I am from maroon minivans,

From Kool & The Gang CDs and outhrown hands

Wrists covered in constricting yet pretty hair bands.

I’m from the blue house on the East Side 

Messy, angry, rarely content, but all mine.

It was filled with the scent of pungent pho, the spicy kind.

I’m from the river of tears created by my family,

the thunderstorm and tornadoes from my parents’ calamity, 

Stuffy, hard-to-miss, a famine

Of a loveless home and a resilient, lonely breed.

From my father to my mother to me,

His American name Bert and her name, Min.

I’m from the painful and guilt-ridden,

The painful and isolated children, their hopes still hidden.

From “Crying doesn’t solve anything,” and emotion forbidden

To “Say sorry!” even when I didn’t do it.

I’m from the constant worry I will lose it: 

My will to live, to go through it, excuse it

The cards I was dealt and the grief I share.

I used to pray into the sky and air,

Whisper my wishes and dreams into where,

The stars twinkled like Heaven,

A place I can only imagine with a pen and

Paper. I used to fold paper for my grandpa in the heavens,

Golden paper he would use as money,

Paper glistening like honey, paper that rumbled my tummy,

Because even with WIC, we were still hungry.

I’m from Saint Paul, Laos, and China 

Frozen meals for dinner and sometimes beans on china.

Even to this day, I still spend time trying to find a,

Snack that is sweet and crunchy, savory

A salty munch that can save me

From this life that keeps depraving me

Of the fleeting warm memories I have.

I am from the birthdays where I cut cake in halves,

Doling them out like precious gold coins for my siblings to attack,

Spring on like lions chasing antelope, cheetah pursuing gazelle,

The cake a moment of hope in a home that felt like hell.

I am from the baby soap, the fresh, inviting smell,

From the Sunday bathtimes with Elina,

Where we would play mermaids and treat a

Wet towel like a seal and the soap suds an orca.

I am from the family movie nights where I sat,

Quietly in the sofa corner, satisfied that,

At least here, there would be no combat.

I would look at the pictures hanging from our walls,

Dotting the beige wallpaper like apples on trees meters tall,

Missing a love I never had at all.

I am from the futures I imagine in my head,

From the dreams I create at my desk and in my bed.

I am from the wish to be freely loved until I am dead.