Originally published on August 12, 2021.
After the day of Sunisa Lee’s uneven bars at Tokyo Olympics, my mother watched the recap on her phone and exclaimed, “It’s so scary! But she is very good.”
My mother was attuned to Sunisa’s journey after hearing about it from Hmong radio and TV news. Like so many other Hmong, whether we were following it closely or not, the name “Sunisa Lee” now garnered positive attention in all kinds of spaces. The fact that older generations like my mother were following along meant something big. I, for one, didn’t follow enough sports to keep up with the Olympics but this time, I kept my ears open for news of the women’s gymnastics. Whether Sunisa won any medals or not, I just hoped she would give great performances — on and off the bars.
My mother continued. “I hear her family, especially her parents, helped her a lot to get her here.”
My younger sister piped in jokingly, “You see? Her parents are supportive. Look how successful she is.”
I hummed in agreement, more from amusement than anything else, and my mother didn’t respond, her fingers already moving to play a different video displaying Sunisa’s incredible ability. She didn’t hear us or she was ignoring us.
It was a little quip that didn’t return to me until Sunisa won gold in the all-arounds, marking an explosion of videos and articles about her journey and her connection to her community and her family. My Thursday’s Facebook feed was full, one after another, from friends and acquaintances and videos from local and national stations all recognizing Sunisa’s historic win as the first Asian American to win gold and the first Hmong American Olympian ever.
We were so proud of her and I felt particularly moved, my head feeling dizzy from the surreal news of this young Hmong American woman winning gold for herself, for her family, and for our community.
My feelings quickly spiraled into complicated emotions as I came across information I didn’t learn before about, particularly, Sunisa’s parents. Her father built her a beam when he couldn’t afford to buy her one. Her parents fundraised yearly to keep up with fees, uniforms, travel fees, and more, receiving support from their relatives and larger community. And, after her father’s injury in 2019, Sunisa almost didn’t attend nationals but, thanks to his insistence, she continued — for her father, family, and herself.
It was a digestible story of triumph and perseverance that Americans loved to hear; it didn’t make it less true as an uplifting story full of love and community. It was a wonderful truth that I envied.
My mother didn’t listen to my younger sister that night and that was typical between us daughters and mothers now but I was still bothered. I was already in my late 20s and no longer needed my parents the way I would’ve when I was ten or eighteen — yet it still ached to witness my mother praise other parents.
It was hard not to be bitter. ‘Why couldn’t you and Dad be more like Sunisa’s parents?’
But that wasn’t the crux of it. It was this: “Why couldn’t you believe in me?”
To be fair, my parents believed what many other refugees believed: A good education would open doors to a prosperous life. That was their main advice throughout my life. My father advised my sisters and I to value college. It seemed personal, the way that he insisted that it would bring respect — that no one could look down on us. My father started a four-year degree after receiving his A.A. from a community college, but he never finished. He had to leave to focus on working. My mother only ever received night school during the early years of arrival. She never had a chance to attend a university.
Although they didn’t know how to help exactly, my father placed my sisters and I in richer (and white-majority) schools recommended by relatives, which were further from home but provided less chances of us joining Hmong gangs. My mother drove every morning to drop us off at three different schools: first to the high school across town, then looping around to the newly-built middle school, and then to the elementary school in the nice neighborhood by a park and river. Then she picked us up every afternoon. Though we were always the last ones to be picked up — something I was embarrassed by at the time — we were not forgotten.
My parents emphasized on education but even then they could not be my main support.
I was the sixth of seven daughters and I learned from my sisters. My eldest sister was the first to graduate with a Bachelor’s from college. My second eldest was the first one to study abroad in Thailand. I learned how to deal with my financial aid and scholarships from my fourth sister. I learned to be involved in clubs and programs from my third and fifth sisters.
Because I had them, I did not suffer as much. My support system expanded beyond my sisters to friends and mentors and teachers. I excelled in academics and was competent in sports.
Parental guidance was nearly absent and, for the most part, unnecessary — yet, it would have been appreciated all the same.
My younger sister told me recently, “I don’t remember relying much on mom or dad, only you all.”
Searching my own memories, I could not disagree. We could not depend on our parents for many things.
In high school for three years, I played for the girls’ soccer team with my older sister. My parents didn’t approve us joining but because the two of us united to persuade them — and we had a cousin who also planned to join — my parents gave their conditional consent: We would bother them as little as possible about this venture that we chose to do and also put schoolwork above this extracurricular activity.
During practices after school, we walked for about twenty minutes to the stadium downtown. After two hours or so, the cousin — who fortunately lived in the same neighborhood — would give us a ride home. When she wasn’t available, we asked our coach. And when our coach couldn’t, we reluctantly told our parents or asked if any of our older sisters were available. Sometimes, my parents just told us not to go (and a couple times, we didn’t — at the dismay of our coach as we were first string.)
We inconvenient them as little as possible and that was the standard rule for our family. That unforgettable night when my sister made a powerful indirect goal from the forty-yard line — which would give her the well-deserved MVP award at the end of the season — my teammates, their family and friends, and I were the only witnesses.
