My Culture Is Alive From Inside

“Tôi la ngoi việt.” Means “I am Vietnamese” to all the English speakers out there, it feels foreign on my tongue by the language I was born into the world with, taught, and selfishly forgot I’m butchered, I’m chopped, I’m minced up in this melting pot soup we call “America” My ancestors- washed in by the salty sea called American culture But the only culture pumping through my veins is my last name Nguyen A remembrance of colonization and communism slapped in my face, A scar, From French baguette eating influence Nguyen’s are not all related- Ignorant fools I’m plagued with bland colors that say “American” Not an ounce of Vietnamese gleams in my eyes, instead you’ll find in the crevices bits of Filipino As for my murky skin you’ll find I had an overdose of melanin, hiding behind the layers of mud caked on my face I didn’t mean to be mostly Filipino, from the naked eye people see it’s a lie I know my blood drips nothing but Pho noodle soup, but I don’t feel that way My heritage shines by my flat-mountain nose and the way I speak in sonic booms at home I eat grains holding little bamboo stilts but prefer a silver fork, I believe in the words of God on Sundays, On other days my mind is glazed with school work At the end of the day- I end up torching my heritage into a million kaleidoscope pieces They shatter, get stabbed and etch into my skin to remind myself of the pain and struggle my ancestors needed to stress that I am human With broken bones, torn limbs, and city skyline crooked teeth I am Asian- American With tan, beautiful, cosmic, melanin thick skin, with the last name unknown to me, that I even slaughter with my own words, which is spelled N-G-U-Y-E-N