by Barbara Mraz
An older Hmong woman tries to seat herself at the picnic table and has to force her leg over the seat. I nod and smile at her, like “Me too.”
Did she smile back at me? Is there an instant of connection here? I’m not sure. Walking among the tables later, I try to make self-disparaging comments about myself (“I’m always dropping things!” Gotta love dessert, right?”) but no one responds. I feel stupid. I so want to connect……
It’s the annual picnic for St. John’s and Holy Apostles, a primarily-Hmong congregation in St. Paul. We’re in the picnic shelter at beautiful Lake Phalen on a Minnesota-perfect early August day. I imagine the Feeding of the Five Thousand was on such a glorious day. We would probably have enough food for them, too.
I arrive here battered and teary after hearing about the second of the shootings last night in Ohio. I haven’t felt this vulnerable since 911. No one really wants to talk about it with me it so I mentally regroup, still sensing how vulnerable we are in such a gathering. God, I hope that is not the new normal…
Yet it is a glorious sight: Hmong people are sitting at picnic tables next to European-Americans and a few African-American people; the celebrants are a Hmong-American woman named Bao and Craig from Zimbabwe (he of the majestic voice); a young musician named Richard from SJE is accompanying the singing, along with a Russian from Belarus named Sergei who is playing the accordion; a very tall verger – Bob–in a knee-length verger ensemble towers over the four acolytes from Holy Apostles. Across the table from me is a woman who recently was a regular at the 8:00 service but now has lost her sight. The preacher is named “Romero” and greets us in Spanish and gives an inclusive invocation evoking several religions.
On the surface at least, we are Diversity Personified (maybe not economically though) and I breathe it in as my German-Norwegian ancestry recedes a little from its usual dominant Minnesota position. It is a relief.
The service is accompanied by the sounds of children playing outside the shelter and women talking while preparing food in the nearby kitchen; clouds of smoke ascend as the barbecue grills cook hamburgers for the picnic; Lake Phalen glistens in the sunlight; voices in two languages blend as we pray the Lord’s Prayer.
There is a sweet sweet Spirit in this place today.
The Martha’s are in the kitchen preparing food and laying it out; the Mary’s are in “church” – superficial distinctions, to be sure. A soft breeze blesses us as we listen to the Rev. Daniel Romero a UCC clergyman and tireless worker for immigrant justice. He mentions the sacred Episcopal name “Whipple,” in connection with the Whipple building at Fort Snelling which is now used by ICE to hold and process immigrants for deportation several times a month, information which elicits an audible gasp from me.
It is a masterful sermon with cringe-worthy statistics. Rarely do I throw twenty bucks in the offering plate unplanned, but the Rev, Romero brings me to this point where I feel I have no choice. I go up to him after the service: “I’m a pretty good speaker and a decent writer and I have time. What do you want me to do?” There is a gracious response. He thanks me. He will be in touch soon.
I am intrigued by Sergei, who is the resident musician at Holy Apostles. I can tell he is Russian Orthodox from the way he crosses himself. Sergei, I find out, has been here since 2006, having to leave his family in Belarus because there were only funds for one person to emirate. He worked to establish a place for his wife and two daughters and also to get together the $1000 a piece for “the papers” necessary to bring them here, finally in 2016. He is a composer and has much of the thoughtful melancholy I associate with Russians I have known (“It’s all about the money,” he tells me, referring to the immigration process), as well as artistic flair. Playing the keyboard, his hands dance.
We send forth the pilgrims: campers from Holy Apostles headed for the Boundary Waters; Sheryl and Jennifer, going to the St John’s Clinic in Uganda.
It is an international world here today.
I am sitting at a table with Marv and Sue and I ask the older Hmong woman sitting next to Marv about something on her plate. Struggling with the language, she says it is cabbage and proceeds to give me a bunch of it. And then some to Marv. And to Sue.
Later I tease Marv about being in the clean plate club. In a few minutes he has an egg roll on his plate. His Hmong neighbor is softly giggling as she keeps putting food on his plate whenever it’s empty. A small but genuine connection here and I try not to make too big a deal of it but I am loving it very much.
This is such a fine day but I can’t help but think that the people heading for the Walmart or to the streets of Dayton thought they were in safe territory, too. And yet we are so vulnerable to the next crazed white male who comes packing heat and sprays bullets around like confetti at a birthday party. This seems like the elephant in the room and I wonder if we should all be talking about it openly. I would love to hear what some of the Hmong community think about this. Why do I not have the courage or energy to ask?
No I think the cabbage is a better strategy.
I feel like a Viking giant next to these short, compact people. I am trying not to loom or tower over them, to smile a lot, and to ask questions. I will ask even more questions next time (while not looming or towering).
And then Russian Sergei launches into “The Beer Barrel Polka” on the accordion and we are in Minnesota again.
