in first grade, i remember eating Annie’s macaroni and cheese:
it was like something my tongue could not comprehend,
gulping down the lukewarm pasta, there was that brief moment of disgust, where every limb broke, cracked, twisted, and convulsed in retaliation,
then the telltale acceptance.
i was never taught how to swallow an alien food
i was only taught that Mississippi was spelled with double-s, then double-s, then double-p
like, m-i-s-s- home– no– i-s-s-i-p-p-i
i was only taught that pasta should be cooked with store-bought tomato sauce,
tossed together in a worn ceramic plate, the water barely strained out
in second grade, i remember my mother told me:
i cannot tell you the books to read, because here,
Cao XueQin, Lao She, Mao Dun
are not masters of their craft
i must read Charlotte Brontë, Jane Austen, and Charles Dickens,
between the perennial peonies and the hollow stems of primordial bamboo,
i found a Brave New World.
in third grade, when i was sick, my father told me:
Western medicine is the way,
they pioneer, innovate, advance,
the spearhead of our world,
they do not use herbs, grasses, spices,
they are based on facts, not culture
so i shoved Benadryl, Advil, Tylenol down my aching throat,
ignoring the bitter taste it left on my limp tongue,
in grade 4, Christmas rolled around, and i remember that our home was empty:
the lights would flicker, a lethargic, sluggish motion, tinged with reds and greens, and my heart would fall, expecting a spectacle and receiving silence
the house rang dead as if someone cut the wire, and left it drowning in the deafening hush.
Chinese New Year came knocking with the same stillness,
the most jarring epiphany of the human experience is realizing your loss of home, and that you live a drifting existence,
back and forth,
back and forth,
like an idle, swinging pendulum.
but i must stay silent,
i must thrive muted.
but after all,
my hands stayed curled in two tight balls,
my head stayed reeling in cultural confusion,
and my torso stayed braced for impact in case someone hated my yellow skin.
after all, these were just fragments of ordinary lives that tell of the pains of immigration.
nothing radical,
just,
the telltale
acceptance.
The Land Bridge 