SACRAMENTO, Calif. — In Sacramento, two Hmong textile artists are working together to help keep a tradition alive. It’s a tradition that, in part, reflects a history of painful survival and resilience.
May is Asian American, Native Hawaiian and Pacific Islander Heritage Month, and ABC10 is telling stories of the visionaries and trailblazers who are sharing their cultures and shaping their history.
Like threads in a cloth, individual people come together to form something bigger and stronger than themselves.
“I was studying anthropology, and I was really interested in learning about myself and my history and heritage,” said textile artist, researcher and teacher Pachia Lucy Vang. “I found that through our clothing and our textiles, because I learned that actually clothing is connected to land in many ways, right? It represents the regions we're from. It represents the different countries that different people live in… and really trace our diaspora and our migration.”
Vang specializes in the handcrafted clothing and stitching of her Hmong culture.
“Many of us, we've just always been encouraged to really, you know, understand who we are and where we came from,” Vang said. “I think a big part of that is because the Hmong people don't have a country, and so these types of art forms have been really important in helping us maintain a sense of individual identity (and) group identity, and it has helped us carry on our history and our heritage.”
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The Hmong are an ethnic group with a distinct language and culture, but no country of their own. They trace their roots to China, but many migrated to Southeast Asia to escape conflict in the 1800s. As this story will recount, a more recent conflict brought many to the U.S.
At the HOPE Center in North Sacramento, a Hmong cultural and community center, Vang teaches a workshop every other Saturday morning.
Holding up a brightly colored piece of stitched cloth, Vang explained to the class, “This is a traditional design that usually goes on to, like, funeral pieces that are worn on the body in the casket. But also, it's made to go on the back of, like, a jacket for women. And so we're learning this pattern.”
The biweekly workshops, which go through August, teach the art of Paj Ntaub, which is Hmong for “flower cloth,” a tradition with many variations stretching back centuries. It evolved during a dark time for the Hmong people from “flower cloths” to “story cloths.”
The birth of story cloths
“This is a diaspora story cloth,” Vang said, gesturing to a large cloth on the wall, depicting people, conflict and landmarks. “Story cloths were actually made in the refugee camps.”
During the Vietnam War, the U.S. military also engaged in what’s known as the “Secret War” in the neighboring country of Laos, recruiting Hmong men and boys living there to fight against the communist movement.
“The Hmong were recruited to help the American CIA, and once the Americans left Vietnam, then those recruitments left Laos,” Vang said. “Many of the people, Hmong, Mien, Lao, who were assisting the American military efforts there were left behind.”
Starting in the mid-1970s, many Hmong people fled Laos for fear of persecution by the communist regime.
“Hin Heup Bridge, for example, is depicted here,” Vang said, gesturing to a bridge stitched into the large story cloth. “That was an instance where people were trying to cross the Hin Heup Bridge but were killed by many soldiers, and the soldiers opened fire and killed a lot of Hmong people trying to leave Laos.”
Many settled in refugee camps in Thailand, where Paj Ntaub evolved into story cloths, created by Hmong women to keep their history alive and support their families by selling their artwork.
Vang explained that there are different types of story cloths. Some document folktales, while others document historical events or migration. For generations, the Hmong had no written language. The culture was passed down through oral tradition and in Paj Ntaub.
“The myth goes that when we had our kingdom and our autonomy in China, we actually had a writing system, but because we became displaced, we lost that writing system,” Vang said. “So throughout time, we were able to hold on to these different symbols that used to be a part of our writing system by putting it onto our clothing. And so although these symbols don't necessarily mean specific things anymore… we still continue to use the same symbols, and they still continue to represent who you are and where we've come from.”
Eventually, many Hmong refugees resettled in Europe and the U.S., with tens of thousands moving to Northern California and the Central Valley.
Carrying the tradition
They include Lu Lee, who learned Paj Ntaub as a girl growing up in Laos. Lee recounted her story in Hmong, which Vang helped translate for this story.
"When I knew how to hold the needle without pricking my finger, that was when I picked up the needle to start practicing (Paj Ntaub)," Lee said.
Later, as a young mother living in a refugee camp in Thailand, Lee sewed and sold Paj Ntaub to support her family. She still has the needle she used in the camp.
"I didn't know what the buyers were buying them for because we made a lot of them. They would buy them case by case, but I had no idea," Lee said.
She then resettled in Minnesota and eventually California.
“This one she actually made for the class so that she could show them all the different things you can do with cross stitching,” Vang said, as Lee pulled out a brightly colored children’s hat.
This elder artisan now helps teach at Vang’s workshop, sharing the skills she has honed over a lifetime.
"I want to teach so people know the ways we have known since we were young," Lee said. "That as Hmong people, we make Paj Ntaub. It is what makes us Hmong."
Angelina Xiong learned Paj Ntaub from her mom when she was a kid and is taking Vang’s workshop to learn more about the history of the art form and her Hmong heritage.
“It's a hobby, yes, but it's also learning about yourself and your culture,” Xiong said.
This mom of four is accompanied by her eldest daughter, Penelope Rose.
“I usually just pick colors that represent me, that, like, makes me feel like it looks pretty,” Penelope said.
“I wanted her to learn a little bit more about our culture, altogether,” Xiong said. “I mean, I didn't know much about it. I thought I did. But, you know, as I'm getting older, I'm learning more things. And so I was like, ‘Hey, you know, why not bring her with me to these sessions so that we can learn together?’”
“Yeah,” Penelope agreed. “I think it's really special.”
It’s a special tradition that makes a special gift.
"I've been trying to make these picture frames. I'm putting my Paj Ntaub in them," Lee said, pulling out the framed works from the bag she carries to all the workshops. "So when I pass away, if my children miss me, they need not cry. They can look at this Paj Ntaub and know that, 'My mom's two hands made this.' And this is Paj Ntaub cross-stitch."
Vang looked at Lee with tears welling up in her eyes.
"And she made me one so that I can remember her," Vang translated for Lee, smiling.
Passing down culture, stories and love: it’s a thread that runs from generation to generation to generation.
Vang is also a lecturer at UC Davis and hopes to make her flower cloth workshops an annual occasion.
“It's so exciting because our workshops have people from all walks of life and all ages,” Vang said. “Everyone has really loved it and talked about, you know, how amazing it's been for them to connect with their clothing and textiles in this way. So it's really encouraging.”
The current workshop runs every other Saturday morning through August. For more information on how you can participate, click HERE.
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