Page 36 of Strictly Against Policy

“We have, but nothing has stuck,” answered Andy.

“We’re thinking about Hmong names first,” added Julie. “Then, we’ll pick an English name from there.”

“What are all our Hmong names again?” Anthony asked. He went around the table, first starting with Andy and himself. “Andy’s Hmong name is Kou and mine’s Nhia. Shoua, your name is already Hmong. Julie is Pa Yeng. And, Jonathan⁠—”

He interrupted with a sharp hiss. “Don’t.”

Anthony smirked in a broad, playful way. “Aw, c’mon Ab Tub! You have a nice Hmong name!”

“Your Hmong name is literally ‘baby boy’?” I blurted out. “Why am I not surprised?”

Anthony took one look at my face and started hollering. So did Andy, Julie, and Shoua. I couldn’t help but laugh with them as Jonathan cocked a black brow at me.

“What’s your Hmong name, then?” he asked.

I smiled softly. “Hli Nag. My older sister was the one to name me Lina after her elementary school best friend, and my parents went with Hli Nag as my Hmong name.”

Jonathan’s arrogant smirk twisted into a thin line. He blew out an irritated groan. “Fuck, that’s a nice name.”

“Your parents must’ve thought about it thoroughly when they gave you that name. It’s so creative while we all have the most basic Hmong names ever,” said Shoua. “What a pretty name—Hli Nag.”

I used to question if my parents even chose my Hmong name thoughtfully and sincerely. Hli Nag, which literally translates to “moon rain” in our language, wasn’t a traditional or common name by any means.

I asked my mom once why they picked this particular Hmong name for me. Why Hli Nag? And she revealed exactly what I had previously suspected: the name ‘Lina’ sounded similar to those two Hmong words. Hli and Nag. Moon and Rain.

They could’ve named me something else. Something more common. Maybe then I wouldn’t have grown up thinking my parents cared just enough to give me a name that was different. Special.

I couldn’t deny how sad I was to discover they merely picked my name for simplicity’s sake. Hli Nag and Lina. A play on words. Simple as that. As a cherry on top, my parents never bothered calling me by my Hmong name anyway. They prefer to call me by my legal English name, like most Hmong parents these days.

So, no. They weren’t thoughtful or were even trying to be creative when they named me.

“Such a pretty Hmong name, too. Moon Rain,” smiled Julie. “It’s too bad we’re having a boy because I would’ve stolen your name, Lina.”

Andy smiled, watching Julie. “That’s why I wanted a girl. Just imagine how pretty she’d be, taking after you,” he said to her. “Pretty face with a pretty name.”

Julie chuckled, turning to her husband. “We’ll try with the second one. A girl for you and a boy for me.”

The two of them orbited each other silently in their own cosmos before Andy turned to me with his grin. I only met his gaze for a second before averting my eyes as embarrassment dripped down my spine.

It had been over a decade since I last saw him, and I was still mortified by how hard I had crushed on him freshman year. I dreamed about him every night for an entire school year and cried when he graduated. If that wasn’t an obsession, I didn’t know what was. Now I couldn’t even look him in the eyes. My skin heated with a fire trailing up to the apples of my cheeks.

“Lina, you need to return your keys to your previous leasing manager. Right?” Jonathan asked, glancing at me.

I met his gaze without hesitation. I nodded, awkwardly getting up to head into the kitchen to wash my used utensils. It is a Hmong custom for a guest to help the hosts wash their dishes to show their gratitude and thank them for the meal.

“I should be leaving now. I couldn’t return my old apartment keys earlier since the leasing office didn’t open until eleven,” I mentioned. “Thank you so much for the phở, Julie. I’ll wash these dishes and be on⁠—”

“Forget it. I’ll wash them for you later,” grumbled Jonathan, standing up as well. “I’ll walk you back to your place.”

“B-but—” I started. He shook his head, and I became quiet.

I glanced at his food as I bade everyone around the table goodbye, thanking the Hughes brothers again for their help. Jonathan didn’t even finish it, and the bowl was still half full. The rice noodles were left bloated with soup, hardly touched. We said nothing to one another as we slipped on the shoes we took off at Andy and Julie’s foyer.

Once the front door closed behind us, Jonathan let out a long and exasperated sigh. He sounded irritated as he let out a quiet grumble.

“You don’t have to walk me back,” I said. “You haven’t even finished your food.”

“I want to.” He shrugged. “You win, by the way. You do have a really nice Hmong name.”