Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends
Chopsticks and Friends





Until when are you going to write random things?

*Haha.

Maybe it's the way the national flag flies so high
Despite the country's imperfections
Maybe it's the way we're united
Not separated, despite the difference in cultures,
Believes, traditions, languages

Maybe it's the way you see an Indian eating with chopsticks,
The way you see a Malay in a saree,
The way you see a Chinese making ketupat's for Hari Raya.

Maybe it's the unity you see,
Maybe it's the goosebumps you feel when you say Merdeka,
Maybe despite the hate you have towards history,
Deep down, you know how grateful you are to be Malaysian.

Maybe it's the way you walk into a mamak,
And say
" tauke tapau roti canai 1 milo ais 99 "
And maybe,
It lies in diversity,
Beyond everything else.

*Malaysia, tanah tumpahnya darahku.

I am the only Asian in this bar right now.
Be my friend!
I will check the box of your social diversity quota.
Granted, I only speak a mispronounced fraction of
my immigrant parents' native tongue.
Ala Jackie Chan, I do not understand the words coming out the mouths of anyone on that massive continent (Russia included) that I appear to be more or less from.
But, I do eat spaghetti with chopsticks.
I am mystical as
fox, or Kitsune, in Japanese folklore.
I can hit you with wisdom worthy of a fortune cookie as fast as Google can tell you that the Philippines is nearly 2000 miles away from China. I want to say I'm from an exotic island where they play basketball in sandals and drink soda from plastic bags- like, A-level material you could make a movie out of in Slumdog Millionaire fashion and get awarded for your romantic portrayal of poverty you think is three worlds away from home. But nah, I'm just a kid from South Florida. Paved driveways and cul de sacs. But I do pump both fists in the air watching Manny Pacquio PPV fights on a bootleg stream. Beyond that, I'm probably the worst Asian there is. Not the crazy rich kind with a PHd. I dropped out of engineering after one semester and cannot solve a rubix cube. I never learned kung fu. Though I'm learning to face the adversity of becoming a single parent after my daughter's home broke in two. I write marketing proposals to pay the rent and poetry to fight without fighting in the spirit of Sun Tzu. My eyes do not slant in the direction of your narrative. I once ran in a pick up game where I caught the nickname of Yao Ming. Yao, I am 5 foot 8. Though I fall short of expectation, I can still check your diversity box on the way down and do a cool pen spin after to punctuate my intellectual prowess. I also happen to own an assortment of Japanese swords made in China, which I intend to use as heirlooms. This is what cultural colonization looks like: me, in a bar, the last samurai standing confused in an age of melting pots, Korean tacos and Asian slaw made by corporate imposters with names like PF Chang. What in the slaw is Asian? I wish I knew!  I wish I knew the true value of my heritage to be worthy of carrying it forward. Like how my grandfather planted a Malonggay tree in our backyard whose leaves my mother would pick and boil to make tinolang manok -the Filipino version of chicken soup- as a weeknight staple on our dinner table. I can barely soft boil an egg for instant ramen. Or how my motherland's socioeconomic gap tooth smile is so wide that it drove over 10 million of its native sons and daughters off its shores to find work overseas as servants on cruise ships and hospitals to feed the families they barely get to see. To follow their trail blazing footsteps, let me be the second generation tipping point where some form of cyclical tradition breaks. That way, I can raise my daughter free of predetermined scripts. So as the worst Asian in this or any bar, cheers:
to being the first of a new kind.

candlesticks caught up in your wristwatch grip bundled up burning chopsticks not frostbitten yet, flashlight to toes happy it still shows your glowing red interior

i.

the poem has a beginning exactly as you’d expect it:
pa in sweatshirt, ma with purse; the funny thing is
i never used to call them those names:
“pa,”
“ma,”
always found them too cowboy-ish,
too un-me, un-like

us: who held chopsticks before dinner time and shared
stories of how grandpa came over from china.

ii. (at the dinner table)

there is no symbolism here. there has been none
for a while now. this household eats and
eats in quiet. my grandmother is a poet but their
books all burned down

back in ’45 when mao stormed into fujian and
all her uncles could eloquent on was that
“the communists were coming!”
“the communists were coming!”
and instead of poems took with them their
children, and their gold to pawn

and their clothes on their muddy
mortar-stained backs

and the japanese

iii.

my grandfather now comes twice a week to the
hospital for chemotherapy. it is a nice hospital.
good view of the cleanest part of our *****

city. there are lights and white folks now. two things
my dad said did not used to be there. they

used to be spanish. they tilled
our rice fields and spent the money on living rooms
with lots and lots of space to sleep. we on the other hand,
worked. he claims.

