Rice in three different stages
I. Raw
Harvested only a few weeks ago.
Slumped over and exhausted, grain
Lay upon grain, shivering in the
Nakedness of the woven plastic bag
That they call home. Silent, save
For the slight shifts in sleep, slight
Brushes against the floor which they
Lay so benignly atop. They rest,
Waiting patiently for someone to
Open their bag, release the cage that
Has stifled their shifting and to hold
Them gently, to give them warmth.
II. Cooking
Bubbling and brewing, the water
Welcomes the grains to the foreignness
Of its own heat. The grains cannot
Communicate with this liquid, their
Slow-moving, tightly-wound atoms
Are unaccustomed to the fast and
Independent nature of the water. Still,
The warmth welcomes them. They do
Not speak the same language, the bubbles
And the grains. But fundamentally, they
Know one another. Bonded by the brand
“Food.” They may be different but they
Are one in the same. The grains bathe,
Awake, and the barrier of solid and liquid
Breaks. They mingle beyond either’s
Expectations, settling in their new setting.
III. Cooked
Home now, redefined. Grains and water
Becoming one. The grains no longer cold,
No longer scared in an unfamiliar home.
The water, no longer lonely. Rice, as a
Dish. Something to consume and be fuel
For aching bodies, splayed out on floors.
Rice, as something both parties know. Cracks
In language are filled by rice, filled by meals
Shared over silent dinner tables. Smiles are
Exchanged over rice. Letters written by
Candlelight and a bowl of rice. Families
Are reunited over tears, endless tears and
Years of travel and miles of distance and
Secrets exchanged and hatred assuaged and
Bone-chilling fear in strange buses and
Rice. There are always three stages of rice.
Rice in three different stages (reprise)
I. Raw
Watching mama dig plastic into grains
Scrunching up my nose at the smell of
The nước chấm that Bà brought in a
Cardboard box chained by packing tape.
Little cup from Daiso cuts through the rice,
Sounds like rain as it hits the colander and is
Passed to Bà for washing. “What are you
Going to eat if you don’t want egg rolls?”
“Rice and soy sauce!”
II. Cooking
Chubby cheeked stoicism on shiny
Paper looks at me with reddened eyes.
I stare back, in disbelief that she and
I Could be one in the same. Ill-fitting robes
Wrap around her 9-year-old torso,
Ill-fitting mudra consumes her hands.
Ill-fitting frown adorns her face.
My eyes blur, wave of anger hits
And I rush to a computer. Library
Website. “Vietnamese,” “Vietnam,”
“Vietnam war.” Anything. Keyboard
Clacking symphony of creation. Cooking.
III. Cooked
I don’t yet know what cooked rice looks like.
It’s only just been put on the stove,
But I assume it’s fluffy and warm and goes
Down the throat as smooth as it one did.
Cooked rice looks like unchained learning,
No hesitation in interrogation. It looks like
My reflection staring back and not having to
Ask “what am I?” It looks like confidence
In the statement I have longed to say. Cooked
Rice is my hair straight, my áo dài fitting
Perfectly. Cooked rice is warm and fluffy
Like the soft, old scent of a hug from Bà.
Melina Kritikopoulos is a mixed-race writer and journalist of Greek and Vietnamese descent. She is an undergraduate student at the University of California, Berkeley where she works for The Daily Californian. She produces and hosts the podcast Poetic Pontification, highlighting poets of the East Bay Area.
Absolutely amazing Melina