2010, and is coming back in the fall.

Growing up with two different cultures

had its

ups and downs

and also confusion.

Traditions

By Bibiana Hassan

Nature

Realities, 2009–2010: A Close Encounter

oday, while walking by Maple Grove Senior High’s football

field, I noticed a chipmunk standing beneath one of the bushes

lining the path. Their foliage consisted mostly of thorns, but the

bushes were on a terrace several feet off the ground, so the creature

was practically at eye level. I continued walking until I was only a

few feet from it, and then paused, wondering why it hadn’t fled.

It stared at me, and I stared at it, for several seconds; then,

it vanished down a nearly-invisible burrow beneath the thorns.

After it was gone, I continued walking, but I was somewhat

confused. Almost universally, small animals flee whenever anything

moves within what they perceive to be striking distance of them. So

why was this chipmunk so bold in his (maybe her) stare? It could be

that, having been standing in the middle of a thorn bush, it was

relatively certain that I would not attack it at risk of injuring myself.

It is also possible, however, that like so many animals in urban

settings it had become accustomed to the presence of humans.

Most likely, it was a combination of both. Here was a natural

creature, dwelling in an unnatural location. Can such a creature still

be described as natural? After all, civilization is often treated by

environmentalists as a scourge upon the planet, contaminating all it

touches. Yet I believe that nature continues to exist within civiliza-

tion, merely adapting. The chipmunk’s burrow was strategically

located in a thick patch of thorns, on raised ground, a sensible

location for a nest. Another example can be found in dandelions;

despite our rigorous herbicides, they spring up heedlessly across

our lawns. These marvelously resilient flowers are treated as pests,

but they always return; if we didn’t stop them, they would soon

overcome the grass, slowly returning it to a wilder state.

My encounter had an almost surreal feeling. Even so, I didn’t really

gain much spiritual insight from staring at the chipmunk. There

was, though, that moment of silence, while I was taken aback by its

presence. I remember it very clearly even now, how the striped

pattern of its fur seemed to jump out at me from the thorn bush.

There was too a fleeting feeling of sadness and loss when it vanished

as simply as it had appeared. I remember wondering how it had

burrowed into the wood chips. There was no rapport with the

creature; I felt more pity for its odd juxtaposition than any sort of

companionship. Perhaps, if, like so many characters in fiction,

I could somehow communicate with it, I would know more.

Then again, probably not: the thoughts of most animals, such as

they are, are likely not particularly deep. It is generally believed that

thought (particularly metacognition) is a luxury available only to

humans. The chipmunk’s simple logic and natural ability had

allowed it to survive in this unusual location, a land of paved paths

and mown lawns. It probably would have been arboreal, and lived

in a cut-down forest. The fact that it was there, living under a thorn

bush, says something about its adaptability, and the general strength

and tenacity of life in general.

ACloseEncounter

**************

Taren Wang was born in 1993 to parents from different cultures. Though both of Taren’s parents lived in Los Angeles, studying at

UCLA, Taren’s mother has lived her entire life in the U.S, but his father emigrated from South Korea with his family when he was

young. In 2000, his family moved to Maple Grove. Taren is currently a student at Maple Grove Senior High, and he has attended two

semesters at NHCC through the PSEO program.

By Taren Wang

Here was a

natural creature

dwelling in an

unnatural location.

Realities, 2009–2010: Air Boat to Chicago

e are flying high above the clouds. Below them, it is cold,

misty, and grey in Chicago, the kind of day that highlights

people’s litter in the gutters and leaves the nose perpetually running.

But up here, it is a beautiful, sunny day and the clouds below us

become a new type of terra firma — terra softa? — a cloud cover so

complete that it looks as though the ground is white and mildly

uneven, almost like a soft sand dune, but more truly is akin to being

in a ship at sea or on a great lake. As far as the eye can see, the soft

blanket of foamy white liquid beckons for me to trail my fingers in

it lazily, allowing my fingertips soft caresses of a fine absence of

sensation. What does it feel like to touch a cloud, which is no more

than compact nothingness, merely a condensed form of the very air

which surrounds me at every moment without my notice?