your grandfather and his grandfather and i

iv.

awake every sunday morning at precisely 8:30.
made to go down to the temple in kalesas
and told to fetch the office paper for
noontime reading. see we weren’t spoiled: grew

up just next to the pasig river which back in
the 70s did not smell as bad as sin only
sweatshirts

and the sweat we soaked them in we reeled along
steamed fish heads and chopsticks for picking at them with
and bowls of rice we never really ate with spoons.

v. (back at the dinner table)

i listen to my mom and dad
sweat profusely in the evening heat only we can have here
he in his sweatshirt and she
with her golden purse,

preparing to leave - a wedding party awaits -
an jacket draped over his shirt just like grandfather used to do it
in a sense,
but gripping the chopsticks delicately for all us
to see:

“pa,”
“ma,”

v.

it is not cowboys that give us our names.

Poetry is like sushi.
Sushi contains
Rice & goodies  
Wrapped in nori.
Both are combined rolled
Into cylinders
Then cut
Into rolls.

Poetry
Is sounds  &  tropes
Rolled into images
Each poem
A unique
Experience.

When you
Eat Sushi
With chopsticks
You are too  eat
the rolls
with just  one bite
Sampling the wholeness
of the taste
and presentation.


May you
Devour
This poem
On the chopsticks
Of your feelings
And sample
The flavor
In the ink.

apple

did you imagine red?
so did I
which is weird because the apples I eat are kind of yellow

asia

I said asia
not China

I remember the time
my history professor told my class to imagine asia
I thought of an exotic
country
with arab sheiks
and snake charmers

the Chinese
the Japanese
chopsticks
and the orient

it was then that she pointed out
"haven't Western ideas just messed with you?"

and it was then that I realized
"Wait; I'm Asian. I've lived in Asia all my life."
how come I saw it as something foreign
and strange?
I've never even seen the things I imagined.

I remember when I watched Big Bang Theory
and the four friends sat down to Thai food
Raj made the mistake of asking, "where are the chopsticks?"
which led to Dr. Sheldon Cooper saying
(in this paraphrased version:)
"they don't use chopsticks. They use spoons and forks.
The fork doesn't go into their mouth.
They use it to push food unto the spoon, which then goes into their mouth."

I sat there thinking..
well that's weird

when a couple of months later as I watched the episode again
I realized
that's how my people eat!
that's how I've always eaten..

the houses I picture in an average neighborhood
are two story
concrete structures
with shingled roofs

cul-de-sacs
and oak trees

my own house
is one story
of brick and wood
it is beside a highway
and surrounded by guava trees
and coconuts

I don't even know what a picket fence is.

I'm half asian so everyone thinks I speak 'asian'
Which just goes to show their ignorance, thinking that's a language
Another strange causation because of my 'asianness' is that I:
Can always win arguements with Wyatt by stating this fact
Was declared a ninja even before my skills were proven
I surprise people with my appearance and when I reveal my ethnicity as they believe initially that I'm mexican, italian, or spanish
Was assumed to have gone to the same church as all the others
Am considered strange, exotic, weird, genius, awesome, and stupid
Am endearingly called a 'short asian woman/lady/girl' by friends
Oh and I love love love love chopsticks, rice, and spicy foods.
Pass the srirachi and pepper please

You can't eat yogurt
with chopsticks
Believe me I know
I just tried

Not a spoon was in sight
We had Chinese last night
Saw chopsticks and had
to decide

So I plunged with the stick
In the yogurt...not thick
My first scoop
was less than desired

I could be here all day
Yes eating this way
was definitely
making me tired

So I picked up the cup
The chopsticks did chuck
With a slurp and a guzzle
so quick

Lesson learned
Lesson lived
You can't eat yogurt
with chopsticks

Contemplating life
over a hot bowl of soup,
my mindful mentor
passed me
the pleasure of oyster
to mix in with
the pain of chilies
stirred together by
chopsticks held in my hands.

There he taught me
the lesson of humanity
and the person's potential,
pointing at me
and then back at the bean sprout,
fiddling it in his chopsticks
as if he were God,
mentioning to me
"This sprout and you have plenty alike..."

"What do you mean?
How am I like a vegetable?"

He smiled and nodded to disagree,
"Life is not always physical.
Think for a second,
open your fragile closed mind.
Imagine this soup not just a bowl
but instead a cauldron,
the mixing of different elements,
sensations seared by heat
to create the luxuries we call
the world where you
are a mere bean sprout."

