Episode 13: Naïve Page of Distortion

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1. Page 337

Dad served two tours in the war 
a media circus of Ohio hippies 
and escapes from Saigon via helicopter
lit by the fireworks on the Nightly News
gilded the blood of the conscripts 
photographed by Leica
building roads as a Seabee 
cleaning the mud caked on his boots with gasoline 
the kids around the Airfield, they're bringing active landmines 
held tight like teddy bears to their chests
goofy grins on their toothless mouths 
knowing that you guys would give them chocolate
your anxious, wakeful Sky 
sends shivers down my spine 
my foot falls want to echo the shite
tuned to a radio station only we can hear 
Dad’s diabetes 
eats away at his vision 
takes away his license to live 
My Ate said the diabetes 
was aggravated 
by his exposure 
to Agent Orange 
cuz he served under the man 
who first deployed it 
I love the smell of napalm
 in the morning 
A day he will never see 
inside your earthen crater.

2. Distortion

where are you from
a person's often asked 
where, indeed 
I have no answer 
my eyes are slanted, but I'm not Oriental 
I'm not a rug, don't tread on me
my genes are Levi's, but I'm not a stadium
don't play games with me 
my feet are blistered, but I don't wear high heels 
I can walk on broken glass
I'm from California, I say 
naive of the social cues 
no further back, they insist
what do you mean, I reply 
and it hits me
what's a brown girl like you
doing in a desert like this
I lock my jaw, squint my chinky eyes, 
and say
I was born in Oakland, California 
At the Oak Knoll Naval Hospital 
September 18th, 1983 
cut me, I bleed red white and blue
I don't understand how people see me 
and every day is a struggle 
to reconcile the world that I belong, so I don't
their struggle with me, it's not my struggle
I eat rice with my bare hands 
and I shoot guns in the desert 
I like superhero movies and pop music 
how you see me is not my problem 
I am who I am 
and I don't give a damn.

3. When I Was Naïve

the tsinelas on my feet 
do not protect me 
from the grains of sand 
my mother's pale skin 
vision torn for me
to protect my face from the Sun 
so I don't get tan like my ancestors
but the freckles 
sprinkled on my cheeks 
are my tell
I have no Poker Face here 
A Murder of cacti 
and bloopy tumbleweeds 
and Wide, Open Spaces
but that can't be true
my childhood was the green grass that made me itch 
the hand-me-down purple banana seat bike 
and the depths of my imagination
selling candy to go to Great America
 with the school band 
driving to Chinatown in the city 
for siopao in the pink boxes 
pausing briefly at Treasure Island 
pointing out the house 
where Kuya broke his arm 
the house where they used to live 
years before I was born 
but that was never my home, it was theirs
my house was in the South Side, cheap side, wrong side
driving over the Lion Bridge, twice a day 
separating us from them
dreaming of cheesecake 
from the kitchen 
that I love so much 
I cooked rice 
in that house 
I cleaned the toilets 
in that house 
I wept for the shards 
of my broken heart 
in that house
but I am not home.
not Filipino enough for the Filipinos 
not American enough for the Americans 
too Filipino for the Americans
too American for the Filipinos
but I am not American
I am not Filipino 
I belong to both 
I belong to neither
brown skin and big nose 
what is normal anyways 
Crown Princess of Earth

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