Inspired by Ocean’s Vuong’s letter to his mother in the New York Times, this is for mẹ lives online as a borderless mailbox for Asian identified people to share stories rooted in mothers, motherhood, motherlands, mother-tongues and family.
Thanksgiving for Living Grace
Mother
by grace
no one to take
the easy way
always humble you
told me to work
manually, you said
be simple, baby
like me
you ate the burnt
crisp bottom
of the pot rice
ming chai
and had seen
what the West
had lost and won
and were given
no part of either
accepted the terms
no claim or conquest
but the knowledge of
your own dignity
was sufficient
when not a burden
to be carried across
your bare back
like a 50-pound sack of rice
in a land
where pigs cannot see
their shadows
for the concrete and
resulting fear of mud
where a wide nose might
take in more air
than can be spared
and cans of spray floral
potpourri are used
to mask the odor of fish.
Mother
by grace
was no sweet corn deva
she grew eggplant instead
and lemon grass
in the front yard
and picked sour fruit,
and left peelings of potatoes
for birds and worms
atop the soil
of her garden
— stolen space
between the house
and the studio
where my father took photos
of tall, blonde women.
Mother
by grace
was not one for glamour
or pretension
but once
she had loved to play
with fashion, had face
and gave herself Egyptian eyes
with black kohl pencil.
Saigon’s answer
in reminiscence
to Brigitte Bardot
stripped naked
would cross the river
to get to school
and smudge her face
with coal to keep
her woman’s place
from invasion
by French soldiers.
Mother
by grace
(and apology,
my ritual) I did not
cut my hair
nor wear it loose to hang
below my waist
I would not let
you know I’d started
to menstruate
for one year because
I could feel what bitterness
the seeds of womanhood had borne
for you, many
lilies of white
man’s shame
Cunt,
your husband had called you
also, the mother
of his children
so that when you called me
your daughter, con di
in your anger, I knew that
a whore, to you
was someone who
could not be spoken to
in her own language.
Mother
by grace
was not usually frivolous
though once she had
been whimsical and
brought sand
home from the park
and made a fun-ride
of the backyard hammock
and had sewn me
a long slim coat
that no six-year-old
would be caught in dead
(but which all the older girls
liked)
and bought for me
bright blouses with big
fluorescent flower
prints of a different era
(To make me an empress?)
let me wear her rings
of gold and semi-precious
stones, sturdy and awkward
to school
on my skinny child’s fingers
and her bracelet of jade,
so that it
would grow greener.
Mother
by grace
was not college educated
but had always done well
in school
she had studied French
and knew certain words
in some Chinese dialects.
Could peel a mango
pare and cut better
than I would ever see
and chased away a rat
one Sunday morning
as my father stood scared,
Los Angeles Times in hand
atop the living
room coffee table,
immobile,
until the harbinger
of pestilence
was gone.
Mother
by grace
was never a member
of the PTA
though she’d gladly
make eggrolls
for classroom parties
when other mothers
had cakes made frosted
or chocolate chip cookies
wrapped neatly
with ribbon
or sealed in Tupperware,
unlike my offerings
which I reluctantly brought
in plastic produce bags
lined with paper towels
atop dinner plates
which I had to carry
home at the end
when the party
was over and
everyone else
was done.
Mother
by grace
was no housewife
her husband of choice
was Christ, a man
who would not exact
payment in flesh
as my father
would for the torment
he endured, and the tortures
the secret Army
enacted upon him
and others who were
not members of his race
nor fellow countrymen nor
even men, many times
hurled from grace
of body, and in
mind but children
and women, some
whores by necessity
not innocent like
the ones who were waiting
for him back home.
Mother
by grace
was not an angel or saint
yet to me,
entrance into this
world, my connection
to Earth, my own,
before God, she fed me
faith at her breasts,
the milky way, she
taught me every cry
is answered, before
I knew to speak or
beseech, or pray:
king mung, Maria
hail, Mary
Mother of God
full of grace.
Mother
by grace
is now young again and
loves a refugee born
a generation later
than she, and lives
in a warehouse
in Santa Ana because
it’s the Catholic
name of her mother, and
she wears lipstick, soft
blouses for the first
time in years, is
smiling as she
irons rows of dresses,
in her work pants
and open-toed sandals,
stands taller now
the daughter of a village
chief, a maker of silk,
a farmer of pigs
of another land, her feet
in place, foreign (even
while giving birth you
held me, a stranger
in your ocean, Everything
long enough) feels like home.
Mother
by grace
You remind me.
Author Bio
Lynn Nguyen Boland
