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JW Mar 2013
It's funny the things that catch our eye.
My boarding pass and passport are over checked
Student ID,
Admission letter four years old,
Father's death certificate,
My marriage certificate,
Endless documents,
To prove I'm not a threat.
He  waltzes through without a blink.
No boarding pass checked,
No passport in hand,
No red flags raised.
I'm sure it's illegal,
But they don't ask
Or maybe they won't.
I'm the one they check,
The one they search.
3 hours.
Are these your suitcases?
Unpack the suitcase
who packed the suitcase?
Each item scanned
Where was the suitcase after it was packed?
swab,
wait,
second swab,
wait again.
third swab,
That had better be for good luck.
(more attention than the blarney stone)
Did anyone give you any gifts to bring?
Repack,
Rush through check-in.
Second security check,
Go to line 3.
Unpack hand luggage,
Laptop, tablet, phone, chargers, data cables
Scanned individually,
Take off shoes,
Walk through metal detector,
Three swabs more for good measure,
Repack,
Rush to gate
Already boarding
Finally in my seat.
He takes 15 minutes.
It's funny how his time 8-tuples,
When we travel together.
I may be his ben zug,
I may speak their language without the dreaded Mivtah*,
but I still don't belong.
It's funny the things that catch our eye.
*Mivtah: Hebrew word for accent.*
vy Jun 2014
i. throw away the three boxes of
incense sticks that burn your eyes
when lit. When your father asks
you where they went,
tell him,
they’re a firehazard.

ii. before you board the bus, rush
to the bathroom. dump out the
mi sao your mother made
for you.
repack with lunchables and fruit roll-
ups. hide your wooden chopsticks.

iii. rip the buddha necklace off
your chest. with the imprint of the fat
man digging into your left palm, raise
your right hand and shout, “I’M NOT
A BUDDHIST. my mother was.” to the peers
think all Asians are Buddhists and
all Buddhists are Asian.

iv. When they ask you why ‘Vy’
rhymes with ‘bee’ and not ‘my’,
tell them that Vietnamese and
English are two different
languages. But remember to
apologise for the inconvenience.
Look forward to this question for
the rest of your life.

v. If a substitute asks, “Sorry
if I pronounce this
wrong but is Vy [rhyme with
eye] here?” Do not duck
beneath your desk. Do not
correct them. Tighten your lips
into a smile, look them in the
eye and raise your hand,
"here."

vi. avoid going shopping with
your parents, they will ask you to
bargain with the cashier on
how the lettuce ball s a bit too
small to cost three dollars, and
that they should take off a
dollar. when you refuse, they will
try to communicate in broken
English.
this is your cue to wait out front.

vii. when graduation day comes
and your entire family wants to
attend,
say no. it is not important.
it is important. but your
grandmother will tell everyone that
you are the first, to step foot
into college. avoid
this embarrasssment by telling them
graduation is cancelled.

viii. instead of taking pictures with
your “fresh off the boat” family,
borrow Kelly Tran’s, whose
parents are hip and cool and let
her speak English
at home.

ix. are you Chinese?
no

x. are you Japanese?
no

xi. are you Korean?
no

xii. Are you Asian?
…yes

xiii. what kind of Asian are you?
Vietnamese
… American

xiv. You are not Vietnamese-
American. there is nothing
American about you except your
citizenship.

xv. make sure you choose the
furthest college away from home,
where your mother won’t be able
to send you white rice and
kimchi, among other foods that
your white roommate can’t pronounce.

xvi. no matter where you go,
someone will ask you to “say
something in your language”
they say
"your language"
because one,
they don’t know what language
you speak, two,
they don’t know how to
pronounce it. they just
assume you speak one
besides English.

xvii. when your mother calls
while you have company over
and asks,
"con co nho me khong?", pretend
you don’t understand. take a
glance at the people around you
and firmly reply, “mom i’m
busy. i’ll call you later.” lace it
with enough conviction to fool
wandering ears but with less
compassion so that your mother
knows not to stay up late past three waiting.

xviii. tan your skin, bleach your
hair, forget your native tongue.
remember the boys who leer,
grabbing their crotch, whispering in
your ear, “i’ve got yellow fever,
can you cure me?”

xix. stand in front of the mirror.
open youtube and search, “how
to get rid of an Asian accent”
because no matter how western
you look, your mouth will speak
"duh girl likes pissa" instead of
"the girl likes pizza".

**. schedule a plastic surgery
appointment, fix your nose, jaw,
and monolid eyes. people will
try to stop you, “you are perfect
the way you are! there is no one you-
er than you!” laugh at them.
inform them, “the looks of me is
not what society want people to be.”

xxi. pick up the phone. dial
home. hang up. do this five
times. after the fifth, you will
have convinced yourself that you
don’t miss them. it is just the
alcohol talking.

xxii. before you sign up for this
read the fine print. in addition to
losing your identity, you will lose
yourself. becoming a child of
corrporate America is as easy as it
seems. you just have to let go of
your humanity.
Alicia Nicole Nov 2011
In a world of chaos you were my only hope.
Your blank, pale expression stared at me,
with your faded blue lines running across your perfect emptiness.
Your untouched, untapped potential for relief and sanctuary begging me to splatter my ink, my blood across you.
It invited me to share my sorrows and woes, my happiness but most of all my lows.
So, paper, pen, poem-
I spill my guts to you.
I pour my soul out to you, knowing that you’re always there to listen.