Now we dip inside of it, and I find that I cannot breathe for the

absurd fear of getting the froth of the clouds inside of my lungs and

asphyxiating. The airbus is rocking and jerking from turbulence,

and I force myself to breathe in and out. The buzz and murmur of

the nearby conversations continues as the other passengers blithely

trust that we will not drown inside of our submarine descending

into what is first bright white, the sun blindingly reflected off of our

wing, but is soon dark grey and cold around us. We break through

the first layer of clouds and someone applies a brake, the plane slow-

ing so drastically it feels we must be landing, but there is nothing

out there but more cloud below us.

There — just a peek — Chicago. Not the grand downtown of

legend, however–about three blocks of modest suburban housing

and what looks to be a school of some sort, more tarmac than

building. We pass through another bit of cloud, but then suddenly

we’re out and it’s autumn in Chicago, muted umbers, oranges, and

scarlets dotting between brick residences, and then we’re down with

a few great bumps, surrounded by the same drab greys of airport as

at the airport we just left behind, and the passengers are suddenly

alive and active again, the air of expectancy rising by the moment.

I can feel the collective herd mentality of “beat everybody else out

go go go go go go” trying to win out over the calm I have from my

ruminations in the lake of air now above us, and I prepare to join

the grey autumn chill of The Windy City, but...

I know that truly, it is a beautiful, warm, sunny day out there.

We just can’t see it.

AIR BOAT TO Chicago

**************

Elizabeth (Beth) Frykman divides her time between being the only parent to two children, studying Aikido, working full-time,

pursuing a four-year degree in writing, reading obsessively, turning her first house into a home, watching too many zombie movies,

processing her first international trip to Japan, and working a writing tutor. She tries to live with integrity and purpose, which works

out better some days than others, especially since she has yet to find her purpose. With the rest of her time she tries to figure out what

she forgot.

By Beth Frykman

What does it feel like to

touch a cloud?

Realities, 2009–2010: Fall Is Upon Us

Fall

Upon

he summer is now ending but not easily forgotten: the dips in the pool,

the animals at the zoo along with many therapeutic afternoons. Now

the nights are becoming cooler as the wind begins to whip through the air.

And sometimes the nip of the morning air is a little more than we all want

to bear. The days will slowly turn to nights a little bit faster. The children

have gone back to school and are cheerful. The leaves will soon turn color

and fall from their bountiful tree limbs as we all scurry about to see such

wonderful colors and hunt for our most unique size and color of leaves.

Fall will bring with it lots of jeers and cheers and lots of new memories

and joys along with holidays full of families and sheer joy. Soon wonderful

smells will fill the air inside our homes and in the atmosphere. Our noses

so gentle and strong will pick up smells of a log fire and the aroma of fresh-

baked bread. It is now time to relax and enjoy–to sit with our families and

catch up on us.

**************

Carol LaFleur is in her final year at NHCC. This almost did not hap-

pen due to the abuse that she endured in her lifetime. She has found a

love for writing and feels at peace within the winds and the sun when

she writes. She is thankful for the support of her family as well as staff

and faculty at NHCC. Healing through her writing has allowed her to

prevail and become an advocate for victims of abuse, helping them heal.

By Carol LaFleur

The days will slowly

turn to nights

a little bit faster.

hen I was a child, I saw many fireflies in my hometown. I remember

when I could see innumerable fireflies near my house with my dad.

My dad knew a place where many fireflies lived and after we ate dinner,

my dad often asked me to go watch them with him. I really liked going

there because the fireflies were beautiful.

After we arrived at the place where a rice field was right next to a river,

my dad sang a song about a firefly. It was an old Japanese song. I sang it

with him, too. Over the rice field, we saw fireflies from one end of the field

to the other. They were glowing very gently in mixed hues of white and

blue. Some of them were flying and others were just resting. Their lights

were sometimes flashing and gleaming on the water in the field, and other

times melting gently into the darkness and silence of the night.

