bits of mango & shaved ice,so small,the plastic spoons they giveat that Korean & French bakery we always go to afterI spend the forty-five minuteswarming up, front-kicking & later gettingmy back straightened by sabumnimon the hard-wood, eyesglued to the loops in the grain, holdingmy breath, hearing masteraish ya shibal asking how my backcould be bent like a question mark, orderingme as I get up tobow that Ithank eomma for taking me to taekwondo,that I bow deeper & say eomeoni instead which is moreproper & respectful & I ask what about the other kids,but I know the other kids are not Korean & thatit is up to me to learn this wayof doing & in the back ofmy mind I am remembering allthe grown-ups & kids who keep telling me what & who I amthat I am Korean that I am not Korean but American that I am gyopo that i am not gyopo just a gyopo’s baby that, actually. I’m just Chinese that actually i am just azn that I am just yt that I am just a rat that I am not a Jewthat I am a Jew that i must be anything other than who i am, or what& when I look back now I cannot seemyself being scoldedby the good master or eatingsweets in K-Town withoutbringing to mind every thing I’ve been toldI am & am not.
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