But the truth is, this chaos cannot be contained in such a few lines, in such a few words.
The complexity of Life’s twists cannot be shortened or summed up here.

I could never think of a word to describe the…. empty?.... feeling I got when he returned home, only to repack his bags and leave again.
I could never think of a word to describe the….apathetic?.... feeling I got when they told us it was about change, but at the same time they told us what we could and couldn’t say.
I could never think of a word to describe the…despondent?... feeling I got when he said he was in love with me, but that we could never be together.
I could never think of a word to describe the…?... feeling I got as I hugged her and brushed her tears away, knowing that were caused by me,
I could never think of a word to describe the...?... feeling I got when I begged them to trust me, even though I couldn’t even trust myself.

There are no words or phrases that can capture the irony of day to day living,
of hating life but being afraid of death,
of wishing them to go away but praying they would stay,
of wanting to move a thousand miles away but being unable to take the first step.
I can not capture the way I feel on these days when Life smiles in my face as she holds a gun to my head,
When Life tells me she loves me and holds me close,
but watches as she fills my eyes with tears because she has loosened her grip and is letting me slip away.

So, paper, pen, poem-
I spill my guts to you.
And I beg you to listen, cause I can’t even hear myself.
Sometimes I wish these tears,
Were held in my head
that they were packaged and labeled
Citing date, cause, and emotion.
I'd scribble box upon box with something like:

Date: December 25th 2005
Cause: First Christmas Without Dad
Emotion: Misty Eyed Sadness.
Or
Date: June 8 2002
Cause: Recognition. Of a Job well done.
Emotion: Humbled Elation

Sure the boxes would stack up.
Reaching heights unfathomable.
And so I'd sort.
Keeping each emotion in their own piles.
Neatly selecting which ones to put in the front stacks
And which ones to keep hidden from view,
So as not to accidentally expose my problems,
Or remind myself of things I wish to forget.
Instead I'd neatly stack them out of sight.
Perhaps the stacks will fall one day.
Cluttering my head.
It's possible
Some may even be forced open.
Forcing me to repack and
Restack.
Shirley May 2013
I was standing there

In the heart of crossroads

Blindly staring at the unfamiliar road signs



Traffic lights must have misheard my wheeze

They shifted before I could breathe

Inexorable headlights race towards the freezing me

As if magnet and metal were meant to be



I am here, facing back

Tracing the road I wanted to wrack

With thought of facing the crack

Measuring the weight to repack



Memories of morning sun heating away the haze

Passion of youth in this town had become blase

Fleeting replays of ugly truths in these old days

So I stepped out the lies builded with ablaze  



I will be moving, starting from here

By the side of crossroads

Slowly walking away from these rusty road signs
Trees that are rising, with trunks fading to black,
Before you were woven from wood, now of the rocks that crack.
With you standing tall, and always the shade to rest my back.
From then til' today I could never repack,
All the sins, that you devour on track.
Since long I have not wronged by the stars of that song.
Maybe I should numb what was strong,
Because the silence of your breath becomes flat.

With leaves of wide shape and shining colour.
Reflecting the shadows and its silhouettes.
Home to different creature of its lore.
The furious, silent, and respectful.
Like the ever changing skins of your growing fruits.
From remedies, poisons, and delicacies just to fill.
Giving abundances of gifts but nonetheless it is you who takes it.

Time moves forward,
It is seen that yesterday is tomorrow,
The ebb and flow is very evident,
What was calm,
Turbulently testing today,
Gathering all its forces,
While throwing what is wasteful and foolish.
This is a rough translation for a poem in my native country's language.
Whit Howland Jul 2019
Years ago at a college
reunion

       an old friend

said she didn't remember me

and to this day

   I still unpack and

           repack that memory

   of she

who took

all those seconds minutes

    hours  days

                              years

and scrubbed them from

every shelf cubby alcove
and wiped them off

                                 the front door
the counter
                               the cash register

     the stairs

swept them from

the basement

and dusted them from the  attic

   I try not to take

it personally

                              but there is no

other computer out

                                         there

on the market        

                                            that needs

these types of memories stored

                                                         ­                           in a mouse maze

                                               of how to dance

and how to smile and how to love

                                   and how to laugh

in order to function
                                                        ­                and drive the

vessel it is
                                                 commanding

and as tempted as I have been

                                                           ­         I have fought

the

                                                     pressures

internal                               external

to simplify and reorganze

                                        the trivia facts

figures                                bar and parlor tricks

                                    pool shots anachronistic cheese

                                                         ­                       
                                                                ­                           ***** humor
****** stories


that  are crammed into shelves


                                    and stacked floor to ceiling

there will be no hall of records

                                              and when they come


which they will surely do

                                          you have my word


I will not slip away quietly

into the night


   Whit Howland © 2019
Grumpy traveller

We are eating breakfast at the hotel,
it has proper breakfast that is suitable for a diabetic person
then we will pack our bags; she will repack my bag
since I crease the clothes.
I will then watch TV and wait.
Then we will pay and take a taxi to the railway station
I tried to get the place in a first-class carriage, but they didn't
have any. I know the train will be packed by noisy,
Tourists who carry more luggage then they need.
The train has a dinner, but I can't drink any wine since
I will be driving home our car is parked at the station
In Faro; I'm not a glad traveller only do so when I must.
Near Faro ten minutes before arrival, I feel quite perky;
it is so good to be home after being away.

— The End —