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Apple pie, made with hawthorn berries MAG
i. If I’m ever annoying, you know exactly what to say.
“At least I’m not ashamed of being Chinese”
like it’s something you can clap onto my wrists like handcuffs
and hold me accountable for.
You half-disguise it as a joke, but the joke is always
peeling at the edges, curling like your lips; and you let it show
because you know I’ll
dry up afterwards like a hawthorn berry, flattened into
your favorite New Year candy.
ii. Do you have at least one trusted adult you can confide in?
I used to color in the tiny circle next to Yes, so that when you’d
left the room, Dr. Sherry wouldn’t look at me
with puppy-dog eyes
and ask if there was anything I’d like to open up about;
but I started choosing Yes like I meant it, like all I needed to
do was act like it was true.
iii. The Asian girls at school have names that taste like dessert.
Annabelle is French pastries with cream, Kaitlyn is
strawberry sorbet; Jenny tastes like apple pie, buttery and inviting.
Some of the girls have Asian names, a rare two or three:
bitter mouthfuls,
all vowels and unwieldy consonants pushed and
tangled together. They’re shortened to something that’s
sweeter on the palate: Min, Kei, Lee. And those are okay, too.
iv. The name you gave me is separate and hard-sounding.
Qing Lan. A knot that trips up classmates, substitute teachers,
dentists, piano teachers, swim coaches.
The space you added—“In Chinese, it’s two characters, not one”—
means I’m usually Qing: Ching. Chink. Not cute-and-unique
foreign. Foreign like hawthorn candy, tart and only
tolerable to the Chinese tongue.
v. I expect you to smile to show you understand, maybe even hug me.
Your eyes never leave mine. “I named you for what you are.
You’re Chinese. You’re not
a Rebecca or a Stephanie. Why are you
embarrassed by your heritage?
Is it that shameful to be Chinese? Do you want
to be white?” Your mouth curls downwards,
bobbing up and down as it grinds
hawthorn candies to dust.
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