My dad and I would sit there and watch them for a while. It was my

favorite time. Now, I can no longer see the fireflies since construction was

started. Almost the entire rice field has become just a field and the river

has been dammed. Yet, I remember and miss the time with my dad when

I could see many fireflies in that special place.

Fireflies

**************

Sachiyo Baum was born and raised in Japan. She graduated from

Dental Hygienist College and worked in that field for five years until

she came to the United States in 2006, after she got married.

Since coming to the U.S, she has studied English and acquired an

interest in writing.

By Sachiyo Baum

Realities, 2009–2010: Fireflies with Dad

Because the fireflies

were beautiful.

with Dad

yet everything

Nature

– Lao Tzu

to the

Back

to the

Forward

Realities, 2009–2010: A Truly American Mutt

oshua was part black, you know,” stated Minnie.

“Excuse me?” I thought to myself. “This Minnie lady is certainly barking

up the wrong family tree!”

While researching my mother’s family history, I had discovered an

elderly relative named Wilma and phoned to see if she would be interested

in sharing information on our family. We met at her farm home.

Her daughter Minnie joined us, claiming to have extensive knowledge of

our ancestors.

With the air of a puffed up rooster, diminutive Minnie dominated our

conversation, claiming the Duncan line of descent was not Scottish as the

family had been told for generations, but African.

“How come I never heard anything about that?” queried 90-year-old

Wilma. “I would have heard something if that was true. And Duncan is

certainly a Scottish surname.”

“Well, if it is true, that’s fine and good,” I said doubtfully to Minnie.

I didn’t want to offend her, as I could tell that underneath her know-it-all

exterior, she was a person who wanted to feel significant and worldly.

“But I have a lot of documentation that doesn’t say a word about any

black blood.”

As I drove away from our meeting, full of coffee and pie, I felt a bit

amused, thinking of Minnie and her assertion that my ancestor was not

only part black but part Indian as well.

“It’s not that I would mind if it were true,” I said to myself. “But there’s

no way that what she is saying can be fact.” Being a blonde haired, blue

eyed Minnesotan of mostly Nordic descent, I could not conceive of the

possibility of having any African blood in my veins.

“I’ll prove her wrong,” popped into my head. “And very nicely, I’ll point

out to her that she made an honest mistake.” I started planning my tactics

to disprove Minnie’s claim. “Not that I’d mind having African ancestry, of

course,” was what I told myself. “But there definitely isn’t any black blood

in our family, and my goal is to make sure the family history is correct.”

Having done quite a bit of family research over the years, I fancied myself

accomplished at being able to find the necessary facts to write up an

A Truly

American

Mutt

By Linda Riegger

“

Being a blonde haired, blue eyed

Minnesotan of mostly Nordic descent,

I could not conceive of the possibility of having

African blood in my veins.

account of past generations. Thinking that I had more experience in

digging up the truth than Minnie, I was shocked when I discovered

that she was, without a doubt, correct. Joshua was one-quarter

African. And so was his wife! There was also, as Minnie had stated,

Indian blood mixed in their genes.

It took my brain some time to wrap around the fact that I had

black blood in my veins. I wasn’t sure how I felt. I grew up in a

white world, but during my career had extensive interactions with

numerous cultures. I firmly believed that people are people, most

possessing innate goodness, no matter what race or religion.

As I explored this newfound aspect of my family’s past, I learned

that Joshua’s father was a free “mulatto” born in Massachusetts in

1721, that he worked as a servant in a wealthy house, and that he

became a man of prominence in the community. His son ventured

west, taking advantage of land opportunities. This westward migra-

tion continued through the years and generations, through sons and

grandsons, and culminated in Minnesota in 1858. Having lived as

white men, and with the advent of the Civil War, these pioneers

apparently saw valid reason to keep the family’s African ancestry

from future generations. This resulted in four generations of

ignorance that ended in my confusion and astonishment upon

learning what had been kept secret all those years.