Looking at the small, colorless
tasteless, inferior plant,
I wondered, confused and asked:
"Am I so inferior in this world
that I cannot compare
to the rich flavor of beef,
to the nurturing noodles,
to the accenting spices,
but instead am no more
than a flavorless root?"

Yet my mentor laughed,
and patiently passed:
"You worry too much young one,
too much on yourself you blame.
Instead, take upon consideration
that the bean sprout is small,
fragile, tasteless like water;
there is nothing you can change
other than size and color,
but lower it into the soup
and patiently stir,
allow it to soak up the world
and obtain its potential."

I repeated his actions,
placed myself in the world,
sat patient and absorbed its essence,
and then removed it,
placed it to my lips.
Surprised that what I later discovered
was not a bland taste of disappointment arose
but instead what lingered to the tongue
was the sweet taste of near perfection.

We walk the smoke-thick winter street of sweet 'n' sour aromas
amongst a throng of oriental shaded faces (such gentle souls)
who crowd  little pushcarts selling scallion pancakes.
Overhead, red talismanic paper lanterns bob, enticing us
to the tap of percussive chopsticks.

We sit in awe; snack on duck-tongue; roast pigs hang
glistening; fat-fresh, ready to fry.
Waiters wheel trolleys piled high with steaming shrimp noodles
past tables of golden oranges and watermelon seeds.
Our Chinese chef prepares shredded pork in garlic sauce.

He smiles and says:
"More guests means more happiness."

I pluck stars with chopsticks straight out of the night
bring them to my lips and kiss their fire
drop them into my bucket filled with seawater fresh from the shore
and watch them sizzle and spit and fizz and spark
and when it seems their fire is all gone with my chopsticks to save my fingers from their burn I flip them back into the sky and watch them reignite and shine back in the place I plucked them from.

Along the sidewalks of Somerset Street
People pass upon purposeful feet
Rice and noodles up for all
We each hear the call
Come! There is much here to eat.

From the western end we embark
Just near where we usually park
On the street's sunny side
Past diverse shops we stride
Windows hung with ducks roasted dark.

To the place we were aiming to get
A table with chopsticks is set
There we eat such a meal
That it fills us with zeal
A lunch that we won't soon forget.

I don’t always wash my hand when I ***. I am stubborn to the point of the ridiculous. I can’t understand people who don’t need their own space but at the same time I get lonely very easily. I narrate my own life like some kind of second rate soap opera. Sometimes I ******* out of sheer boredom but never *** because no matter how good it feels I am not really that interested. I get bored of people I am sleeping with very quickly. Even though I don’t like being in them I sometimes create ruts. I have very unhealthy relation ships with men and only ever fancy emotionally distant ******* with huge laundry lists of emotional problems because I am not wholly comfortable with being loved. I post pictures of my self semi naked on the internet because I like being desired without intimacy. I am terrified I am mentally defective like my great aunt Doris.  I hate my mother’s first name. I have always wanted to come from aristocratic stock and attend private school. I eat in bed. I use my size as an excuse so I don’t have to try to find love because then I would have to let someone in. I am scared of my manipulative side. I lie to well. I leave fresh flowers in their vase till they wilt and die because there is something morbidly beautiful about the sad crinkled mass it reminds me how closely linked we as humans are to our own mortality, I tell people I do it because they dry better that way. Sometimes I tell people things to appear more interesting than I am but when I tell the truth it is always more interesting, I still do it though. I am desperately afraid that if I do seek a psychological test I will be perfectly normal. I practise jokes in my head before I say them sometimes. I get scared when people expect me to share my own feelings or opinions and often make up ******* so I don’t have to divulge things. The shyer I am the louder I get. I once tried to jump off a bridge because of a boy. My parents ***** about each other to me, I just like the attention. My father has never directly told me he loves me. I hate sharing but because my mom instilled it in me as a child I find it ridiculously hard to say no. The more trivial something is about me the less likely I am to share it. I hate the feeling of puckering fingers after they have been in water and I always get angry doing the washing up. I got my first tattoo because I wanted to lay the artist. I eat with chopsticks because I don’t like getting food on my hands. I can be incredibly competitive and I hate myself for it. I like having beautiful friends. I google people I like (whether that be in a romantic or non romantic way). I am scared of never being a mother.

