Thursday, January 22, 2004
I Wasn’t Laughing, Honestly
My powerful physique and astounding intellect notwithstanding, I’d like to think I’m a sensitive guy. I don’t avoid commercial TV because I think it’s a cancer on the national prostate; I avoid it because commercials make me cry. And weddings too. Maybe that’s because, when I was a small boy, I got beat up by a wedding, but now that’s ancient history and all that remains is my tenuous emotional state. All of which is to beg you to believe me - I care. I feel. I empathize.
Part of my makeup as a guy who cares is cultural sensitivity. I help to fund services for the Limited-English-Proficient, and embrace the diversity of my neighborhood (which is legion) with enthusiasm. I like to try new cuisines, hear new languages, see films from countries where I didn’t know films were being made. So of course it’s very much out of character for me to giggle at the revered and honorable names of any of these cultures or languages. There are thousands of them, each unusual in its own way, and none of them meriting a cheap laugh.
HMOOB. Every time I saw it I giggled. I’m sorry. I’m fourteen years old. Give me a freaking break. Okay I’m more like forty but I insist: that’s a funny word, if you’ve never seen it before. I myself first saw it at the ATM at the unusually convenient bank on Arguello. The ATM arcade is outdoors, under a wisteria trellis; the machines are new and have a nice response to the inquisitive finger, and the screens are large and bright and easy to use.
I’m used to being asked in what language I wish to bank; that’s par for the course. English and Spanish are default options, and then, depending on the bank and the part of town, I’ve seen any number of other choices. At this particular lovely and well-designed ATM location, I got a whole screen of language options: English, French, German, Russian (in cyrillic letters), Viet (in Latin letters with little diacriticals), what looked to me to be Chinese, Japanese and Korean, Hindi (in Hindi script, the consulate is only just across the street), and, written out in my familiar Latin letters, “Hmoob.”
My eyes tracked to it automatically, and I supressed a giggle. I didn’t know who these people are, why the language they speak had this ... um ... comedophonious name. (There is a word for everything, once I make them all up). So I stifled myself and conducted my transaction, put the matter out of my head. Since then I’ve been to the Hmoob-friendly ATMs several times and each time I got a bit of a lift from that goofy word. I’d written it in my little “writing ideas” notebook and I was all set to write something all condescending and superior and juvenile about it.
On a parallel track, I’ve been reading, as some of you already know and the rest of you probably don’t care, The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down. It’s a really well-written book about the demise of a culture, in macro and in micro. Fadiman tells the story of a small epileptic girl and her family, fighting cultural battles with skilled and caring physicians who only wanted their daughter to get better.
The doctors in the story are casting-office perfect, a responsible and sober mix of people ranging from clever to wise. The Lee family are Hmong. I was familiar with the appellation but not the culture. I knew only that they’d worked closely with the CIA on behalf of “western” interests in Southeast Asia - Vietnam, Laos, Thailand - from WWII through the Pol Pot era and even beyond. The book walks me through their history as a landless tribe of autonomous, obstinate animists who maintained their own society and lifestyle for two millenia. They’re totally non-western, and of course, as a band of mountain tribesmen, both well-integrated into their ecologic niche, and very poorly integrated into society at large. They suffered horrible privations and actual genocide efforts, before many - though by no means most - of them escaped as refugees to Thailand, and then, primarily as asylum seekers, to California. The Lees brought the Hmong traditions of animism, unconditional family love, and isolationist cultural patterns to the Merced Community Medical Center. The medical staff and Lees never learned to communicate with each other, wound up at cross-purposes, and left a lot of regrettable outcomes in their wake.
I’m not finished with the book yet but it’s clear where we’re heading. It’s non-fiction, anyway; you don’t really read it to find out what happened, but why it happened. Last night as I wound up a final chapter I thumbed to the back of the book to see what was there. Along with a substantial set of references, a big bibliography, and an index, there was a note on pronunciation of the Hmong language. I’ll cut to the chase, words in this language usually end in vowel sounds and the final consonant in the written word is a stress marker that indicates pitch and tone. Thus, you don’t pronounce the “g” in “Hmong”. Also, double vowels carry an /n/ sound. So “Hmoo” would sound like /Hmon/. And the final “b” in Hmoob would be silent, a pitch marker. And Hmoob is, therefore, this culture I’ve been reading about, these people, so strong for so long, wanting only to be left alone, and now stranded in Merced, struggling to help a child in thrall to the spirits as an analogue to salvaging their existence as a people in this country. And as I said, I’m sensitive. I think I’ll be able to keep a straight face next time I visit those ATMs.
But I’m starting to think they ought to start a fashion line. I bet plenty of people would like to have a giant “HMOOB” plastered across their chests.
