To the Children of the Parachute Generation

“There’s nothing I can’t trace back to my coarse immigrant blood.”

— Jenny Xie, Chinatown Diptych

arriving no longer by boat
we jump from the clouds
our faces flagged in yellow tinted stars
a tearing warmth of blood red

distancing ourselves from the
sweet-potato-smell of mother’s kitchen
we roam under a different sky
drunk and dazed we forget the taste of our youth

drifting amidst shapeless dreams
sugar-coated in red white and blue
we lift our souls to sing and to pray
to seek direction from a foreign moon

worrying the Land of the Free
will free us from our past
we bite hard into our tongues to trap
the tears of Mother Land

With aim, we will soar on untouchable wings.

On Moving

When it comes to moving, there are a couple of things to keep in mind: make a list, pack by rooms, and always, always use wrapping paper. Your mugs and TV screen will thank you later.

But then comes the other things, the less obvious problems to consider when moving—the things I like to call “the sentimentals”. Like the stain on the corner of the sofa, from that night you and your partner decided to get Chinese takeout instead of going to your reservation at Dante, because it was too cold outside and you were both too tired from sex. After graciously tipping your delivery guy with half your body still hid behind the door, you leaped back onto the sofa with boxes of spring rolls and dumplings and pork fried rice, accidentally spilling the plastic cup of soy sauce. Shit! You both stared at the stain—already helplessly spreading its edges—and laughed.

Or that dent on the kitchen island from when your best friend came to visit. After a night of dancing and drinking in Soho, you decided to end it with a can of beer and a slice of dollar pizza. Except you couldn’t find your bottle opener and your friend was getting sleepy and the pizza was getting cold. Oh, the pizza. So you placed the bottle cap at the edge of your marble kitchen island, and off it came with a “pop” along with a broken piece of marble. You and your friend laughed, clinked your bottles, and dug into that good ol’ dollar pizza, still warm.

Or that faded smiley face you drew on the corner of your window, the one where you sat each night as you silently inhaled the cigarette you promised to be your last. Except for that one night, followed by an insignificant day, you felt a sudden low—a low so crushing that not even nicotine could calm you down. As you leaned against the only window in your tiny East Village bedroom, you felt abandoned by a world you barely know. So you took the last drag of your cigarette from between your fingers and pressed its burning end on the window. As you watched the soft red light die off, you pulled its waning body across the dusty glass, drawing a smiley face opposite your crying self. As you sat there, confronted by the smoke-scented happiness you prescribed yourself, you closed your eyes.

But no one tells you how to deal with these things upon moving. So instead, you focus on packing your shirts and shoes and plates and chairs. As for the sentimentals, you let them be. Only before you head out do you take a last glance. Then you let them go, knowing there will be more to come.

Baby Blue

written in the style of fibonacci sequence 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8…

Breathe.

In.

And out.

Trace the memories.

They roam about this bedroom.

They hide under layers of distant bygones, forgotten.

They rest alongside pink pillows and floral curtains and wooden floors that creak.

Gently take in the sweaty scent of childhood nostalgia. Hold in the last breath until each moment of yesterday is brushed.

Standing on the baby blue carpet, I remember what it feels like to be a child. Unclothed and unbothered. I am lifted by the past; I am the sky and there are no clouds.

When I was six I dipped my fingers in paint. I pressed them against the bedroom wall. My mother brought out her paintbrushes and turned my fingerprints into kittens and flowers and bouquets of coloured candies. Denim jeans and white tees covered in paint, we sat facing the rainbow-arrayed wall. We ate berries and danced.

There is serenity in knowing that the past lives in me -- that beneath my ultimately-weakened-fingers and someday-wrinkled-skin I am immortal. If I hold my breath long enough I can have all the time in the world. Enough to spin and swirl barefoot in my mother’s garden. Enough to eat berries, to love and to dream.

And now, tracing the bumps of my mother’s brushstrokes, I take time bathing in my childhood memories, drenched in a pool of the blood bone and marrow that carries the weight of my past.

Eyes closed, lips curled. I grow drunk on the idea of a younger self. She is covered in baby blue paint.

So don’t rush me yet. I will leave this place when I’m ready.

Just call me pretty and feed me berries.

Let me stay right here.

One more day.

Just one.

Then,

Farewell.

Maiden China

To the construction worker who attempted to steal my attention the day I wore my Levis by hollering a phrase from the language he assumed I understood but I in fact did not --

and the Uber driver with a mustache who felt dissatisfied upon hearing my “Boston” to his “where are you from” suspecting that I had lied and while yes I did lie I did it to protect myself from people like him he did not seem bothered by my obvious discomfort but continued to ask where your parents from and only stopped when I said an answer he had expected --

and the friend of my friend’s who following my introduction told me she’s been to Japan and loved the temples in a place called Kee-yoh-toe even though I’ve never been to Japan but I don’t think she knew nor cared --

and the pretty boy who swiped right because I reminded him of a character in an old Asian film but even better because I actually spoke good english and felt offended when I didn’t thank him but instead called him an ignorant fuck --

and the brunette New Englander I roomed with in boarding school who asked me if my people sneezed back home and seeing me pause she immediately followed the question with an I’m just kidding while flashing her pale white teeth and beautiful blue eyes --

Annyeonghaseyo to you, too.

I’m from China.

Yes, I love Japan.

I speak English well thank you very much.

And no,

we never, ever sneeze, so don’t bless me.

Apricity

the warmth of sun in summer

by the kitchen table
behind the glass doors
hidden amid beige walls and heat stoves
the lingering smell of sweet potatoes
I watch as the windowsill drowns
under a coat of
gold

the winter sun rests
like the rind of a clementine
its orange sweetness
a slow silhouette
beyond the fruit basket

as the shadow crawls across the cream colored tiles
of the kitchen floor
it sets
and finds warmth in darkness