Yesterday, someone on facebook called me a “paper
because my citizenship
came to me from ink printed on a piece of paper
and not blood shed on
the floor of an American hospital,
and somehow something
that happened before I was old enough to remember
makes me any less
knowledgeable of American history
(Say that to my A in AP US history
and my perfect score on
the citizenship exam
and my blog full of
memes and American political commentary.
They say that most
“real” American can’t even do that well.)
My family might not have set foot on the North American
Until the airplanes struck the twin towers,
But my race has been enmeshed in American history
For as long as there has been “American history”.
“Blood and soil!” they shouted at me thru
“BLOOD AND SOIL!
BLOOD AND SOIL! BLOOD AND SOIL!
THAT’S WHAT IT SAID ON
THE LIBERTY BELL!
BLOOD AND SOIL”
They chanted as if they
were marching in Germany during the 1930s
With a red band on
Framing the askewed Jain symbol of Suparshvanatha.
I swallowed the troll bait.
You want to talk about
"blood” and “soil”?
Let’s talk about the Filipino blood shed on the Spanish
Off the coast of
California and Louisiana,
and Catholic proselytization in their home country,
Looking for peace in a
time of white men taking whatever the fuck they want
Under the guise of
Let’s talk about the blood of the Chinese and Japanese
sailors that runs through the veins
Of the people who lived
on the sugar cane plantations
And toiled under the
heat of the Hawaiian sun
For the profit of the
Who yet aims to
erase their culture and their history.
Let’s talk about the sweat of the Asian American
Whose blood tempered
the steel of the Transcontinental railroad tracks
And shined the gold of
the American gold rush
And fed the animals of
the Western cowboy days
And whose memory are
While their blood and their sweat and their tears
Stains still the soil of the American West.
Let’s talk about the blood of the Japanese American
Shed on foreign soil
for American victory,
Even as the blood and
the bones of their family
Lie buried in soil of the
American concentration camps.
Let’s talk about the blood of the Asian American farm
Who fertilized the rich Californian soil and on whose sweat grew
The grapes and
The almonds and
The cotton and
The peaches and
The plums and
The potatoes and …
Let’s talk about Asian American blood
shed on the streets of
the peaceful demonstrations of the civil rights movement
Let’s talk about the sweat of Chinese Americans
Shed in the kitchens that
made Chinese Takeout an American experience.
Let’s talk about the Asian American scientists and
On whose brilliance the
Silicon Valley prospered.
You want to talk about “blood and soil”?
Asian American blood has fertilized the American soil
And tempered American
And formed the brick
and mortar of American history.
Our history is as long
as the Europeans settlers;
Our food is as American
as apple pie.
Your racist history books might have forgotten us -
But we are here.
We’ve always been here.
And we will always be
My mother yells at me for going out too often
paying too much for dinner cooked by strangers
yearning for cities too far away to reach by train
she tells me she wants to keep me for a bit longer
in the nook of her arms and bend of her elbows
because I am her dream
a flower seeded in America
blooming far more gracefully than she could have imagined
growing up too fast and leaving too soon.
My hopes and aspirations saturate thoughts of my future
her hopes and aspirations have come to fruition
but they are slowing slipping into the past.
& because you aren’t here (won’t ever, again, be here) to cover my mouth, I’ll confess, out loud, my love, so maybe perhaps, you will hear me & join me, here where the sun is sweet against the water & because I love you, I will gut this distance with nostalgia, because grief can taste of sugar if you run your tongue along the right edge,
— Hieu Minh Nguyen, from “Still, Somehow,” published in The Margins
There are words I wish I could say to you that are lost at the bottom of the sea. When you first came here, you taught your mouth the right way to speak to keep them from questioning you. You tried your best to scale the accent from your serpentine tongue, you were afraid they would find the foreignness unsettling and dangerous. But in secret, you raised me to speak the language of your home because it was the only way you could understand what love sounded like. I have lost it over the years. Left pellets of warmth buried underneath the sand. Unraveled history by the frays from my tired attempts of stringing together a coherent sentence for you. Spilled a cleaner, more eloquent, but American hue on our colors. They say English is the language of success. But I watched you struggle to find the right words to tell your boss you would work overtime. And you watched me give up on finding the right words to say you mean everything to me. How did I not see that there was something missing to this? That I lost something when I stopped trying to get you to hear me. That I let you go when I stopped trying to listen. Sacrifice is hard to grasp when you don’t know you have anything to lose. I didn’t know I had everything to lose.
I am standing in a house overlooking the sea
The house is on stilts, but short
The bluff is tall with cloudy grass
The sea is soundless, white
There is nothing in the house
There are windows, a doorway, no door
I watch a group of Asian American women walk up the bluff
Enormous mushrooms on their heads
The mushrooms look handmade
Flat-topped or bowl-shaped, Brandon, are you home?
