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\"Nong Vang dreams one day he'll become a MMA superstar, but his real life turns into a nightmare when his bully big brother returns to town. This young Hmong ultimate fighter can trash talk, but inside the cage, can he find the courage and skill to achieve success?\"-- Provided by publisher.

Hundreds of low-budget Hmong language films—comedies, action films, horror films, historical fiction movies, documentaries and others—have been produced for Hmong American audiences since the 1990s. Most of them have been made by 1.5-generation Hmong American men in Thailand, in collaboration with Hmong Thais who work for Hmong American producers as actors and in various other capacities. Khek Noi sub-district, Phetchabun Province—the most populous Hmong community in Thailand—is the centre of Hmong film-making because of political history, landscape, language, the skills that Hmong at Khek Noi have developed, and because Khek Noi has become a recognizable place for Hmong American film-makers. Indeed, Khek Noi can appropriately be referred to as ‘Hmollywood’, even though there have been tensions between Hmong American filmmakers and Hmong Thai who have worked for them. The American market for Hmong films is, however, facing serious challenges, leading Hmong American film-makers to look for new directions in producing and marketing films. This article engages with the literature on transnational cinema, arguing not only that there are transnational and globalized influences on the Hmong film-making industry, but also crucial place-based ones.

\"Jenny Nguyen moves to a Wisconsin high school and, hoping to fit in, she posts a made-up story about a romance with a teacher on secret message board The Confessional\"-- Provided by publisher.

A literary address tackling issues of ethnicity and identity as an Asian American writer in the United States.

After they arrived in the US, Hmong refugees expanded their artistic expressions from kwvtxhiaj (singing) and pajntaub (embroidery) to spoken word performances, plays, painting exhibits, poetry publications, and other creative genres. This article examines the thriving Hmong American arts scene in Minnesota to explain why these refugees invested scarce time and resources in art when they were still busy meeting basic needs and confronting external oppression. It presents the findings from content analysis of Hmong newspaper articles about 62 public art events involving 248 Hmong American artists from 2002 to 2011. The article shows that this ten-year period began with the first Hmong art exhibition and the first book of Hmong fiction in world history. These and other Hmong American art forms addressed three social problems: 1) intergenerational conflict; 2) gender inequality; and 3) human rights violations in Laos and the US. The development of Hmong American art was, therefore, a dynamic adaptation to new diaspora challenges rather than simply an attempt to preserve Hmong culture.

Asian American literature has been defined in a wide variety of ways: by the ethnicity, birthplace, residency, citizenship, place of death of the writers; by the setting of a text; by an independent, proud sensibility within a text. Kai-yu Hsu and Helen Palubinskas, the editors of the first Asian American literary anthology, Asian-American Authors (Boston: Houghton, 1972), stressed race, defining Asian Americans as American citizens of Mongolian ancestry with a shared Confucian and Buddhist cultural tradition: that would be Chinese, Japanese, and Korean. Because of their special relationship to the U.S., Filipinos also had to be included, but because Korean American literature was difficult to find, it was not represented in this first anthology. Frank Chin and the angry young editors of Aiiieeeee! (1974, 1991) sought an \"authentic Asian American sensibility,\" and although they have published two editions of their anthology, they have yet to define what differentiates an \"authentic\" from a \"fake\" Asian American text. All they have made clear is that an \"authentic\" Asian American text does not admit to white racial superiority nor pander to white taste for exotica. Elaine Kim's 1982 Asian American Literature: An Introduction to the Writings and their Social Context, the first full-length critical/historical book on the subject, defined Asian American literature as the \"published creative writings in English by Americans of Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and Filipino descent\" (Kim, xi). For lack of material, Kim omitted South Asian Americans (those from India, Nepal, Sri Lanka, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Bhutan, and the Maldives) as well as Southeast Asian Americans (Vietnamese, Cambodians, Laotians, Hmong, Burmese, Thai, and Indonesians). Significantly, she also excluded literature set in Asia written in English by Asian Americans, as well as texts written in Asian languages. David Hsin-fu Wand, editor of Asian-American Heritage (New York: Washington Square, 1974) drew the widest boundary lines, including the writing of Asianborn writers (for example, a Korean emigre on his American experience -- Younghill Kang's East Goes West, 1937), writing set in Asian countries by Asian Americans (such as Korean American Richard E. Kim's Lost Names, 1970), and South Pacific Island oral literature in translation. If we apply Elaine Kim's definition of Asian American writers to the group I spent a week with in Taiwan, neither C.Y. Lee's Gate of Rage, Leslie Li's Bittersweet, nor Belle Yang's Ba Ba would qualify as Asian American texts because they are all set in China, although all three authors themselves are American citizens living in California and New York. By Kai-yu Hsu's racial definition, Aimee Liu, who is only one quarter Chinese and looks totally Caucasian, may not qualify. Moreover, Liu's novel, Face, although set in the U.S., reaches a problematic climax when the secret is revealed that the heroine was gang-raped by young Chinese men in New York's Chinatown. Such a theme suggests that this book be classified with the school that presents Chinatown as a dark, dangerous place of Tong wars and barbarous \"exotic\" ways. In contrast, Face depicts Wisconsin as a healthy, natural place. Thus, Frank Chin, who accuses even Maxine Hong Kingston of being a \"fake\" Chinese catering to white racist taste, would hardly find in Face an \"authentic Asian American sensibility.\" Because I was born in Beijing, by Chin's definition, I can't be a \"real\" Chinese American. Thus, of the five Chinese American writers invited to visit Taiwan this past April, not one would meet the criteria of all the critics defining Asian American literature.

