Before she was even born, Toc Soneoulay-Gillespie began her journey far away from her roots in her Lao village.
Her mother, Phouvong Sonelouay, pregnant with Soneoulay-Gillespie, had to bribe her way into the refugee camp in Thailand, where her father, Soulideth Soneoulay, was being held captive.
Soneoulay-Gillespie was born in 1976 in the camp in Thailand as a proud Lao. She was the first-born child; her five siblings were all born in the U.S..
In the refugee camp, the Soneoulay family received the “golden ticket,” the chance to move to the U.S., in 1979. They arrived in New York City where a Jewish family warmly welcomed them.
“I think people’s experience, the first experience in the U.S. is what really helps ground them and give strength and direction,” Soneoulay-Gillespie says.
After several moves, the family settled in Fresno, California, where they remained for ten years.
“Mom and dad spoke very limited English,” Soneoulay-Gillespie says. “I pretty much had to help them navigate the world when we first resettled.”
At age nine, Soneoulay-Gillespie was translating for her parents at a clinic when the receptionist said they had to go home because the clinic’s interpreter was absent. As they were walking out of the clinic, a white man sitting in the waiting room said, “That’s right, go home. Go back to your country.”
Her father told Soneoulay-Gillespie that they, being immigrants, were “throwaways.” She didn’t care about what the man said–it was what her father said that mattered.
“That is my why. That is what stays with me every day, and I fight every day to prove to my dad that we are not a throwaway,” Soneoulay-Gillespie says.
This memory became one of Soneoulay-Gillespie’s guiding principles. Her goal was to ensure others never felt this way, but knew they belonged in the U.S. just like everyone else.
Growing up in the projects of Fresno, Soneoulay-Gillespie listened to Hip Hop and RnB. Her family lived in a four-bedroom project house. Her parents worked long, hot days in the fields and she was aware of their poverty and felt embarrassed when they would pull out food stamps to pay for groceries.
Being her parents’ translator led to pressures of adult responsibility at a young age.
“(I had to) help my parents go to the welfare office, go to the housing office, help pay their bills, and clean while my parents were at work,” Soneoulay-Gillespie says. “I hated my life growing up, and I share this publicly…I didn’t understand why they would put so much responsibility on me to have to navigate.”
Influenced by modern-day American culture, Soneoulay-Gillespie wanted to chop her hair short and wear American clothing; instead, because her father insisted, she grew her locks, wore traditional Lao skirts and spoke Lao at home. While her friends were out having fun, she stayed home to care for her five siblings.
“I would leave the house with my appropriate wear with legs covered,” Soneoulay-Gillespie says. “I would go to (middle) school and then I would do a change of clothes in the restroom.”
One night, Soneoulay-Gillespie heard the distant shriek of sirens on her way home from school. Little did she know that a short distance away was her father, covered in blood. At a gas station, he had reached for the same nozzle as another man, and the other man drew a knife and stabbed him in the back.
“I had to be the one to interpret for him, not only at the police station, but at the courtroom,” Soneoulay-Gillespie says.
Soon after he left the hospital, her family packed up and moved to Kodiak, Alaska.
Driving up the Alcan highway, Soneoulay-Gillespie sat angrily in the backseat; she had finally fit into Fresno just to have to uproot again.
But it turned out that moving to Kodiak was the best thing that happened to her.
In Alaska, while her parents worked 12-hour shifts at the cannery, Soneoulay-Gillespie’s life opened up for her at school. She played varsity volleyball, was on the dance and cheerleading teams, ran track and was her high school’s prom queen.
In Kodiak’s small school, she learned about college, scholarships and financial aid. At age 18, Soneoulay-Gillespie became a citizen with help from her history teacher.
After she graduated from high school, her family relocated to Anchorage and Sonoeulay-Gillespie headed to Eastern Oregon University. She studied anthropology and sociology, eager to examine the inner workings of human connection.
After college, Sonoeulay-Gillespie worked in Portland as an intern connecting with gang youth.
Still inspired by the moment she realized immigrants weren’t “throwaways,” Soneoulay-Gillespie then joined Portland’s Catholic Charities, working in refugee resettlement as a case manager. She also sometimes was a Lao translator.
In 2002, her dad was diagnosed with stomach cancer. She moved to Anchorage to help care for him. She began pursuing a master’s degree at University of Alaska while continuing to work in refugee resettlement.
Soneoulay-Gillespie met Virgil Gillespie in 1999 in Anchorage. Gillespie grew up in South Carolina as a Black American. Before meeting, Soneoulay-Gillespie and Gillespie had not previously had relationships–romantic and non-romantic–with those of each other’s race. Together, they taught each other about traditions, cultural practices and beliefs. They married in 2007 and had two children.
“The conversation that we have most often is the conversation about race,” Soneoulay-Gillespie said. “We have two biracial children, you know, we are moving through the world as a interracial marriage with biracial kids. Going to the Buddhist temple, going to church, those are the pieces that are very near and dear to us. Our family is so important.”
In 2006, her father passed away. Even in his last days, Soneoulay-Gillespie translated for him.
“By the time my dad was having pain when we went to the hospital again, I had to interpret,” Soneoulay-Gillespie says. “I had to be the one to tell him that he was going to die, which is why I’m such a huge advocate for language justice.”
Now the Director of the Oregon Office of Immigrant and Refugee Advancement, Soneoulay-Gillespie shares her full circle story with incoming refugees and immigrants.
“Unless you understand the system of refugee resettlement, you don’t really know how to mold those two worlds together,” Sonouelay-Gillespie says. “Not only do I have the lived experience, but as a systems thinker, working in the refugee resettlement system really helped me. It was like full circle where I understand the policies and what needs to change to help other refugees.”
The second immigrants and refugees set foot in the U.S., Soneoulay-Gillespie ensures they don’t feel they are “throwaways.”
For many years with a group at the Portland International Airport, Soneoulay-Gillespie greeted new families as they flew in from all over the globe, just as she had once done.
“You feel lonely when no one’s coming to welcome you,” Soneoulay-Gillespie says. “That’s where we started, the airport. Pickups had never been done before in this country around resettlement…but we brought whole communities together.”
Now that her parents are gone, Soneoulay-Gillespie continues to be proud of her roots, and excited to represent new immigrants and refugees of Oregon.
And, as Soneoulay-Gillespie says: they are not “throwaways.”