Rape Culture: The Uncomfortable Truths of Growing Up a Hmong Girl

When I was thirteen, my family lived next door to my cousin’s family. Our houses sat in a row with six other houses colored in pale shades of the rainbow, perfectly lined up in pastel blues, pinks, yellows, and lavender. We lived in the blue house and they lived in the mint green one.

I remember she was sixteen and the oldest in her family. We’ll call her Alice*. Like all eldest daughters, Alice’s teenage life — like mine — revolved around caring for her younger siblings, cooking, cleaning, and making dinner for the family. I also remember she had this boyfriend (we’ll call him Paul*) who said he was twenty-five. He was short and slim and awkward, with thinning hair and bad teeth. He looked old to me, but at thirteen, what did I know about what twenty five year olds were supposed to look like. He’d wear white wife-beater tees and jeans too baggy for his frame, and I remember his car. It was a white sedan that he’d had the top sawed off to make it into a convertible, but he’d never gotten around to finishing it, so he’d just drive around in a topless car.

After school, he would stop by to visit; sometimes by himself, and sometimes with one or two of his boys. When his boys came along, Alice always asked that I come and sit in the house too. She didn’t want to be alone with them.