[Bryan Thao Worra] estimates he was 1 year old when his adoptive father brought him to America -- it's an estimate, he says, because he can't be sure of his birth date. His new siblings were far older and already living away from home, so he eventually grew up an only child. Worra felt just as alone outside the house. The family bounced from Washington, D.C., to Ann Arbor, Mich., to Missoula, Mont., to Anchorage, Alaska, and in each locale, Worra saw himself as the only Asian kid within miles. As with many kids longing for belonging, books were Worra's refuge and escape -- \"speculative literature,\" he says, in the realm of fantasy, horror and general sci-fi. By the time he moved to St. Paul in 1998 with an opportunity to work for the Hmong Tribune, he had already written a large body of fantastical poetry. Worra has published much of it in an online chapbook titled \"Monstro,\" a collection spanning 15 years of work Worra calls \"a meditation on fear.\" Bryan Thao Worra, whose writing spans poetry, journalism and science fiction, sits at Source Comics in Falcon Heights, a favorite hangout. Worra is a featured guest at the Diversicon 14 science- fiction convention today through Sunday in Bloomington.

Eric Hayot's opening essay traces a history of \"the anxiety that China can provoke about the West and its future\" (19) in readings of science fiction texts, and the essays that follow present a faraway place written over with the fears and desires of its observers and visitors: from Walter S. H. Lim's reading of Milton's admiration for China and David Porter's analysis of William Chambers's eighteenth-century fantasia on Oriental gardening as an artifact of his nostalgia for a past experience in China, to Danielle Glassmeyer's reading of Cold War sympathy through the figure of U.S. Navy doctor Tom Dooley in the Vietnam era and Timothy Kendall's analysis of the experience of an Australian held captive in China in 2001, whose claims of love for China were caught in a narrative of despotic torture. Yao reads these poems as \"early manifestations of a global cultural dynamic\" (318), and his approach, which considers the Angel Island poems alongside both Chinese modernism and the \"collective achievement\" of jazz (320), reveals the rich possibilities of \"sinography\": through a focused attention to the texts of the Angel Island poems, Yao discovers both a significant difference from contemporary aesthetic movements in China and a surprising similarity to the global art of jazz.

Winner of the 2001 Mary McCarthy Prize in Short Fiction, [Gadbow] offers a first novel set in Missoula, MT. Janet Hunter, divorced and lonely, accepts the challenge of teaching displaced Vietnamese and Hmong teenagers who have been scarred physically and emotionally by the Vietnam War.