You Don't Count
|
After Victoria Chang’s Dear Memory: “Dear Daughter [ . . . ] You were born in a more diverse and progressive state. You are half Asian and half white. Does that mean you experience half the racism? That you feel half the pain?
Or, alongside your own pain, do you inherit all of your grandmother’s pain, my pain, America’s pain?” |
I.
When I roll ground pork and minced
onions and carrots into pale, egg-washed
lumpia wrappers, I am furious
at my fingers that fumble, that fold the lumpia
into lumpy moist layers. These are the times
I think, I am only half
as good as my mother. She could do better.
Next time, the lumpia will be petite. Less meat.
There is no next time.
II.
The first Kapatirang Pilipino meeting of the
college school year. What am I doing here?
A sea of new students,
their voices like a windchime of shells
swelling into the national anthem.
Bayang Magiliw
perlas ng Silanganan
Alab ng puso
Sa dibdib mo’y buhay
Lupang hinirang
Duyan ka ng magiting
Sa manlulupig
Di ka pasisiil . . .
I don’t know the words.
I was never taught
any of this. A wave of panic pushes me
out the main door, the choir
calling, falling behind me.
III.
In a blender / every whirr / slices me open / Filipino is not
Asian, you don’t count
as Asian / Where were you
born, where did you grow up? / Oh, you don’t know
Tagalog / anymore? You ever been
to the Philippines? / You don’t look Filipina–oh, sige, I see it in your eyes /
Mutt / hybrid / half breed
hapa / you could be an actress!
Here: your box(es) / check as many as apply
I / check
I am not / star apple / lychee / longan / Billietiae with orange petioles
I am not / Dark Lord in full glory / Florida bronze on your lawn
I am not / your exotic
IV.
Poached. Yolk running down, over-easy.
Sunny side up—or boiled? Naming things: easy.
But there is no name
for the way I cooked my eggs this morning:
half scrambled—the yellow slightly stirred,
the rest of the white, showing.
When I roll ground pork and minced
onions and carrots into pale, egg-washed
lumpia wrappers, I am furious
at my fingers that fumble, that fold the lumpia
into lumpy moist layers. These are the times
I think, I am only half
as good as my mother. She could do better.
Next time, the lumpia will be petite. Less meat.
There is no next time.
II.
The first Kapatirang Pilipino meeting of the
college school year. What am I doing here?
A sea of new students,
their voices like a windchime of shells
swelling into the national anthem.
Bayang Magiliw
perlas ng Silanganan
Alab ng puso
Sa dibdib mo’y buhay
Lupang hinirang
Duyan ka ng magiting
Sa manlulupig
Di ka pasisiil . . .
I don’t know the words.
I was never taught
any of this. A wave of panic pushes me
out the main door, the choir
calling, falling behind me.
III.
In a blender / every whirr / slices me open / Filipino is not
Asian, you don’t count
as Asian / Where were you
born, where did you grow up? / Oh, you don’t know
Tagalog / anymore? You ever been
to the Philippines? / You don’t look Filipina–oh, sige, I see it in your eyes /
Mutt / hybrid / half breed
hapa / you could be an actress!
Here: your box(es) / check as many as apply
I / check
I am not / star apple / lychee / longan / Billietiae with orange petioles
I am not / Dark Lord in full glory / Florida bronze on your lawn
I am not / your exotic
IV.
Poached. Yolk running down, over-easy.
Sunny side up—or boiled? Naming things: easy.
But there is no name
for the way I cooked my eggs this morning:
half scrambled—the yellow slightly stirred,
the rest of the white, showing.
November / December, 2022
Daniela Paraguya Sow (she/her) is a Filipina & Romanian American writer and serves as an Assistant Professor of English at Grossmont College in San Diego, California. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from San Diego State University. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Mixed Asian Media, San Diego City Works Press, Amphora Magazine, Musing Publications, The Lumiere Review, The Hyacinth Review, and elsewhere. You can reach her on Twitter: @daniela_sow.
Art: Woman in Red Dress. Oil on canvas. T. Aguilera.
