Hmong

Embarking on this arduous journey through the labyrinthine corridors of medical education as a Hmong American, I find myself immersed in a profound undertaking. It's as if I'm navigating a tumultuous sea where biases and microaggressions surge from all directions, a tempest that leaves me grappling for stability. In this field, Hmong doctors are as scarce as hidden constellations, and finding a guiding star feels akin to chasing elusive dreams.

Within the hallowed halls of academia, I ventured, yearning for companions who could share the cadence of my heritage, the rhythm of my experience. But alas, they faded away, leaving me standing alone after brief encounters, like flickering candle flames extinguished too soon. The pages of our narrative illustrate that a mere 14% of our community treads the corridors of higher learning, an uphill battle that underscores the enormity of the task at hand.

The tapestry of my identity paints me into the "Asian American" tableau, a monolith, a canvas that doesn't capture the nuances that color my existence. Balancing on the precipice between being uplifted by the majority and cast down by the minority, the paradox is stark, especially when my own heritage is that of a minority. I find myself standing in the crosshairs, too Asian to seamlessly blend with my white counterparts, and yet lacking the privilege of scholarships, financial safety nets, and academic havens that cradle them. Amongst my fellow other Asian peers, I stand too in isolation, the camaraderie born of privilege, a door that remains closed to me but open to them.
This tale weaves itself into the medical fabric where Hmong voices are a near-silent echo. Where are they, those who could share stories of perseverance and success, to illuminate the path I now tread? But yet, when was the last time you saw a Hmong doctor or even a medical student, for that matter? In this intricate tapestry of medical scholars, we Hmong are but faint threads, scarcely woven into the narrative.

Amidst the bustling corridors of opportunity, I stand on the periphery, observing the dance of affluence and privilege. Connections and resources, like precious currency, flow freely to some yet remain distant mirages to me, shutting me out from circles adorned with prosperity. Yet, when I seek solace among those whose struggles mirror my own, my narrative is met with skepticism, my experiences deemed insufficient. In jest, a Latino doctor mentor once bantered with an African American friend, the laughter masking a bitter truth in his belief: that the field hungers for more like him, while it seemingly has no appetite for someone like me, too numerous, too familiar. But yet again, when was the last time you saw a Hmong doctor or even a medical student, for that matter? In this intricate tapestry of medical scholars, we Hmong are but faint threads, scarcely woven into the narrative.

So here I stand, straddling the chasm, an emissary between two worlds. My canvas, adorned with the brushstrokes of microaggressions and the threads of discrimination, bears a narrative of both inclusion and exclusion. Despite the whispers that I belong to both domains, I find myself pushed aside by both. Cast adrift in the spaces I was told I rightfully occupy, the doors to acceptance remain firmly closed. As I murmur my sentiment to the universe, "Neither fully of the majority nor quite a minority," I navigate this intricate terrain, a medical student straining to find their place within the folds of belonging and the edges of rejection.

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Citations:

Fig 1: Blong Kue for Hmong Revolution