Many members of my family would be shocked to learn of their

African roots. There are elderly relatives that I chose not to tell

about their history to avoid possible upset.

But it was with great pride that I wrote this piece. I felt honored

to share the story of those upstanding, hard-working early Black

Americans that came before me. Sons and grandsons of my

“mulatto” ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War and the

Civil War. They pioneered their way west, facing immeasurable

dangers and hardship. Among them were a State’s Representative,

a shopkeeper and an innkeeper. Some were farmers and teachers.

They were trailblazers who passed on a legacy of honesty, optimism,

and courage. Understanding my family’s lineage taught me what

it truly means to be an American. African, Indian, Norwegian,

German, and English ancestors are all stirred equally into

my essence.

“You didn’t believe me, did you?” crowed Minnie.

We have joined forces to continue our research and are excited to

learn more about our fascinating heritage. The Scottish surname of

my black ancestors had to come from somewhere!

**************

As an Adult Learner with no prior college credits, Linda Riegger was the recipient of an ALISS grant. Having a lifelong interest

in writing, Linda enrolled in the NHCC Spring Semester Creative Writing Class where she was excited to learn new techniques

to enhance her future writing efforts.

Realities, 2009–2010: A Truly American Mutt

Realities, 2009–2010: My Parents’ Childhood

y favorite stories are from my parents’ childhood. It is truly

sad knowing how people lived before, and it makes me

grateful for what I have now.

It is really painful listening to how people and kids survived after

World War II. Both of my parents were raised in the Ukraine during

the 1960’s. Poor people did not have anything to eat, and civilians

that lived in the Ukrainian village suffered the most because they

were on their own. They did not have any help from the govern-

ment or the city. Every family had a farm and a garden by the house

in which they had to grow their own potatoes, tomatoes, carrots,

cabbage and other vegetables. They also had cows, pigs, and chick-

ens. From the cow they had milk and made their own butter and

sour cream. Chickens gave them eggs or sometimes they had

chickens for dinner. The pigs were only for a special occasion.

When they killed a pig, they had a lot of meat, and that meat lasted

them for a long time.

They both had small houses with no comfort. There was no shower

and no bathroom inside the house. They had to wash themselves in

a special bucket, and the toilet was outside in a small wooden house.

During the winter times this was very inconvenient. Their houses

did not have electricity or gas like we do now. They only had a

fireplace to keep their little house warm with a little bit of

firewood, and they had to save some wood for the next days to

come. For everybody summer and fall seasons were a preparation

time for a snowy and cold winter.

Kids were growing up in this kind of environment, and they had no

toys or candies. They always had to help their parents around the

house. Both of my parents came from big families. They had to

share their boots and warm clothing with their brothers and sisters.

I remember one really sad moment from my mom’s stories when

she was in middle school and her dad bought a few cows so he

could support his family. At 6 o’clock in the morning before my

mom went to school, she had to milk the cows. She really hated

waking up so early; it was winter time and so cold outside. All she

wanted to do was to stay in her cozy bed not milking cows. It was

really hard for children living that kind of lifestyle.

One of the episodes from my dad’s stories when he was growing up

puts tears in my eyes. My daddy was around 10 years old that time.

He was the oldest boy in his family, so he had to be his dad’s right-

hand man. They were poor, and he always helped his family in the

time of need. He worked hard helping his daddy with the farm and

with the garden. Before going to school, he had to eat breakfast

because they would not have any food left for lunch besides apples.

During his stay in school for almost six hours he had to eat lunch

and all that he had was an apple for his lunch. In his class, there

were some rich kids who always brought fancy food and candies to

school. They always made fun of my dad because he did not have

normal food and candies. After a long day at school, my dad would

run back home hungry and tired hoping to find some food on the

table. Sometimes they had no food, so they had to go to sleep

hungry. A few years later he started having stomach problems from

not eating enough. My daddy is 50 years old now and he still has

stomach problems, and my mom always has to make special food

for him. Sometimes I want to throw some food away, but I feel so

bad because I know that there are kids somewhere in Haiti and

Africa who have nothing to eat.

