My Chinese

is more than just red-and-gold envelopes,

pale dumplings in porcelain dishes,

Or the lanterns above our doorstep ushering in good fortune,

Billowing gently in the wind like calla lilies carrying sweet incense.

It is a delicate dream embroidered into soft silk,

a moral code carved on cold, glistening jade,

an upbringing strict yet forged in ambition:

Build yourself up from the strength of knowledge

And no one can take you down.

It’s what has convinced a diffident little girl,

Always keeping her head down and voice a hushed whisper

That her true form is an astrological dragon

Full of fire and brimstone

With wings strong enough to soar above the sky.

It’s the ghost of a past

That gets lodged in my throat

everytime I grasp for words in that lost language,

shadows of willowy characters

tugging at my mind.

My Chinese may bide its days

Hidden just beneath the soil,

But it’s also the roots

that hold me up with its firm, unwavering grasp,

the foundation of my identity.