Dear Asian Youth,
when i was ten
i learned
how to
swallow myself
“Asians eat dogs.” I blink, confused. The statement doesn’t necessarily bother me. It seemed to make people laugh, in fact. I heard the lilting, teasing cadence of their voices, the giggles that graced their undertones. Surely, they meant no harm, right? Who was I to be someone that ruined that kind of laughter? Nobody likes a person who takes things too seriously, so I laugh through my too-thin glasses and choppy hair. I wring my hands and laugh, belly full of dread. “Yeah, they do.” I tuck away my tupperware, the scent of last night’s chorizo still hanging in the air.
i learned
that i cared
too much
tried
too hard
i wonder
what that means, i
tried to scrub
my skin clean
of dirt
make
people forget
what i am
i will be your cool asian friend
your straight a-student
your rebel, knife wielding, multi-colored hair
manic pixie dream girl
your quirky bestie
your quiet, eccentric, classmate
hiding behind books
that is what i am supposed to be
palatable
easy to swallow
unnoticed
I don’t remember a time where I didn’t want to be white. I idolized the tales of princesses who were blonde and flushed with beauty--girls who had oceans in their eyes and forests within their souls. I stare into the mirror, legs tucked beneath my bottom as I kneel atop the bathroom counter, searching for flecks of gold within my brown eyes. The things that were spoken of in my novels and poems. All I saw reflected back was darkness. Dullness. They will speak of honey-brown, warm tones, and the way that sunlight glances off of them, and I may even see that in my lifetime. Still, life is never as romantic as we make it out to be. I wasn’t even the pretty Asian idols they worshipped. No Fa Mulan or slick, black hair. No smooth, pale skin or softly slanting eyes. I could never be that. When people heard “Asian,” that’s the only thing they thought. Quiet, exotic beauty, not the untameable hair or dark skin I had. So, who was I really? I couldn’t answer that to my own satisfaction. The leaky sink of our bathroom faucet fades to background noise, all too rhythmic. The thought crosses my mind that maybe I am too accustomed to it.
i have evolved
from quiet, bookish elitist
to crass, unabashed jester
i will dance for the white court
asian girls
if not quiet and submissive
can only be subversive
and i do not look
like the asian girls
they talk about
so i joke
we eat dogs and cats
pull back my face
in a harlequin grin
dance and sing
make a mockery of melodious accents
languages that are not even my own
funny-
“evolution”
is not so synonymous with progress
I distanced myself from my culture. I remember laughing at the same tired comments again and again. Perhaps it was easier for me because of the disconnect- in all honesty, it wasn’t me who was the butt of the joke. I looked nothing like the nail-salon technicians that I’d imitate. When people murmur “ching chong ching,” they’re not mocking Tagalog. Even my own family is guilty of racist behaviour, pulling their temples back in terrible and caricaturistic fashions to imitate our Eastern brethren. It brings me no solace, and yet I still found myself doing it. Filipinos, for all of their jovial and resilient characteristics, can still be unabashedly cruel. It’s difficult to break from your family, of all people.
but if i
speak too loud
in tongues
and tones
unfamiliar,
i am thrown aside
unfulfilled plaything
so i think
i fester, i suppress
if i cannot speak
all that is left is thinking
all that is left is the mind
I hated speaking out against racist behaviours. Even if it was my friends or family, I had no constitution for confrontation, and I hated myself even more for being complicit. I hid away behind poems and essays, writings I would never dare say to their faces. I stopped cracking my attempts at humor that were thinly-veiled acts of over-compensation. I stopped laughing at the people who told them. But I never spoke. I didn’t want to fall into an angry activist archetype, and oftentimes my family lived by trying not to mind the tiny cracks. “Be a duck, let things roll off of your back,” my mother would utter, wiping away my tears as a child. Life is easier that way if you ignore all the little things. A little thing could be a microaggression, a stranger calling you a slur, the white girl in your history class muttering gibberish Mandarin when you’re learning about Confucious. It could also be the white kids who speak for you, who look cool and kitschy and socially conscious if they talk about race and intersectionality. But if it’s you, then it’s an “uncomfortable discussion”. I don’t mind allyship, in fact, I commend it. I have no internal resentment towards the white community in the slightest. But I cannot ignore their privilege- if anything, I am deeply jealous. They never seem afraid to speak. There is nothing more wonderful, I think, than full assurance in yourself.
and so,
this jester has become a pierrot!
a quiet, balking mass
unassuming but now saddened
soft balloon head so full
it’ll pop
and one day, a needle comes along to prick the belly
of bloated anger
so swallowed, so withheld
and the mime speaks.
burning at the throat and eyes,
makeup melting off
it is rage incarnate
it is sheer poetry
and so, i vomit
bring back up the alphabet soup drudgery of words unspoken
it is ugly,
inarticulate,
i fumble and fall
but i push through.
I feel helpless. It seemed like another score was added to the list of lives lost to a vindictive system. Ahmaud Arbery . George Floyd. Breonna Taylor. More, whose stories were not caught on camera. Shutting off my laptop, I crawl into bed, clutching my stomach. Tears are a weekly occurrence. Some of the only fragments of stability I have left. The world feels like it’s shattered into pieces, and I could do nothing. Such a movement didn’t concern Asians, right? Guilt weighs on my shoulders. Midnight revelations can range from painful to cathartic. This was both: I hated myself for my silence. I hated myself for my complacency- I was no better than those in power who saw deceit and refused to act out against it. I weep into my blankets, heavy with frustration. I bite down on my knuckles. I tire of crying very quickly, so my mind wanders as I train my eyes on the tepid moonlight leaking through the cracks of the curtain. What can I do? I rise, drawing back the drapes. Gentle light floods the room. The night has never seemed more melancholic. My body feels as though it is buzzing. With a furrowed brow, I make an internal promise. I can try. I can listen. A grace that I was never granted. The moon has never seemed brighter.
we
are more than
chinese restaurant cashiers
and tiny, submissive
immigrant wives
and mastermind
math students
and dragon lady
archetypes
we are more than the performers
in your jovial court ballet, more than the entertainers for high society
more than the diversity quota
and background characters
we are beyond
your milk-skinned
perceptions,
boundless in color
and belief
when i was sixteen,
i learned
that we are humans
composed of multitudes,
and i have complexities
worthy of hearing.
songs that echo ballads and epics
never again
shall i eat my own words
- Billy
Cover photo source: http://aacc.rutgers.edu/artexpo/
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