I am that petite build, with that straight, black and shiny hair that every white girl envies.
I have those slanty eyes that turn into slivers when I laugh.
I love kimchee, rice and mandu.  There is never such a thing as too much garlic.  I put red pepper flakes/paste on everything.
I use chopsticks.
People think I'm "cute" and pat me on the head.  That drives me nuts.  It still happens and I'm 32.
I regularly tell people that I don't speak Korean, except for "Where's the bathroom?" and of course "Anyonghaseyo".
My skin turns a dark tan in the summer months and I wish I was more peachy or pale like the white girls whom I think are beautiful.
I wear glasses.
I love to read and research things and I'm a good, diligent student, but I'm terrible with math and science.
I'm musical.

****

I play the clarinet, not the piano, violin, or cello; like every "Asian" should play.
I'm a tom-boy; you will never find me in a tu-tu or frilly-like dress (in public).
I do not wear make-up.
I'm loud, boistrous and obnoxious at times.  I have a serious *****-mouth and I'm not reserved or "refined".
I ask the guy out; not the other way around.
My career is more important than "settling down"-- at least during this point in my life.
I choose to never have children -- EVER.
I bite my fingernails and I've never had a manicure.  I've never even been inside a manicure shop.
I am a fantastic driver.
I am the only person of color in my immediate and extended family.
Over 99.5% of my friends are white.
I have never been in a relationship with an Asian man.
I grew up in an all-white neighboorhood and when I saw the Vietnamese, Cantonese, and Hmong students at my elementary school, I always wondered what it must like to be "them".

In 2007 I lived in South Korea for 3 months.  I encountered complex questions concerning who I am.  Who am I, really?  Am I an adopted Korean?  Am I a "real" Korean? Am I a Korean-American?  Am I none of these?  Does it even matter?  I was left with a gaping hole in my chest of deeper questions, deeper insecurities, and a poignant feeling of loss.  I thought, back in the States that who I am there is who I really am.  But, here I am, in the country of my birth, surrounded by people who share my ethnicity.  This is who I really am, right?  I felt such a deep responsibility to be more Korean.  I felt that if I identified as "white" or even a Korean-adoptee, that I was betraying my culture, my People, my home.  But, while I was in my homeland of Korea, I was so homesick for Minnesota.

When I returned back to Minnesota around Thanksgiving time, a few months later, Eastern Social Welfare (adoption agency in Korea) found my birth mother, Yoon, Young-Hee.  They were able to confirm that she was indeed my mother.  They tried to tell her that I have begun a search and that I wrote a personal letter for her, waiting at the agency.  Once they mentioned me, Young-Hee hung up the phone and would not answer Eastern's calls over a course of a year.  Children's Home Society and Family Services in St. Paul, MN contacted me and said that Eastern Social Welfare suggested that I wait a few years and try again.  I waited 6 years.  Last Decemember I re-intitated the search with the hopes that Young-Hee had gained the courage to talk to the social worker.  I had prayed for this for so many years.  I visulized light and love surrounding her.  I asked God for help.  I have heard nothing from my social worker and it's been almost 10 months.

I am learning how to let go of this search and let go of Young-Hee.  I am learning how to take my healing and my identity into my own hands.  I have a million questions that I wish I knew -- questions about my birth family's medical history.  Questions about why she gave me up. Questions about her current family.  Endless questions.  Now, I have come to terms that my questions may never be answered.  I could always have a mystery around my birth and possibly the future cause of my death (until I am diagnosed with something).  Can I live with this ambiguity?  As of right now, barely.  I am barely able to keep myself from falling apart with the frantic wonderings of my mind.  But, this is something I have to live with every day.

The Adopted Korean Community often hears wonderful and inspiring stories of adoptees being re-united with their birth-families. This is not my story.  My story is the all-too-common story that is rarely heard.  No one wants to hear how your birth mother will not cooperate with the Korean social worker and even read a letter you wrote for her.  No one wants to face the fact that millions of adoptees around the world live with this reality, too.  No one wants to acknowledge the pain, the rejection, and the loss that prevails.  Why would anyone want to hear a story like that?  Well, people who do not find their birth families or are turned away by their birth families have a story to share too.  It may not be an "upper", but it's a pretty important story to hear, too.  It lets us remember how we've all felt this way at some point in our lives, as an adoptee.  Most importantly, hearing stories like this helps other adoptees cope and feel that it is okay if their birth families wish to not meet or communicate with them.  It's not the adoptee's fault.  Adoptees who do not have success stories need to hear that this happens to many others and that a giant rejection does not mean he or she is worthless and less "special" than an adoptee who has been fortunate enough to reunite.