It makes me really sad to listen to my parents’ stories and how hard

it was for them when they were growing up. We have to tell these

stories to our new generation about how people lived back in those

days without food and clothing so that this new generation appreci-

ates what they have.

My Parents’ Childhood

**************

Zhanna Shulyak was born in Ukraine. She and her family moved to the States when she was a teenager. She lived in the state of

Washington for 10 years. Last September, she moved to Maple Grove, Minnesota. Spring 2010 was her first semester at NHCC.

Sometimes they

had no food,

so they had to

go to sleep hungry.

By Zhanna Shulyak

Realities, 2009–2010: Remembering My Childhood Days

remember when…

I was growing up with my parents and three siblings. We used to

walk to school with other children in the neighborhood. It was such

a tough period remembering it now because we had to walk about

three miles every day come sun or rain. This made going to school

interesting as you got to play and chat with other students along the

way. Sometimes we got to ride with our dad or a neighbor’s dad.

I remember when...

I was sick and unable to walk to school for a whole week. I had

to resume after one week even though I was still sick. I almost

collapsed on one of the days. When we had to visit my grandma

every weekend to do her laundry, grandma would bake some

pastries for us when we were done.

I remember when...

Mom would insist I read a pacesetter novel every week. Mom would

not allow us to go out to play with the other kids and allow other

kids to come to our house except those who were doing well in

their academics.

I remember when...

We had to give cold water to neighbors during the hot season

because they had no power in their houses. I had to sell ice cubes

and lemonade for stipend during the hot seasons.

I remember when...

I had to take the entrance examination to high school, so I had to

take classes to prepare for the exam. I passed the entrance exam, and

I was very glad at the thought of going to high school. I was going

to be leaving home for the dormitory soon. I called up my friends

and cousins to share the news with them.

I remember when...

I had to go shopping with my parents in preparation for my high

school. We got a list of items to buy from the school when school

resumed. We went from one store to another buying all the the

items on the list. It was such fun to shop with dad and mom.

I remember when...

The day to leave for school finally came. All of a sudden I became

sad because I was going to be leaving home alone for the first time.

Mom was equally sad but could not say a word. With a sullen face,

we loaded the car and I bid farewell to my mom and other siblings.

Now, I remember that high school was a real time for teens, and a

great time to leave home, begin a new life, and make friends.

Remembering My

Childhood Days

**************

Aisha Sado is from Nigeria. She is married with two children. Aisha came to the United States in June, 2008, and is pursuing a

nursing degree at NHCC.

By Aisha Sado

Realities, 2009–2010: Remember When...

hen I was a little girl, my small hometown had a peaceful river with

fruit trees, beautiful flowers along the sides, and a small wood bridge

across the stream of water. There were immense green fields. In the blue

sky, I saw the white storks hovering.

I remember on weekends filled with warm sunshine when I played with my

friends. We ran on the fields to fly kites. We dropped our boats made of

paper in a small trench. It was flowing through my grandmother’s fruit

garden. We wished our kites and paper boats would bring our dreams far

away to nice days in the future.

I do remember about my happy childhood when I lived with my grandpa

and grandma, my parents, and my aunt. That was very, very happy to

live in their love. I never had to think about my life—nothing to worry,

nothing to bother.

I remember all the folk tales that my grandma often told me in the moon-

light nights with her good advice for my life. I also remember the crickets

made of coconut leaves that my grandpa gave me for rewards when I got an

“A” for my test. Now, even though my grandparents have died long ago,

my love for them is in my heart—forever.

When I have grown up and my life has changed, I will remember all of the

good memories about my childhood. The memories of my grandparents

will encourage me when I have to face obstacles and challenges in my life.

I will always remember when I was a little girl.

emember

When...

**************

Born and raised in Vietnam, Hoang Nga N Truong had a beautiful

childhood in a small town in Vietnam and moved to Minnesota with

her parents about two years ago. Because her country is totally different

from America in many ways, such as the climate, the environment, the

lifestyle, and especially the educational system, she was very worried

and concerned for herself and her family when she came to Minnesota.

