click slide clink slip push wooden chopsticks
chasing charred duck drowning in soy
click slide push slide slide the now flightless fowl
nested on a bed of scallion evades my
American grip with an uncomfortable liveliness
click squeeze slide push stab nothing like
the the delicate caress of my parent’s movements
swish glide pinch rub stir their chopsticks
a charming dance - I’m convinced they can do anything while
I give up and stab an already dead bird
the way I hold my chopsticks is the same way I hold my pencil
two fingers over, two fingers under, stiff grip straight and tense
my dad sees my hand - that is no way to write
no way to use your chopsticks
fist tight no room to relax, keep those letters round and neat like
the textbooks where they teach me English and
verb tenses that don’t exist in Chinese
ate, eat, will eat
吃， 吃， 吃
I did learn something in elementary school
eight years old, too young to understand what a culture is, what makes a culture unique
yellow school bus to the only art museum in our forgotten southern town
the only Chinese student on the bus
rip snap click squeeze look three diagrams
on a course red wrapper
keep one for support, another to hunt
now you can pick up anything
second graders grasping at air with wooden sticks
grasping for life
a Chinese grip learned in an American museum
small Asian exhibit, always the same room, always serenely dark
real flowing water, sounds artificial
why are the rooms always so black?
the sameness of the spotlight glinting off broken pottery and bamboo papers scrolls made exotic
the words of kings and clothing of peasants
unfamiliar, glamorous, foreign
dyed mountainsides and lotus flowers circled by gold carp inked on decadent silk
they are not exotic to me
the fish, 鱼, a fortunate resemblance to abundance
my canvas fish do not look so lucky says
the old man who teaches me Chinese painting when I
too young to understand what a culture is, ask what makes a culture unique
a painting is made with a hope and a question
my diluted ink flows from the flower to the fish - a different grip, special for my brush
what makes a painting Chinese?
stab stab stab I lose
my chopstick to the fork, my 饺子 to mac&cheese
but what good is a tool that can only pierce?
come knocking on my door, look for the chopsticks you’ve also lost
where can you find a pair?
three hundred miles and four hours away
Houston, San Francisco, Boston, New York
decorated golden arches and old men playing chess and cards
men like my grandpa, playing the same games half a globe away
the other kids said I could dig my way to him
I now wish I could
and smell the bursting ginger and spices
hot oil bubbling over hand-pulled noodles
Chinatown is close enough, three hundred miles rather than thousands
statues of powerful 貔貅 at every door, majestic winged lions guarding in pairs,
a pocket legend for each guest
I feel protected and lucky
that luck is four hours away, so we make the weekend drive with a trunk full of coolers
do our monthly shopping at the Asian grocery store
there is no better vacation
I line my pockets with five varieties of frozen dumplings
and deliciously sticky glutinous rice balls stuffed with sweet red bean
dashing down aisles brimming with a taste of home
this is what it feels like to be rich
many pairs of chopsticks for sale
筷子：an elegant character composed of bamboo, heart, and decisiveness
there is a lot of heart in these beautiful sets made of bamboo, wood and porcelain
carved with flowers of my namesake
bring home a pair and
click stick stir swish stir the chopsticks
counter-clockwise only
my mom’s mixing of fragrant meat filling
to meet my dad’s hand pulled wrappers
I bind the two together in my experimental folding
wait together under the TV while they steam
when we are together, we make dumplings
we make a family
in China, my family is loving and we
swish swish plop swish rinse the meat
rinse the chopsticks, add more to the hot pot
eat up, make sure everyone has some, no, you don’t have enough - take more
it’s how we show love, how we show that we are a family
sit with my grandma and switch the TV channel for
my level of Chinese I can converse with a kindergartener, maybe
I roll on the bed in tears of laughter, tears of understanding
this is my first time laughing in Chinese
there is a joy of understanding in my grandma’s face
stab stab switch clack squeeze tap the waiters
in China give me a fork because I look American
stare them in the eye and ask for chopsticks and hot water
savor the scent of perfumed tea and the smell of street food on a cool day
left alone at a mall, coloring - this is not a Chinese painting
two employees approach and ask me where I’m from
I forget how to say America in Chinese
美国 beautiful country, but to me the beautiful country is the one
where my grandpa peels me sunflower seeds
discarded shells piling on his love for me
and I steal some when he’s not looking to plant around the yard
to gift him a bouquet as my love for him
I want to be able to tell him about my theft
so in college I learn to speak Chinese
but not in time
click swish click click cheers to a teacher
like an aunt to me who takes her class to Han Dynasty
and we feast like royalty
we do not travel to the past, but to New York
where we regale in theater from the Asian American experience
stories put on a stage by artists that have lived my life
what is American theater?
what is Chinese theater?
what is Asian-American?
my first play where I am an evil cat and kidnap the emperor during a time
where tiny me could boldly say 你好 but lost my voice trying to say hi in English
here they call that shy
click roll clack tap tap I am 18 and
the dim sum lady tells my mother I look 乖
well-behaved
she thinks it is a compliment
I do not want to look obedient
stab stab stab poking holes for my pottery to breathe
find room for me to breathe
each clay cup I try to make flattens out into a plate
don’t know what to paint
dot line square squiggle slash line squiggle
timid strokes form my surname, the one I share with my dad
the workshop teacher telling me she loves how in touch with my roots
I am and I feel like a fraud
this surname I share with my dad, who teaches me to love to dabble
who teaches me how to write this name
holding the calligraphy brush the same way my chinese painting teacher holds his
he teaches me chinese
he has no textbook, only poems
clack tap thump tap thump thump pretending
pretending to drum next to the keyboard while my dad sings
pretending I understand the words
a Chinese pentatonic scale is beautifully simple
songs of melodic bird and songs of pearl rivers
five notes is enough
we live in a world of excesses - who needs an eight note octave
when I cry over the sound of five that make the stars
in the sky that hold the stories I love
are they Chinese or Greek?
forbidden love between the weaver girl and the cowherd separated in the heavens
Xiwangmu allowing the magpies once a year to form a bridge in the sky
I’d like to think that Orion sends a few stars from his belt
learning the music, learning the stories, learning the language
don’t get mistaken for American
don’t get mistaken for Chinese
click clack click clack walking down the street
metal chopsticks in my bag - can’t leave home without them
I call my parents to the rhythm of my utensils
how do I read this recipe？
I practice eating my way to my family
where can I get a pair of chopsticks?
one day delivery online
my parents translate the ingredients - lotus root, dried tofu, bean paste
the grocery store now four minutes, not hours away
writing down my shopping list with relaxed fingers
writing my American letters with my Chinese grip
a.g.