Keeper of the Culture: A little-known Legacy on the East Side

My name is Chao Lee, known to those close to me as Co Lis. I was born seventy-seven years ago in the village of Phuam Paj, in the Xiengkhouang province of Laos. My journey has taken me across oceans, but my heart has always been anchored to the ancestral artwork of our people. Since 1979, I have called Saint Paul home, and for the last ten years, I have lived in an old house on the East Side—a house I chose specifically because its aged bones felt like the right place for a museum.

My love for Hmong heritage began when I was fifteen. In those days, Hmong clothes weren’t a "costume" for a holiday; they were who we were. We wore them every day. When I arrived in America, I watched as the world changed. In the early nineties, I began collecting in earnest. Back then, when I dressed my husband and children in our traditional clothes for the Hmong New Year, some people told me it was embarrassing. They wanted to look "modern." I told them, "No, we should wear this. We must remember."

I started with what I loved most: the xauv (necklaces) and the intricate coin bags. I would buy real silver coins to sew onto the bags myself. In those years, nobody cared about "vintage" items. People were throwing away the old to buy the new. Because I was the only one looking, I was able to find the most beautiful, ancient pieces. Today, I look around and see the youth wearing Hmong clothes to parties and studying our history. It gladdens my heart to see our people remembering our ancestral arts again.

There is one xauv in my collection that is a part of my own soul. I had it when I first married; it was designed by Ntsuab Zeb Vwj, the only craftsman who knew how to make those specific silver studs. I had designed it myself with small circles. Years later, in Thailand, I had to sell some of my jewelry. I thought it was gone forever. But after Hmong Town Marketplace opened here in Saint Paul, I saw an an elder selling a necklace. I recognized it instantly—it was mine. The ncais (hangers) were missing, but the silver was unmistakable. I bought it back immediately. It had found its way home to me.

My collection is now worth perhaps $200,000, but to me, the money is not the point. If I had simply saved that cash in a bank, it would mean nothing. By investing in these artifacts—some of which are over 200 years old—I am investing in a legacy. I know that our elders, though many were not formally educated, were incredibly wise. You cannot truly appreciate these items unless you understand the roots they grew from.

As for this old house, my personal museum, I live here because it was almost demolished, but I saw the value of it. The rich didn’t want it and the state wanted to preserve it, so I bought it from the bank. It is the perfect shell for my dream: a Hmong museum. I want a place where our teej tug (heritage) is safe. I want to leave behind a collection under my name so that when I am gone, the history is not lost.

To the youth who are wise enough to listen: collect these old things. We elders do not have much time left, but these items are the physical evidence of our history. My only regret is that I do not yet have a traditional Hmong gun to complete the archive.

I have not won awards or been featured in grand magazines, but I feel a great sense of fulfillment. In this lifetime, I have realized that being a keeper of history is the greatest achievement I could ask for.