Though her new life was very difficult for her, she appreciated all the

challenges and obstacles that she experienced because they helped her

grow up. She has learned many helpful lessons from her life in

Minnesota. As a student at NHCC, she is really grateful for all the

useful knowledge she has learned. She treasures her learning experiences

and believes they will lead her to a good and happy life.

By Hoang Nga N Truong

Realities, 2009–2010: Roots of The Spirit

rees need healthy and deep roots in order to grow strong. Similarly,

human beings want to grow strong, so they trace their roots in families.

By learning from their ancestors, people enrich their spirits. Personally,

I do as my great-grandmother did because I admire her life philosophy.

When I close my eyes, I still remember this great lady. She commanded

respect, enjoyed life and cared for her descendants.

My great grandmother was a distinguished person. Her first name was

Marie-Antoinette, but everybody called her Ninette. She was born in 1910

and she was eighty years old when she passed away. She came from an

esteemed aristocratic family which owned a little castle surrounded by

vineyards, in a quiet village of southeastern France. All of her life was

devoted to her community. She was very involved in church, where she

used to play piano each Sunday. I remember her eightieth birthday; it was

an important day. The villagers of “Saint-Benoit” had organized a party

in her honor. I can always see how she shined during this special day.

As usual, she was elegant. In spite of her advanced age, she was pretty.

She wore a sophisticated classic tweed dress. Her head was covered by a

large white sun-hat which matched perfectly with her shoes. She was eighty

years old, but astonishingly her face wasn’t marked with wrinkles. On the

contrary, her skin was very delicate and pale. Her paleness was accentuated

by her gorgeous carmine lipstick. She took my uncle’s arm and started to

greet each person in a very polite way. That day, I perceived how my great

grandmother was well-educated and well-mannered. Furthermore, I saw

how she was respected by everyone.

My great grandmother always enjoyed life. As far back as I can go in my

memory, I always remember Ninette with a smile on her face. And yet,

she didn’t have an easy existence because she endured two awful world wars

and lost her husband early. Nevertheless, she always said that she has only

one life, and that’s why she would like to live it fully. I kept in mind the

day when my grandmother asked Ninette to stop eating chocolates because

the doctor said that was bad. She joked that she never tasted a bad choco-

late. My grandmother gave up and Ninette continued to eat chocolates for

the rest of her life.

My beloved great-grandmother was very caring for everyone. I remember

two lovely days that are engraved in my memory. The first one is the day

when I left for the university. I visited her to say goodbye. She gave me an

envelope. When I opened it, I was surprised to see a check. I wouldn’t

accept it because it was a large amount. She said that I will study better in a

Roots

of The Spirit

By Marilyne Marion

I kept in mind the day when my grandmother

asked Ninette to stop eating chocolates because

the doctor said that was bad.

She joked that she never tasted

a bad chocolate.

Realities, 2009–2010: Roots of the Spirit

comfortable place. Today, I know that she did the same things for

my cousins and my siblings. The second day is the day before she

passed away. I visited her, after several months abroad. At first,

I had a hard time recognizing her. She was so weak, her hair wasn’t

combed and her eyes were empty. Her smile was gone. Then, my

grandmother told her that I came back to see her. She turned her

head in my direction. With a smile, she did not say anything

but my name. However, I felt that she was happy to see me.

Soon, she left us again; her eyes were empty once more. My grand-

mother asked her what she was thinking about. She whispered:

“I am thinking about all of you.” The next morning, she was gone

eternally. Today, we miss her so much but we know that wherever

she is, she is caring for us, such as she used to.

As tree roots, our ancestors help us build our personality. Personally,

I am glad to have had the chance to meet my great grandmother.

She was a well-respected person who enjoyed life and cared about

her family. I would like to transmit the same life philosophy to my

descendents as she did for me. So, she will continue to live on in

our lives.

