Serena From the crayon box, sharp and unused, I picked the color peach. But you aren’t white. I turned to look at my friend. This isn’t white, I told her. Yeah, but everyone knows it’s the color for white people.
At school the next morning, my self-portrait was the only yellow among a sea of soft peaches.
~~~
I am Peter Pan, and my shadow hasn’t returned, lost within summers three years ago. Apartment rows with flowery grannies’ underwear fluttering like banners in the heat. A light whirring fan whisks perfumed sweet fish and savory pork into every corner of the flat. My shadow is still there, slipping in between the floorboards of the bathroom, lying with the red bean popsicle stick under the fridge, bending among the leaves of the bamboo bonsai tree. Nine mouths open with laughter as sunflower seeds pass around in warm palms. It’s a part of me left behind when half of us are parted by the sea.
~~~
America: where my parents built a new home, where they raised their two children, where they plan to grow old. How do you recount a life if it restarts after two decades? When people ask my mom where she’s from, I see confusion in their eyes. She is not Chinese enough. How could I ever be?
~~~
Among the blinking neon signs, the names of restaurants for Golden this or Lotus that. Asian dramas with doll-like girls and perfect pale skin with wrists so delicate and thighs so skinny. What does it mean to be Chinese in America? A country where businesses are cleared out and the elderly assaulted. To be blamed for a virus from a country I wasn’t even born in.
~~~
In China, walking down the street, an elderly lady asked why I was so dark. It dawned on me. Even among a country of yellow, my shade would always cast a shadow. I’m from America, I replied. Her face softened with understanding, patted my hand, and went on her way. All I needed was the name of a country to define me, yet that is the only thing it cannot do.
