
Spoken word recording:
You asked me how my hair got so black,
and in your very next breath, told me to go back
where do you want me to go
Vietnam
Lithuania
Poland
to which of the countries from which my family was forced to migrate
do you want me to relocate?
and guess what
those countries don’t know how to make me fit
in Vietnam
i’m con lai, Việt kiều
in Eastern Europe people wonder how I could be a Jew
in London, I’m exotic
in America, diasporic
you laughed and said you’d call me Ping
reducing me to some Asian plaything
you tell me to calm down
then ask if I’m alright
all the while wondering if my pussy is tight
did anyone ever tell you
a tight pussy is one that isn’t at ease
or perhaps that your dick
has the intent of a racist disease
in love and labor
you like to keep me small
assuming my pelvis and pussy
don’t know how to birth at all
you’ll probably need surgery
the doctor’s say
Asian women are too small
to birth babies the normal way
how is it that I come
from one of the oldest civilisations
thousands of years
and even more babies
but somehow the system thinks
I need it to save me
you wondered if my breasts
were too small to make milk
assuming that size and power correlate
but how do you think I came to be
if not for the matriarchal milk that flows through me
you love me long time
so long in fact
that men just like you
tried to break my foremothers’ backs
climbing us under the guise
of rest and relaxation
another Asian body
all while on their military vacation
a sea of mixed race children
left behind
faces like mine
walking the streets
unwanted and unclaimed
cloaked in american shame
birthed by a war
fueled by fear and desire
but you’re beautiful, you say
when what you mean is diluted
less polluted
don’t pour your words on me
and then ask me to thank you
drowning me in compliments
as a way to feel dominant
You tried to tell me who I was
Using words that didn’t fit
You spit them on me
And I drank them down
Ignoring how it burned
Because I thought that to burn
Was to be alive
To survive
when you met my Vietnamese boyfriend
you told me he looked like my brother
when really, what you meant was an Other
and then you told my actual brother
he didn’t fit
he was too short
too effeminate
so before you tell me to go back
remember that you have a heritage and home
beyond whiteness
and being alone
consider your ancestral (w)hole
and go in search of your fragmented soul
So now I sit with my grief and my rage
Trying not to be afraid
Pouring pain from my body
Page after page
A beautiful mutant
Seems to be how you see me
Inappropriate
Disrespectful
But I need you to hear me
Who I am is enough
It’s complex and mine
I celebrate my mixed face,
My complex race.
My blood sings,
A multitude of motherlands and culture and art
Dancing and twining itself in my heart
I wrap myself in the waters of home
Remembering
That wherever I walk,
I am never alone.
My ancestors sit on my shoulders
Reminding me
That I am not a wound,
But a wonder.
Not something for you to wonder at
But an internal inheritance that is mine to crack.
Jess (she/her) is a Vietnamese-Jewish-British writer, editor, poet and researcher who explores motherhood, motherlands, mother-tongues and family, especially as it pertains to diasporic Vietnamese and Southeast Asian communities. She is the founder of “this is for mẹ,” a column hosted on diaCRITICS that focuses on these themes.
Jess is also a full spectrum doula, martial artist and somatic sex educator in training. She uses these mediums to support herself and others in reclaiming pleasure, peace and power. Find her at https://www.jess-boyd.com/.