Why is it that I so closely tie my identity and then my self-worth to my birth family?  Why can I not be sovereign unto myself?  I am Korean.  Yes, I am.  It doesn't mean I must do, be, act, believe, see, or think in a certain way.  I am human, too.  I choose to have little identities that I see myself as while in different situations, with different people.  Indentity is complex-  it often signifies one thing-- oh that, (points) THAT is a chair. But simultaneoulsy, identity can also be so fluid and flexible -- (points) THAT chair is a folding chair, but this one isn't. But they're both chairs.  Maybe in some situations I can be a folding chair.  I'd like to play around with identity and let the concept roll around in my mind.  The thinking error comes when we think we must be one, same thing at all times. That is when we become stagnant.  How refreshing it is that we get to have such fluid identities!

Like every person on Earth, I have many shades.  I have many identities, and I surrender the long, hard fight to conform to one identity or another. This is my life and this is who I am, so I reserve the right to identitfy with whatever and whomever I see fit to be ME! :-)

Someone once asked me
questions I would answer blandly
they weren't what I wanted to answer
Questions of perfect dates
and perfect people
when simply
I wanted them to ask
"What is you favorite flower?"
I could respond with my fascination
with these tiny
white petaled
flowers
ones that made me smile
so wide
eastern Europe could see my teeth.
I wanted someone to ask
about my favorite food
So i could respond
with this amazing blend
of rice and fish
and seaweed and other ingredients
but I'd add
that I only eat them with chopsticks

I would look at them and ask
If I was to fall in love with you
could we share these things
and face the world?
but I couldn't do that
because who wants me,
the girl who wants **Sushi and daisies.

Like bears gnawing at the wood
And swings that go about
They sit and cross another
For that bark would even bite its brother

She paves the path
Of dynasties carved
With buckets of sludge upon back;
Bent, not unlike her mother’s limb,
But under shinier red flags,
Cloth coated, with lesser blood.

She’d had a hint of gray
She’d not had last time,
She had a newer limp
She’d not had last time,
Her ***** furthered from firm,
Reaching for the ground, a promise,
In years to be wed with,
And yet the underneath
Of it all remained as radiant
As any sun’d ever been;

And come the cloudy day she leaves,
Even mine own eye
Will remain far from dry
As I’d remember freshly cured bacon,
And her tender chopsticks offering life;
She’d saved me once, she’d save me again.

It took one night in the same room
with the next four months left up to the universe
to figure out that the greatest plans
will never be the ones we make in advance
and with the help of you words
to pick the lock on my brain
there is no way in hell that I could ever allow myself
to ignore every sign along the way
and walk past the capability
of being in love with you.

Eat the fourth cookie.
Bring back that fuzzy green sweater with lint ***** so stubborn
that even the strongest lint roller couldn’t break the bond they have with the sweater.
I know you pick your nose in public.
You stutter every time I ask who lives on Mamaroneck Street.
You have burping contests with yourself while you’re on the toilet.
I don’t care how you clip your toenails on today’s newspaper.
I still read it after you’re done.
I love that you paint each nail in a different neon color,
eat chocolate chips and green tea for breakfast,
and salt your apples.
You cry every time you watch Titanic.
I agree Rose should’ve moved to the side and shared the plank with Jack.
You rap to Baby Got Back fifty nine times in a row.
I wish we danced to it more often.
I wish you would tell me what you write in your red book.
I know you pretend you’re Beyonce in concert while working out,
and think Michael Buble wrote haven’t met you yet for you.
I love that you keep the ticket stubs from every single movie we see in the tea jar under your bed.
You smell of cologne every time you walk into the house.
You don’t know how to whisper. You never have.
You tell me you’ll be back by noon but don’t come back till 7 p.m.
You use your knitting needles as chopsticks when we order sushi,
And don’t stamp any of the letters you send your mom.
Even though you have seven wallets, you keep all your money loose in your bag
and throw away all the pennies in the trash.
You pretend your belly-fat is a puppet that can talk and sing,
And you flirt with the waiter for extra hot sauce.
You hate it when I use your cell-phone

