bits of mango & shaved ice,
so small,
the plastic spoons they give
at that Korean & French bakery we always go to after
I spend the forty-five minutes
warming up, front-kicking & later getting
my back straightened by sabumnim
on the hard-wood, eyes
glued to the loops in the grain, holding
my breath, hearing master
aish ya shibal asking how my back
could be bent like a question mark, ordering
me as I get up to
bow that I
thank eomma for taking me to taekwondo,
that I bow deeper & say eomeoni instead which is more
proper & respectful & I ask what about the other kids,
but I know the other kids are not Korean & that
it is up to me to learn this way
of doing & in the back of
my mind I am remembering all
the grown-ups & kids who keep telling me what & who I am
that 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 Jew
that I am a Jew that i must be anything other than who i am, or what
& when I look back now I cannot see
myself being scolded
by the good master or eating
sweets in K-Town without
bringing to mind every thing I’ve been told
I am & am not.
Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash
