Don't Mistake Me

I live not for orange chicken, nor Miss Saigon-style hats. We left that behind in 1975, as wide eyes watched tall American soldiers leave the land. I gave my posthumous blessing to it, burying the microscopic fragments of my identity with it. Don't mistake me for my white-washed "counterparts" where we are fetishized, brutalized, expected to be little more than China dolls and complacent smiles. I don't stand for model minority nor 'ching chong.' My race cannot be standardized like a test. I stand for me.