POEM: so you’re walking down chinatown
me, clutching onto that paper for dear life
Last Tuesday I hit up Lambadina Lounge for another night of classic Acoustic Soul Open mic. I’ve become accustom to performing more and more poetry, although I am still very much a noob at reading my own work. Although this piece is memorized, I haven’t the ovaries to attempt the poem off script. So yes, I brought the paper on stage, but wait, that’s not just paper, that’s a booklet almost. That’s right, I’m not just sleeping on the other side of the computer, got my manuscript for 3 cities printed and ready for proofing. It’s all a matter of typesetting and slapping a cover on this baby and we’re good as gold. But in the meanwhile, I’ll be practicing my stage presence. Oddly enough when I reenacted the event for my mom in the car, I was incredibly nervous and stumbled through the whole thing. Foreshadowing for my book launch? Only time will tell. Thanks for following me on this journey blog peeps. Next time I perform, I’ll give y’all ample notice so you can attend, make me feel nervous and witness my stumbles in person.
The poem so you’re walking down chinatown is featured in 3 cities and is a meditation on the side of my heritage I seldom pay homage to, my Chinese background.
I
so you’re walking through chinatown
and you see the smiling eyes
of a woman hovering
over a crate of
dried cod fish.
I
the smell of salt
and the sound of service
reminds you of home, reminds
you your grandmother’s last
name is yeung
and more than anything else
you want to be able
to read the sign
above her head, squared
mandarin characters, red
marker on cardboard
i
because the gesture
she makes
could mean:
it’s on sale
i don’t work here
or simply, yes, yes cod fish
i
and as you catch glimpses of
tiger eyes, dragon tongues
and sparkling dvds with
english subtitles,
you pick up fruit
you’ve never seen before
and even that reminds you
of home
reminds you of
juicy jackfruit
black ackee eyes
spiked cerasse
and other fruit you can’t find
at no frills
i
while another woman
wearing an umbrella hat
fans herself
the way your father does:
snapping the elbows
hands grazing the collarbone
i
and its got you thinking
about how
good luck and bad luck
weigh themselves out
in both of your palms
crossed both cultures:
roots are sacred
herbs heal wounds
cousin-cousin boil good soup
i
who would be so arrogant
as to squeeze a whole country
within a few blocks
and then call it a town?
i
you don’t get it,
like you don’t get
why your hairstyle is called
chiney bumps
i
and you don’t get it,
how when you were born
people called you
china man pickney
i
and you don’t get it,
why someone could throw away
bubble tea
and leave behind
tapioca
i
and then you walk out of chinatown.
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