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Burlee Vang writes to "reveal some universal experience or truth, despite how alien the world, situation, or characters I am presenting might be to readers." His goal is to transcend boundaries between peoples and find commonality of experience and make extraordinary the ordinary things. It is as if he is trying to distill that which is most fundamental, most eternal, and breathe that into his poetry to create connection with his audience. As I read his work, his words flowed with the familiarity of a song I've always known, a river bending close to my heart. It felt easy to understand, his description of American poetry in "Here I Am" ringing true, and giving me the chance to feel his perspective, outside looking in, lost, confused and unsure how to begin in this new land. His words "Where do I begin my song? Where do I enter the chorus when my part is not yet written, when the conductor won't point my way?" created a vivid visual that made more sense than a thousand pages of a textbook. Perhaps because we've all felt, in some way at some time, perhaps only in a very small way, that feeling of how to begin, how to belong, whether we can belong. In this beginning, he connected to me, one white American woman reading his poem, and brought me with him to Sky Mountain and Dragon River, built a homeland and showed me, instead of told me, what leaving felt like. He concludes by asking who would listen to someone who does not know American culture, who's story is not America, and determines "I will have to relearn and trust my childhood, give the wind my song and let all who can, hear." He would give the world him, truly him, things would change in his new home, but he would tell his story. His second poem echoes this feeling of letting go, of acknowledging all that he cannot control about life in the United States and the cultural assimilation of generations, but he still gives the wind his song and lets all who can hear when he says, "all we may be able to do is to present our very best. And let the next take it over."

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Yia Lee states the she writes a way to express her thoughts and identity not purely through the lens of a Hmong woman, because as she says, everything will be Hmong literature as it is simply who she is and has shaped everything she writes about. I found her work interesting because she takes her Hmong identity with pride, but also acknowledges that even if not directly correlated to her identity, her written work will still maintain her identity as she writes with authenticity. She does not need to point out her identity in what she writes, because as an artist, she will consistently be communicating her experiences.  I resonate with this because I find that when I am writing, my personal identity may not be directly identifiable, but because the work is authentic, it will always maintain my identity within it. I find her statement and her art powerful because she talks purely about her experiences, because that is all she needs to identify herself with. As she states, "I am an individual with a consistent personal voice: an artist".

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One of the first Hmong American poets to be published was Pos Moua, author of Where the Torches Are Burning. He writes about the daily challenges faced by the Hmong in America, the conflict of cultural identities, and the experience of being a refugee. To transcend war narratives and depict the complexity of existence, Moua writes to humanize the Hmong experience. His subdued, introspective tone strikes a chord because it conveys both resiliency and vulnerability equally.

Pos Moua writes to humanize the everyday Hmong American experience, beyond war stories. His quiet, reflective poems speak of survival, family, and cultural tension. I find comfort in his honesty—he captures moments of belonging and struggle that mirror the immigrant experience broadly.

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(Sorry for the grainy picture. I couldn't find any pictures of her online, so I screenshotted her photo from ourbreading.)

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Martha Vang is a Hmong American woman who writes about experiences unique to her identities. She explores how these identities intersect and contradict each other with the goal of a reader learning more about themselves in the process. I really resonated with her message, I always thought one of the best ways to unite people is to talk about our own experiences that are shaped by our identities. Doing so often helps create well-rounded perspectives of both your own identity and identities you don't have. She wrote “Still Life of a Fruit Bowl,” which was not in our reading, but from a summary in the Lantern Review Blog, the poem is an engagement of her Hmong roots, describing fruits like spiky jack and durian with apples and oranges. It’s either a representation or sign of the intersection of her Hmong roots and American nationality.

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Mai Der Vang is the daughter to Hmong refugees. She writes in order to find deeper parts of herself and her identity. Most importantly, she writes to navigate through the paradox of being Hmong and an American. She continues to write to signify the strength and survival of the Hmong people.

In the reading, "How Do I Begin? A Hmong American Literacy", Mai writes a poem titled "To Make a Return". This poem discussed how children of refugees from the war often feel as though they are abnormal and outcasted living in a new diasporic society. A feeling that I often resonate with as a first gen from those who escaped the war themselves. Mai writes about common experiences the ordinary American child may experience and shadows these experiences with the burden first generation students may encounter battling both Western and Southeast Asian cultures. She writes about the loss of ones identity, losing grip to your ancestral traits, the usage of your native language slipping away. Something that I found most personable were not only these obstacles of juggling two different cultures but also the hardship of trying to build your own 'identity' and finding out who you truly want to showcase to the world.

The poem also identifies the common struggles both new refugees and their children face. She writes about the losses her parents had to face leaving what they called home, the struggles they face such as language barriers, the sentimental items from their homeland that they keep away from reminding them of the horrors, and the etches of the war marking her parents face. In relation to the "Secret War" she makes comment about how growing up she felt as though she must "become invisible by turning off your voice", which symbolizes how the war was portrayed to the world: invisible and silenced.

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Bryan’s biography is beautifully vast & profound examination of his self, and the concept of self across space and time. His biography and poem ‘Ecce Monstro’ show a common theme of exploring the self: “Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going? ... How long have I got?” blending philosophy, shared memory, and vivid imagery to disorient the reader enough to show them his reality. Adopted at the age of three by an American pilot named John Worra who flew for Royal Air Lao, the 'Secret War' shaped every aspect of his life, and his expansive, genre-defying work has sought to unify the Hmong, Laos, Asian American, and Panhuman communities.

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Kao Kalia Yang writes to preserve the silenced histories of Hmong people scattered by war and displacement. Her work, especially The Latehomecomer, resists invisibility by centering the emotional truths of refugee life. In the context of “history on the run”, Yang’s writing resonates deeply through its intimate portrayal of a fugitive past never fully archived but carried in bodies and memories. Her lyrical prose transforms state secrecy and militarized refugee experience into legible, personal testimony. Yang crafts a space where Hmong identity, shaped by loss and resilience, asserts its right to exist in history, literature, and public memory.