Reconnecting with Hmong Identity in Minnesota
My name is Sawm Yaj. I am fifty-six years old and live in Oakdale, but my story began long ago in Long Cheng, Laos. I came to the United States when I was only six or seven years old, and for much of my early life, I lived in small towns surrounded by white neighbors. It wasn’t until I moved to Minnesota in 1991 that I truly began to reconnect with my own community. Now, after thirty-five years here, my work as the Assistant Director of the Hmong Elders Center has become more than just a job—it is a way to honor the stories and struggles of the generation that came before me.
At its core, our center is a "safe haven". For many Hmong elders, being at home can feel like being in a prison. If they don't drive, they spend their days waiting—waiting for their children to come home from work, waiting for someone to take them to the store, or waiting for a warm meal. At the center, that waiting ends. We provide a space where they aren't just stagnant; they are interacting, moving, and eating well. We ensure they have breakfast—oatmeal, French bread, and coffee—and a catered Hmong lunch from Little Asia, complete with rice, protein, and zaub tsuag (traditional greens). These are often the only warm, nutritious meals they get in a day.
Our day starts early. We want everyone through the doors by 9:00 am. After breakfast, we move. At 10:00 am, we do stretching, dancing, or light exercise. By 11:00 am, lunch arrives, and the room fills with the sound of conversation. But we don't just stay inside. We take them into the world—to the flea market, to Hmongtown Marketplace (Como Town), or to the grocery store. In the afternoons, the center is alive with Bingo, pool, and corn hole. Before we drop them back home at 2:30 pm, we play games like ball toss or coin drop to keep their minds sharp and their hearts light. By the time the vans arrive to take them home, many of them don't want to leave. They have found a community here that understands them in a way their busy, Americanized children sometimes cannot.
Navigating the Struggle of Pride and Vulnerability
Working here has taught me about the unique identity of each elder. Growing up in the West, I only knew my parents' stories. Here, I see that everyone has their own struggle.
One of our greatest challenges is navigating the relationship between the elders and their families. Many elders have high expectations that their children will take care of every need, but the reality is that the children are often overwhelmed by the pace of American life. This creates frustration on both sides. As a staff of six, we often find ourselves stepping into that gap. We have to be careful not to overstep family boundaries, but we also feel a deep responsibility to take over the tasks the children cannot manage. The elders are incredibly wise in the context of the world they came from, but they are vulnerable here. They are prideful people who don't like to admit when they are lost or confused by the system. You have to earn their trust slowly. You have to respect their pride while helping them navigate a world that doesn't always speak their language.
To me, this center is about more than state-regulated health services or Medicaid-funded care. It is about a "Tsev Kaj Siab"—a place of a clear heart. It is a place where I, as someone who grew up away from the Hmong heartland, can finally listen to the wisdom of my elders. When I look at them, I see my own parents. I see a generation that sacrificed everything so that we could be here and providing them with a warm meal and a place to laugh is the very least I can do to say thank you.