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Marilyne Marion came from a little village in the Southeast of France near Lyon. Before she came to the United States, she earned an

Associate Degree in Science. She arrived in Minneapolis in April 2008. She learned Standard American English in Kaplan one year

and finally decided to transfer to NHCC to pursue a degree.

Realities, 2009–2010: The Test for A Lifetime

took my National Matriculation Examination in 2007 when I was

in China. The examination lasted for three days, June 7 to June 9.

It was so important in my life that I can still clearly remember those

three days. I clearly remember how I waited outside the examination

room, how the examination went, and how my parents reacted

when I came home from the first day.

I was hiding from the rain when I was waiting outside the examina-

tion room. It was raining heavily. The sky was very dark because of

dense clouds completely blocking the sun. Lightning and thunder

made many students become even more nervous. I saw some friends

were also waiting in the hall, so I went over to greet them. I thought

maybe staying with my friends could reduce my stress. However,

it made me become more stressed because none of us said a word.

We all did not know what to say to each other. We just leaned our

back against the wall and looked at the sky silently. We were waiting

for teachers to come and unlock the door of the examination room.

We knew our fate would be determined in the next few hours.

Whoever succeeded would be qualified for higher education,

and whoever failed would have to give up their college dream.

About twenty minutes later, a teacher arrived and unlocked the

door. He had a big sealed paper bag in his arm, and I knew the test

papers for the exam were in it. I followed the teacher and went in

the room. I found my seat with the instruction from the teacher.

I sat down and put my stationary tidily on the desk. I closed my

eyes and had a deep breath to calm myself down. I could feel the

wind blowing on my face though the windows. The teacher checked

every student’s ID cards carefully one by one. After all processes

were done and the bell rang, the teacher opened the sealed bag and

handed out the test papers. It was the first examination that I took

for the National Matriculation Examination. The first subject was

Chinese, and the test would last 160 minutes. Because I calmed

down after I had my seat in the room, I concentrated well on

answering the papers. Time passed quickly as I completely concen-

trated my mind on the test. All the students were answering

questions quietly, so the only sound I could hear was the sound

of the rain.

The first day finished much faster than I expected. Every thing went

well with the Chinese test in morning and the English test in the

afternoon. I was surprised that I had already finished the tests for

the first day when I reached home in the afternoon. Supper was

ready, and my parents were sitting by the table and waiting for me.

They did not wait outside the school gate like what other parents

did. They did not want to put too much pressure on me. I told

them that I was fine with the two tests during supper, and they just

smiled and said, “Good job.” They did not ask me more about the

tests as they usually did. They just wanted me to do the best I could

without having any unnecessary pressure.

I did not let my parents down, as I had successfully finished all my

tests in those three days and was accepted by a four-year university.

How I did in the National Matriculation Examination does not

affect my study in the U.S. now, but those days still feel like

yesterday for me. I truly succeeded on the turning point of my life.

The Test for A

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Chuan Wang was born in Nanchang, China, on Oct 31, 1988. He was the only child in the family as he was born in a one-child

policy environment. His father is a businessman, and his mother is a biology teacher. His family moved to Shenzhen in 1993, where

he grew up and received his education. Before he came to the United States of America, he was a college student, majoring in Optical

Electronical Technology in Shenzhen University. In the summer of 2009, he immigrated to the U.S. with his parents and is now

studying at NHCC with the intention of majoring in accounting after he finishes his ESOL courses.

By Chuan Wang

We were waiting for teachers to come

and unlock the door of the examination

room. We knew our fate

would be determined

in the next few hours.

Lifetime

you can’t forget

In this

– Bob Marley

Cross any boundaries lately?

Have you:

• done something you thought you would never do?

• been to a place you have never been before?

• survived culture shock?

• seen or experienced another way to live?

Tell your story campus-wide!

Complete submission details and deadlines online at

www.nhcc.edu/realities

7411 Eighty-Fifth Avenue North, Brooklyn Park, MN 55445

www.nhcc.edu

Member of the Minnesota State Colleges Universities System. Equal Opportunity Educator and Employer.