I was raised on celebrating Lunar ​New Year with oranges and taking ​your shoes off at the door. My ​identity as a Chinese-American ​woman has shaped who I am and ​these words explore that identity ​deeply and vulnerably.

for gung-tai and po-tai

how water ​flows

tomorrow is the first day of asian american & pacific islander heritage month & i can’t ​help but think of the time in college when someone told me i wasn’t really asian & the ​time that one guy asked me about my ethnicity & when i told him i was chinese he ​responded by saying that was quite literally the last thing i would’ve guessed & that ​felt like a million lashes to the back. because my ancestors are from the guangdong ​province & spoke hakka & that house with the pantry full of candy was my favorite ​place & the chǎofàn he made is still my favorite food to this day & my apartment is a ​please take your shoes off at the door house complete with a bowl of white rabbit ​candies on the counter. i always find myself replaying the shot-to-the-chest moment ​when a professor in college referred to asian languages as “oriental” & when i tried to ​explain why that was wrong she just explained why i was wrong & she was right. but ​instead i remember how the lunar new year was my favorite celebration growing up ​because i could eat duck & beef & carrots & bao & wonton soup & oranges for ​dessert. (the red envelopes from great-grandparents didn’t hurt also). but like that ​person told me in college apparently i’m not a “real asian.” but what is a “real asian,” ​really? to me it is everything i am & everything i want to be. yes, it is my mom taking ​my door off my bedroom as a punishment & taking your shoes off when you enter the ​house, but it is also my creative mind & the music i listen to & the color i paint my nails ​& the books i read & the art i hang up in my apartment. & asian is not an umbrella ​term. asian is the beauty of existing in every pocket of the world & every ability of ​being alive. it is the friend from high school who i will never forget & the short films he ​makes. it is my cousin & her playing soccer for the u20 jamaica women’s national ​team (yes, there are chinese people from jamaica). asian is the way water flows. free & ​splashing & a current strong enough to love.

TONY

tractor trailer rides and jumping off into a field of corn

only those eight of us will ever know

not fearing or hoping for something else, something new—

you, always, infinitely—never needing anything more.

and if only i had known

that would be my last act of love

peeling the skin off mangoes

as gently as my hands would allow

and blending ice cubes and milk

in such strange ratios

but the ones you taught me

back when you were able to stand

if only i had known

when i poured the orange mess into the glass

and left the room to clean the kitchen

as best i could

with a tear every time that i blinked—

i missed you bring lips to glass.

had i known that what i gave

barely close to the perfection you made

would be the only and last

glass of blended fruit i’d ever make you

i would’ve suddenly granted myself

the same culinary expertise as you

mango ​smoothie

to get the ratios just right and

maybe have the mind to add some honey

instead i am the same spectacular failure

i always seemed to be for you

never-ending bitching and complaining

of essay deadlines and exams to study for

while you turned to skin and bones

there are so many ways i could’ve said goodbye

and i chose to do it with a mango smoothie

but maybe nostalgia is the blender in the sink

and i will be in the kitchen peeling a mango

with the knife as sharp as the first time

now i write to uncover the grief of being left

of wishing i was able to hold your hand one more time

even as frail and cold as it felt on mine

i told myself i was supposed to write you a poem

i’m sorry i couldn’t—until today, when i remember you

only two thousand three hundred nine days late.

bury me in ​these ​ancestral ​homes

i was born of melanin flowing rivers

essence from jah gung tai of ku hang

ancestors found in crawfordville shackles

and coco bread bakeries in lucea

the bellies of ships are where i trace my roots

brothers and sisters help me please

to understand the caramel in my skin

the young black girl who nobody wants

hakka origins of the guangdong province

migration overseas to lands of ackee and saltfish

that flowing sea where i can see beneath

the resting place where i laid gua-hua

find myself knocked down on scabbed knees

where i exist everywhere and nowhere at all

but i remember nights on telegraph road

and this i know: a change gon’ come

we are bakers under caribbean sun

next to a sea of gentle blue

he has the insight of the market

and eight children—gua hua the first

they are candy bags from po-po

and red pockets from aunts and uncles

den-den’s lemon squares and recliner chairs

origins in lucea now expanding their reach

wongs in ​lucea

I know myself and my roots. I am ​connected to my origins in the ​Guangdong Province. I know my ​dragon spirit—intelligence and ​power. I exist from a legacy and ​intend to live within and through it.