And every night you kiss him goodnight at the train station.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz.
Ojalá mi cara fuese atardecer de cien días
y se perdiese como música en la marea.
Ojalá mis notas fuesen fuego
que corriese raudo por tus venas.
Ojalá se perfumasen en el aire
y  diesen sentido al amanecer del alba.
Ojalá fluyesen como el agua
suavemente rizando la rojez del cielo.
Ojalá fuesen contundentes como la roca
y cayesen a plomo junto a mi corazón muerto.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz.
Siempre cambiante, nunca la misma
subebajando en el horizonte.
Tierna y vibrante, siempre difusa
alzándose hacia el cielo con alas desplegadas.
Dulce y salada, externa e interna,
por ósmosis entrando por cada poro.
Pesada y rígida, sólida y pura
cercenando la realidad con su ser preciso.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
siendo lo que no es,
no siendo lo que es.
En cada instante de su espacio manifestándose
en cada punto de su tiempo existiendo.
Única e indivisible, aunque difícilmente alcanzable.
Verdadera mentira que perdura tras los siglos.
Satírica cual elefante boca arriba
dando a luz a lo que siempre ha sido nuestro.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz.
Saliendo hacia la luz verdadera
y tornando hacia la oscuridad traicionera.
Volando hacia arriba y en picado,
oteándose a si misma , eterna y cierta.
Creando un nuevo mundo igual a este,
igual de distinto que este a si mismo.
Imitando la certeza de lo incierto.
Pretendiendo con falsedades llegar al verso.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
y fuese objeto de su ser
y fuese sujeto de su haber
y se realizase siempre que le dieses tiempo
y se realizase siempre en lo que siempre fue
y avanzase inmóvil hacia la verdad
y esperase impasible a la mentira.
Ojalá de cada error saliese un mérito,
una esperanza, una virtud siempre precisa.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
tornando el arte arcana en ente nuevo,
aunque sea falso.
En estúpidas epifanías tornando el acto
cual poeta escribiendo estos versos.
Ojalá repetir versos pasados en lenguas nuevas
y llamarse artista.
Mero comentarista y observador
de lo que precedió en tiempo y espacio.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
existiendo con sólo pensarlo
negando el pensamiento mismo,
lógica implacable mintiendo mi rostro,
contradicciones inapelables mintiendo mi ser.
Con precisión matemática ser mentira,
con la etereidad del arte ser verdad.
Ojalá como estafador maestro ante tu mirar
se hiciese música que disfrutar.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz,.
Ojalá mi cara no fuese jazz.
Ojalá no tener cara, ni nada.
Ojalá el solo pensarlo me dejase ciega,
sorda para la música de mi rostro.
Ojalá pasar por debajo de una escalera tirada
para no recibir buena suerte.
Ojalá austera o inexistente,
cual dios mirando tu filosofía vana.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
y unificase tantas corrientes
como puede abarcar con sus brazos.
Ojalá pudiese tornar cierta la realidad
por el mero hecho de pensarla, pero no puedo,
pero mi rostro se muestra impasible
ante desdicha tal y sigue avanzando;
regla dorada entre uñas de marfil,
largos palillos para comer la realidad desvirtuada.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
y revolucionase el mundo con su pensar
y desmontase heregías como ciertas.
Ojalá años más tarde siguiese su lucha
contra el infiel divino hasta su muerte,
y como la de un mono con barba
se tornase contra el padre de la ciencia moderna,
y le enseñase a pensar en sueños,
a soñar en vida, a soñar en muerte.

Ojalá mi cara fuese jazz
y se repitiese eternamente para mi suerte,
nunca cambiando, siempre presente.
Ojalá asesinase al padre de todo
y se adueñase de su lugar.
Ojalá existir antes de ser.
Ojalá rodar por la vida sin mirar a los lados,
destruyendo lo que tantas veces nos ha aplastado
y creando la belleza del arte, que es eterna.

//

I wish my face were jazz.
I wish my night were sunset of one hundred days
and it lost itself like music in the tides.
I wish my notes were fire
which ran swift in your veins.
I wish they would perfume itself in the air
and gave meaning to the morning's sunrise.
I wish they flowed like water
softly curling the sky's redness.
I wish they were sturdy like rock
and they plummeted next to my dead heart.

I wish my face were jazz.
Always changing, never the same.
updowning in the horizon.
Tender and vibrating, always diffuse
rising towards the sky with open wings.
Sweet and salty, extern and intern,
by osmosis entering through each pore.
Heavy and rigid, solid and pure
cutting through reality with its precise being.

I wish my face were jazz
being what it is not,
not being what it is.
In every instant of its space manifesting itself
in every point of its time existing.
One and indivisible, although hardly reachable.
True lie which endures beyond centuries.
Satiric like elefant on its head
giving birth to what always has been ours.

