ABC Poem

I told my mom I heard a poem once About a girl who was ashamed to be ashamed of her culture I told her I felt like that was me Six years old, with embarrassment raised like the American flag in my elementary school courtyard, I wove my culture's stereotypes into the intricate electricity of my primitive mind and vowed I would never perpetuate them How did I fail to acknowledge the deeper problems of oppression when The old white optometrist who checked my eyes in fifth grade stopped to ask if I "sssssppppeeeeaaaaaaakkkkk Eeeeennnngggllliiiiissshhh." I feared being labeled a fob, because fresh-off-the-boat was inherently a bad thing before I knew what anti-immigrant sentiment was. I don't know how much my guilt weighs, but it's . . . considerable. It's heavy from shushing my parents' language at every registration and open house, Heavy from begging them not to get involved The only time I wasn't embarrassed to share or even show my mom's cooking was on Cultural Day at school Popular white girls were my role models and I hugged them more than I hugged my own mother I went to Tzu Chi Buddhist academy on weekends, but told my friends it was Sunday school This remorse like bricks crunching gravel, sewed at the hems of my mom's dresses as she walks me to kindergarten I burdened her with my impatience and too many exasperated English grammar explanations. "That's not how that's spelled, Mom. Snake is the animal, snack is the food." After the divorce, she moved back to Taiwan because there was no place for her here. When I ask either of my parents to explain a Taiwanese phrase or saying, they explain using English, introduce me to company by saying, duai, ta shi ABC Meaning, yes, I'm American-born Chinese When my grandparents visit, they talk to me in Mandarin because wa e dai wan wei bo ho My Taiwanese isn't good. I told my mom I heard a poem once About a girl who was ashamed to be ashamed of her culture, This isn't the same poem, but Today I am sorry. Today my heart will send a postcard to my mother Because love and apologies transcend these barriers Dear Mom, Once, in Taiwan, you grabbed my arm and scolded me for saying I was American Ni shi Taiwan ren, you are Taiwanese But I am Taiwanese-American and, mom, my legacy is you - Teaching me that love and laughter aren't always experienced in words. It's you - spinning me stories of my culture's history on the webs of California freeways Tales of Japanese soldiers raping Taiwanese women, the birth of a new country that the United States wouldn't recognize; Another life in Taiwan, When selling your younger sisters was almost an answer to poverty. Mom, Assimilation was easy as gulping Coca-Cola, inhaling a Big Mac with french fries and a blonde-haired Barbie doll Made in Taiwan on the side. I let patriotic branches tug me too far from our homeland Euro-centric history sawed on my sanity I spent hours trying too hard to look unwaveringly "cool" Yet you still spent the time to water my frustration with hugs and warmth and lots of good food So I want to thank you for never giving up And bringing me back to my roots.