You, Me, and Us

At the end of the day, I get to own how I feel about everyone and the situations I am part of. But being the bigger person? Seriously, what is the payout? Who benefits from not lashing out and cussing out the opposition? Or from getting back at the other party with some petty task or decision? What’s being the bigger person got to do with me—a professional, semi–politically correct, emotional, second-generation Hmong woman?

Being told by my mother-in-law and my niam tais (my mother) to have patience—or ua siab ntev (“have a long liver”)—has been their wisest wisdom collectively. I didn’t understand it when I was young, and even now, I don’t always accept its deeper meaning. I fight this old saying from my maternal ancestors like a hornet buzzing around me: Be patient with the young, with your husband, with the old, with your kids, with the leaders… the list is endless. I want to unleash horrific curses and swear words, to set free the fire in my chest toward those who slight me. That feels like a payout I can measure. Take that, ancestors.

And yet, I also understand that the true Foua Choua would hate to carry the boulder of guilt on her shoulders, walking through the world as if free from the ties of family and friendship—the very people for whom she has had to stretch her liver. Patience is a skill. It is resilience. But it comes at the cost of wisdom carried in the form of equity.

Tonight, in the many years I have chosen to tie my life to my partner, is the first time I was able to calmly tell him about my bitter feelings and heartache—and then walk away to take some space and process. Being patient with the mysteries of others is agitating, boring, anxious, and also beautiful. I am trying to be a good wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend. But I often forget that I am also unfolding into my own mysteries.

For one, I love to write. Let me leave you with a poem—a non-answer to the question I asked at the beginning of this blog:

Unspoken

Making myself small so my tenacious feelings won’t be heard by you.
You have lost the privilege of hearing my pain, sadness, and disappointment.
Not a tear, not a breath will reveal my heartache.
You will live around me, sensing the void but oblivious to the true meaning of intimacy
because you chose to remain as you are.

There is no forgiveness.
There will be an insidious knowing that part of me is absent.
My body will be here with you,
but my mind and emotions will be on vacation from your presence.
You will not know my burden.

Will there be love? Of course.
Will there be friendship? Superficial at best.
Will there be trust? Most likely, no.

And so, friends, I leave you with this:
Carry your patience gently, not as a burden but as a quiet strength.
Be curious about your mysteries as they unfold, like petals stretching toward the sun.
There is power in choosing silence, in walking away, in being the bigger person for yourself.
Drama will come and go, but your peace is yours to keep.

Cheers and to the future!

Foua Choua