This isn’t my house, what sea is this?
The water is white. It looks hot
The women form a circle in the grass. I stand in the doorway
The women sit down. The circle becomes mushrooms
Shy and embarrassed. I want to join them
I recognize my hands outlined in black
On both sides of the doorway
Left hand on the right, right hand on the left
To reclaim my hands, I must resist interrogation
What are you? I am …
Sorry. We do not have one
The sea is apocryphal
Floating surfactant over the bluff
The sun is eclipsed. It is day. I could go, but
The Asian American women are inviting me
I cross my arms before the doorway. I want to jump through the doorway
But I have candy The sea has several
Why do I feel shy and embarrassed?
Returned like a parcel, told
GO TO YOUR HUSBAND
GO TO HIS FOOT
When I was young, I wore a fox mask
I took it off, and smashed it
Against a rock
When the sound was right
I wore it beneath
The sea does not encourage me. The sea is ugly
The high, white tide
Stings the shore
If you want to know what we are who inhabit forest mountain rivershore, who harness beast, living steel, martial music (that classless language of the heart), who celebrate labour, wisdom of the mind, peace of the blood;
If you want to know what we are who become animate at the rain’s metallic ring, the stone’s accumulated strength, who tremble in the wind’s blossoming (that enervates earth’s potentialities), who stir just as flowers unfold to the sun;
If you want to know what we are who grow powerful and deathless in countless counterparts, each part pregnant with hope, each hope supreme, each supremacy classless, each classlessness nourished by unlimited splendor of comradeship;
We are multitudes the world over, millions everywhere; in violent factories, sordid tenements, crowded cities; in skies and seas and rivers, in lands everywhere; our number increase as the wide world revolves and increases arrogance, hunger disease and death.
We are the men and women reading books, searching in the pages of history for the lost word, the key to the mystery of living peace, imperishable joy; we are factory hands field hands mill hand everywhere, molding creating building structures, forging ahead,
Reaching for the future, nourished in the heart; we are doctors scientists chemists discovering, eliminating disease and hunger and antagonisms; we are soldiers navy-men citizens guarding the imperishable will of man to live in grandeur,
We are the living dream of dead men everywhere, the unquenchable truth that class-memories create to stagger the infamous world with prophecies of unlimited happiness_a deathless humanity; we are the living and the dead men everywhere….
If you want to know what we are, observe the bloody club smashing heads, the bayonet penetrating hallowed breasts, giving no mercy; watch the bullet crashing upon armorless citizens; look at the tear-gas choking the weakened lung.
If you want to know what we are, see the lynch trees blossoming, the hysterical mob rioting; remember the prisoner beaten by detectives to confess a crime he did not commit because he was honest, and who stood alone before a rabid jury of ten men,
And who was sentenced to hang by a judge whose bourgeois arrogance betrayed the office he claimed his own; name the marked man, the violator of secrets; observe the banker, the gangster, the mobsters who kill and go free;
We are the sufferers who suffer for natural love of man for man, who commemorate the humanities of every man; we are the toilers who toil to make the starved earth a place of abundance who transform abundance into deathless fragrance.
We are the desires of anonymous men everywhere, who impregnate the wide earth’s lustrous wealth with a gleaming fluorescence; we are the new thoughts and the new foundations, the new verdure of the mind; we are the new hope new joy life everywhere.
We are the vision and the star, the quietus of pain; we are the terminals of inquisition, the hiatuses of a new crusade; we are the subterranean subways of suffering; we are the will of dignities; we are the living testament of a flowering race.
If you want to know what we are WE ARE REVOLUTION!
Image: Bao Phi. (Anna
Min/Courtesy of Capstone Publishing)
When Bao Phi’s family fled Vietnam in 1975 and settled in
Minneapolis with other refugees, he was just a few months old. He was too young
to understand the scene at the airport that day: Communist soldiers were firing
rockets at planes filled with people trying to escape, incinerating them in the
sky. Phi’s parent’s told him about their family history bit by bit, and he
began to form a stronger sense of his own identity.
His new book, Thousand
Star Hotel, is a cutting collection of poems about growing up a refugee,
becoming a father, feeling surrounded by police brutality and the invisibility
of poor Asian-Americans. Phi says that when he was young, he never saw
experiences like his taught in schools or talked about. He hopes that his new work
might serve as a “guidebook” for his 7-year-old daughter, Song, and
other Asian-Americans looking to see their own experiences reflected.
i’ve learned over time that no matter what, every relationship you have with someone will involve some sort of tangled knot in your wiring. i think ultimately, we just want to be with someone who’s tangled mess, out of everyone else, will feel the easiest to untangle. however, some people have a harder time than others trying to approach that mess. others might not be able to gauge which knots are more worth the trouble of untangling. still others have no interest at all in trying to untangle them.
in the end, we’re all just doing our best with one another.