Canto Cutie - Volume 3

The basement.
45th Avenue.
My home.
Where four families shared a two bedroom,
They all chipped in for their first trophy.
American.
But if you’re asking where I’m really from,
I guess my answer is
I’m really from the Transcontinental Railroad,
Where my great great grandfather’s blood and sweat are drenched
into the tracks of this land,
Just to be confined to the streets of
San Francisco.
Chinatown.
Unless of course,
He had dry-cleaning in his hands.
I’m really from Angel Island,
Where my great grandfather was held, for months
In a cell, with fifty other men.
Carving vertical lines into the walls, to count
The number of days it has been.
All waiting for interrogation, questions
“How many windows are in the place that you lived in?”
A moment of silence for those who didn’t make it out at the end.
I’m really from 媽 Ma,
Who at Twenty-three,
Left dancing, singing, dreams, dignity,
In exchange for Twenty US Dollars
And a Chinese to English dictionary.
I’m really from Her.
Who at Twenty-three,
Took a job as a maid,
With the hope that life could be made, for Me.
It has been forty years.
Forty years of lost dignity.
I’m really from my name 飛 Fei, to Fly,
Where Ma’s aspirations are channeled in me to soar, high. Masked
by an American name to save me
My dignity of the mispronunciation of My identity.
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