Learning about Sunisa’s parents — Houa John Lee and Yeev Thoj — and their laborious support made me question the differences that diverged our paths to success. Was it age and generation differences between our parents — mine being older and having departed from the camps at a later time when they were already married with two young children? Was it geographical and city differences in which I grew up in northern California in towns like Chico and Oroville, where a sizable population lived and had a presence in the county but did not wield significant political power?
The list could be inexhaustible, including factors like clan hierarchy and relations, sibling hierarchy, social class, education level, and religion.
The most decisive factor, I thought, was how deeply elders regarded and held their patriarchal beliefs — and how that manifested toxic long-lasting effects.
For every time my parents encouraged us to go to school and get our education, they also doubted our sincerity in doing volunteer and club service. For every time we wanted to grow as an individual and as an outstanding candidate on college applications and resumes, my parents assumed we were only using excuses to go do bad things. For even the most innocuous things like car maintenance, it was crafted that I, a woman and a daughter, was just inherently ignorant with cars, so I should let my father or an uncle help with flat tires and other easy-to-learn car checks.
When my parents’ house burned down and we were overwhelmed with paperwork and procedures, elders like my grandmother made comments that if only my parents had sons who knew what to do — as if knowing how to deal with the aftermath of a burned house was a gendered trait rather than a tragic disaster that one had to navigate on the spot despite overwhelming grief and pain.
We were deemed inept before we even got a chance.
And as much as I can understand my parents and the elders for everything they have been through, as much as I was old enough now to recognize their past and current hardships, their condescension was sharp. The difference was quite obvious.
Was it a coincidence that my parents became better after my younger brothers were born or was it because the sons they so deeply desired were finally born? We adapted our frugal lifestyle around their needs, giving in to sweets and ice cream and McDonald’s fries that my older sisters and I never got to enjoy on a regular basis. We indulged my brothers, showered them with adoration; they were the youngest and my beloved brothers. They were spoiled. They were treated differently.
Learning about Sunisa’s journey was bittersweet. It shone a light into the best possible outcome when there was investment in a daughter. Among necessary factors like access, resources, financials, receiving the support from one’s parents can affect so much. Change so much. Their strength added to her own and so Sunisa knew herself and her capability. Sunisa, Hmong woman, believed in herself. And I, Hmong woman, was so proud.
And also mournful for the sisters who never rose to their potential, the daughters who were compared to other women but especially to their brothers and male relatives, the women who heard dismissive comments every day and was scolded for every little action to the point of losing their self-esteem and confidence and feeling indecisive at every turn.
During the last semester of my Bachelor’s, my parents attended a university-wide awards ceremony that included me as one of the honorees. I can’t recall if I invited them or if my sisters did. I watched them awkwardly accept compliments about me from an awards committee member. I realized too late that I was the final student to be recognized and felt immediate embarrassment that I did not prepare my family for such a long wait. I regretted their presence and wished I could endure the anxious waiting alone instead of feeling the awkwardness of their stiff figures at the table. They ate the fancy strawberries dipped in chocolate, tasted the BBQ meatballs, and drank fruited water as the hour dragged on.
And then my turn came. My accomplishments were read alongside testimonials from my professors who nominated me for the award. I headed up the stage, shook hands, took a photo, and went back down. All of this waiting for thirty seconds of spotlight. It felt pointless. I felt guilty.
Somehow, en route to the car, I mentioned my half-formed plan to do a Master’s and my father responded positively.
He said, “In our Xiong clan, not many people have Master’s and only a couple people — “ he lifted his index and middle fingers — “have PhDs. If you want to do your Master’s, then that’s fine.”
My mother nodded and added, “If you want to study all the way and do a PhD, then go for it. While you’re young and not tired, keep going.”
It felt like it was the first time they had ever encouraged me.
I was taken back and replied, “Maybe. That would be nice.”
I had never considered a PhD program. The idea of doing a doctoral program seemed so out of reach as if for rich and well-educated people who had a long lineage in academia. I couldn’t possibly do it. Even the idea of entering a Master’s program was not conceived by me but by my professors; I didn’t think I was graduate material at all until they said they believed in me — that they knew of my abilities and capabilities.
And now, hearing from my parents, the path — to a Master’s or PhD or anything else — seemed doable. Not so impossible. Just these simple, gentle words of belief uplifted me.
When we were not limited, by anyone, how might we transcend and transform?
I was grateful to John and Yeev for not discouraging Sunisa. I was grateful for Sunisa who was more than an incredible Olympian athlete but a Hmong woman who, despite historical, social, and institutional circumstances, despite naysayers, made history and, along the way, stirred the community into an awakening — one of, hopefully, change and love and support.
May Sunisa’s journey lead to more parents supporting their daughters.
May more daughters have their chances to shine when they are not restricted.
May daughters, even without parental guidance, find support in others: friends, mentors, teachers, co-workers, and other similar-minded peers.
Whether they win a gold medal or award or not, let them know that their pursuits are worth trying.