memoir by Soul Vang
MY WIFE AND I drove slowly down a plumeria-lined road, passing through a neighborhood of sixties and seventies bungalows. The road was narrow, edged by emerald grass shoulders and hedged by tall bushes.
As we reached the end of the lane, there was a large mango tree to our left. A gravel drive cut through the hedge next to the mango tree. The address on the mailbox by the gravel drive told us we had reached our destination.
At the end of the gravel drive, shadowed by trees and almost hidden by tall bushes, was a little bungalow.
“How does a Hmong man live here, hidden in this landscape, among strangers?” I asked my wife.
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