I wish my face were jazz.
Going out to the true light
and turning to the treacherous darkness.
Flying upwards and in a dive,
scanning itself, eternal and true.
Creating a new world equal to this,
equally as distinct as this to itself.
Imitating the certainty of the uncertain.
Trying with falseness to reach the verse.

I wish my face were jazz.
and it were object of its being
and it were subject of its having
and it came true always you gave it time
and it came true always in what it always was
and it moved fordward unmoving towards the truth
and it waited impasible the lie.
I wish of every error a merit would come out,
a hope, a virtue ever precise.

I wish my face were jazz
turning arcane art into a new being,
even if false.
Into stupid epiphanies turning the act
as a poet writing this verses.
I wish to repit old verses in new tongues
and to call myself an artist.
Mere commentator and observer
of what preceded it in time and space.

I wish my face were jazz.
Existing with only thinking of it,
negating thought itself,
implacable logic lying my visage,
unnappealable contradictions lying my being.
With mathematical precision being a lie,
with the ethereality of art being the truth.
I wish that like master con artist before your looking
it turned itself into music to enjoy.

I wish my face were jazz.
I wish my face weren't jazz.
I wish I didn't have a face, nor anything.
I wish only thinking of it made me blind,
deaf to the music of my visage.
I wish passing under a fallen ladder
to not receive good luck.
I wish austere or non-existant,
like god looking at your vane philosophy.

I wish my face were jazz,
and it unified so many streams
like it can embrace with its arms.
I wish I could turn reality true
with the mere act of thinking it, but I can't,
but my visage shows itself impassible
before such misfortune and continues onwards;
golden rule among ivory nails,
long chopsticks to eat the desvirtuated reality.

I wish my face were jazz
and it revolucionised the world with its thinking
and it disassembled heressies as true.
I wish years later its fight would continue
against the divine infidel until his death,
and like a bearded monkey's
it would turn itself against the father of modern science,
and it taught him to think in dreams,
to dream in life, to dream in death.

I wish my face were jazz
and it repited itself enternally to my fortune,
never changing, always present.
I wish it assassinated the father of everything
and took its place.
I wish existing before being.
I wish rolling through life without looking sideways,
destroying that which always has crushed us
and creating the beauty of art, which is timeless.

We were kids.
You shut the door on me in the pouring rain.
You had this wide-eyed, crazy grin on your face
all the time
amused with yourself
and that was enough.
How did I know
how to tell a boy I liked him?
I just knew your breath smelled like
listerine when you got on the schoolbus
in sleepy half dawn
You sat behind me and sometimes,
if I peeked my eye through the crack between
the seat and window, you'd smile
and share your headphones with me,
a simple song or two from The Postal Service.
On brave days, I'd scoot back to be closer
and breathe you in
in tentative girlish awe.
You laid your head down on my lap
to nap the rest of the trip
and I'd watch you, holding
my breath,
slowly playing
with your orange curls
spilling
through my fingers like sunlight.
Almost a decade later,
I've forgotten the schoolbus.
We're reunited with a group, eating
sushi, laughing until we cry
at my spicy face and the clumsy
way I can't hold chopsticks taunt.
But reaching past you, I brush
your hair on accident and stop short,
the sensation tingling my fingers,
remembering how
more than once I've
gazed at you in wonder.

Morning:
how to undo a bra-strap
(almost-girlfriend).

Afternoon:
how to use chopsticks
(former drama-teacher).

Evening:
how to know if she hasn't yet let go of her baby
(mother).

chinese chow-mian
little brown worms
wriggling past soya sauce
skinny dipping into sizzling sauté stew
lavished with molten eggs
strangled by wooden chopsticks silently
heavenly.

when i was born,
you cried to our grandmother
because you wanted a brother
and got stuck with me, instead.
and what a turn of events that became.

when i was a baby,
i busted the back of your teeth out
with a bottle of perfume,
most likely contributing to your
repetitive dreams of your teeth falling out.
sometimes i think of this when you say your "th"s.

when i was a child,
you would pick peppers with our dad
down the street and hold eating competitions
while i squashed berries in my little tyke car.
we played mouse trap on the floor.

when i completed my first decade of life,
you packed your bags, got on a bus,
got married, and were deployed for the first time.
i don't remember much of those days.
i only remember the first phone call,
"yours truly, from iraq."

when i was eleven,
you came home, war torn and ragged
and divorced from an army wife
who was never really a wife at all.
you moved on, in some ways
more than others.
you were different, changed.

