A Tight Fit

Pen sketch of a woman drinking from a cup with a straw. Text reads, "To my love, Jess."
Illustration by Mai Tran-Lanza.

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/.

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