Home can be hard to reach
When it is nearly ten thousand miles away.
But when I do manage to visit, the same question resurfaces:
“Quê hương con ở đâu?” Where are you from?
Every syllable articulated
But blending softly from one to another,
And looks of curiosity and wondering faces
From friends, from family, from friends of family,
Even strangers I’ve never met.
And every year, I hesitate before saying,
“I was born in the States, but my parents are from Vietnam.”
Like a record on replay,
The words roll off my tongue.
But this answer only works for my peers and some.
The older generation expects something more:
“Mẹ is from Sa Đéc, Cha is from Phước Khánh.”
When these words are spoken,  
I am reminded of my roots.
My ancestors bathed in the Mekong just as I had;
They, too, woke to the sound of clucking chickens,
They walked the same path I did to the flea market every morning.
Hearing my native language makes me wonder
Where everything I know about my culture
Started.