when i became a preteen,
i met a girl, and looked at our mom
and i said, "he's going to marry that girl."
and marry her, you did,
and had your first child, too.

when i was a teenager,
you taught me important life lessons
like how i act when i'm drunk
and how to do sake bombs like i belong in asia.
you taught me to eat with chopsticks.
through babysitting, i learned to wait to have a child.

and now, at twenty years old, everything is different.
living down the street from me, then in the old house,
and finally in our mom's house with me,
the dynamics changed.

we became the best friends we'd
always tried to be, but were too distant
to maintain. we gained trust and inside jokes.
you finally gave approval of my boyfriend.
we wreaked havoc and stayed up way too late.

but then you moved five hundred miles away,
and every day my heart feels ripped into pieces.
i miss all the jokes, and you waking me up
to our favorite songs.
i miss my brother. i miss my bubby.
i hope one day one of us will go home.

i. throw away the three boxes of
incense sticks that burn your eyes
when lit. When your father asks
you where they went,
tell him,
they’re a firehazard.

ii. before you board the bus, rush
to the bathroom. dump out the
mi sao your mother made
for you.
repack with lunchables and fruit roll-
ups. hide your wooden chopsticks.

iii. rip the buddha necklace off
your chest. with the imprint of the fat
man digging into your left palm, raise
your right hand and shout, “I’M NOT
A BUDDHIST. my mother was.” to the peers
think all Asians are Buddhists and
all Buddhists are Asian.

iv. When they ask you why ‘Vy’
rhymes with ‘bee’ and not ‘my’,
tell them that Vietnamese and
English are two different
languages. But remember to
apologise for the inconvenience.
Look forward to this question for
the rest of your life.

v. If a substitute asks, “Sorry
if I pronounce this
wrong but is Vy [rhyme with
eye] here?” Do not duck
beneath your desk. Do not
correct them. Tighten your lips
into a smile, look them in the
eye and raise your hand,
"here."

vi. avoid going shopping with
your parents, they will ask you to
bargain with the cashier on
how the lettuce ball s a bit too
small to cost three dollars, and
that they should take off a
dollar. when you refuse, they will
try to communicate in broken
English.
this is your cue to wait out front.

vii. when graduation day comes
and your entire family wants to
attend,
say no. it is not important.
it is important. but your
grandmother will tell everyone that
you are the first, to step foot
into college. avoid
this embarrasssment by telling them
graduation is cancelled.

viii. instead of taking pictures with
your “fresh off the boat” family,
borrow Kelly Tran’s, whose
parents are hip and cool and let
her speak English
at home.

ix. are you Chinese?
no

x. are you Japanese?
no

xi. are you Korean?
no

xii. Are you Asian?
…yes

xiii. what kind of Asian are you?
Vietnamese
… American

xiv. You are not Vietnamese-
American. there is nothing
American about you except your
citizenship.

xv. make sure you choose the
furthest college away from home,
where your mother won’t be able
to send you white rice and
kimchi, among other foods that
your white roommate can’t pronounce.

xvi. no matter where you go,
someone will ask you to “say
something in your language”
they say
"your language"
because one,
they don’t know what language
you speak, two,
they don’t know how to
pronounce it. they just
assume you speak one
besides English.

xvii. when your mother calls
while you have company over
and asks,
"con co nho me khong?", pretend
you don’t understand. take a
glance at the people around you
and firmly reply, “mom i’m
busy. i’ll call you later.” lace it
with enough conviction to fool
wandering ears but with less
compassion so that your mother
knows not to stay up late past three waiting.

xviii. tan your skin, bleach your
hair, forget your native tongue.
remember the boys who leer,
grabbing their crotch, whispering in
your ear, “i’ve got yellow fever,
can you cure me?”

xix. stand in front of the mirror.
open youtube and search, “how
to get rid of an Asian accent”
because no matter how western
you look, your mouth will speak
"duh girl likes pissa" instead of
"the girl likes pizza".

**. schedule a plastic surgery
appointment, fix your nose, jaw,
and monolid eyes. people will
try to stop you, “you are perfect
the way you are! there is no one you-
er than you!” laugh at them.
inform them, “the looks of me is
not what society want people to be.”

xxi. pick up the phone. dial
home. hang up. do this five
times. after the fifth, you will
have convinced yourself that you
don’t miss them. it is just the
alcohol talking.

xxii. before you sign up for this
read the fine print. in addition to
losing your identity, you will lose
yourself. becoming a child of
corrporate America is as easy as it
seems. you just have to let go of
your humanity.