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Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Ghost Mother

Reposted from Misplaced Baggage

Amorphous
Amorphous by sume

*Má didn’t exist
before my fourteenth birthday.

Unable to accept that my blood
flowed in another direction,

my American mother never spoke of Việt Nam,

but the maternal compass
that had first mapped my veins
left markers that kept Sài Gòn
firmly imprinted in the corner of my eye.

Forgive me, Má, for letting over thirty years pass
before I lit incense for your ngày gió.

I have nothing of substance
to entice her back among the living,
only my words as I rewrite her

into existence

Ghost mother…imaginary mother…elusive mother

There were times when I’d picture Má as a spirit watching over me. A faceless apparition made of vapor and a child’s imagination, Má was a source of comfort and mystery. As I grew older, I remade her several times adding details; long dark hair and eyes like my own. Still, despite my vivid imagination, Má refused to reveal herself in her entirety. Perhaps I wasn’t nearly as creative as I’d thought.

Not knowing anything about my Vietnamese parents or the circumstance under which I’d been adopted left too much room for speculation. Confused and disturbed by so many unknowns, I sought to fill in the blanks. Just as I’d created and re-created Má, I wove intricate scenarios for my adoption.

Born January 1st, 1970, I was adopted and arrived in the US in July. My parents divorced in September of the same year. I don’t think I consciously associated the events at the time. All I knew was that I seemed to have a problem with losing parents and didn’t understand why. Because Má was such a mystery, I fluctuated between longing for her and being angry with her depending on whether I thought she’d died or abandoned me.

I’ve yet to explore why I put so much emphasis on Má and thought so little of Ba. Perhaps it was because my mom provided a constant reminder or maybe it was a manifestation of the traditional gender roles I’d learned. There is also the possibility that it was because as a daughter, I simply wanted to know my mother. Besides, fathers were inconstant beings that came and went every other weekend and holidays. Further still, some part of me feels that Má was just easier. Ba may not have been Ba at all, but Dad, 爸爸 or even 아빠 .

According to my dad, my foster mother lived in Cho Lon, and he’d had gotten the impression that I’d been born there. How he had gotten the impression that I had been born in Sài Gòn’s Chinese district is still not clear. Given Dad’s habit of revising my adoption story, I can’t be sure of anything. He’s honed re-writing my history, including stories of Má into a fine art – mistress, wife, prostitute, dead, probably dead, possibly alive, unknown.

Ghost mother…voiceless mother…unreal mother

I wonder if she ever pictured me growing up in her mind. Did she see my face in other children, other daughters? If Má’s alive, does she consider me as a ghost child? The thought of someone stripping away my substance feels demeaning, dehumanizing. I am here. I am real. I’m alive.

But Má and I have no way of knowing that about the other, do we? Some part of me knows I must except the possibility she tried her best to put me out of her mind. War and poverty can make people stretch their principles to the breaking point. Like my veteran adoptive father, perhaps she too, just wanted to forget the past – and me along with it. I understand this. I accept this. Experience has taught me that possibilities can become a burden of truth.

In the end, it’s only for Má to say. Therein lies my dilemma as I “rewrite her into existence.” Dad and I are both guilty of creating and re-creating Má at our own convenience. For dad, she was a tool for manipulation. For me, she was both a refuge and a whipping post for my rage. But Má is just Má, and I don’t know who that is. What that means for me is that I must be willing to accept without passing judgment that all things are possible.

I can’t judge on a possibility or even a probability. Who am I to judge anyway?

Chapter four of Jeanne Marie Laskas’ book, “growing girls” is entitled “meeting the ghost-mother.” After assessing the seeming malnourished condition of her newly adopted daughter, Laskas questions the treatment Sasha received at her orphanage. She goes on to write that she tried “to sympathize, to understand the ghost-mother and all the ghost nannies,” but that “forgiveness was so far away now.”

Laskas later goes on to describe Sasha’s lack of responsiveness. She then expresses her feelings about there being “something wrong” with “our baby” going so far as to place blame on “those monsters.” Who are the “monsters” she refers to? The ghost-nannies? The ghost mother? China as a society?

Surprisingly, I can sympathize with Laskas – not with her sentiments but with her seeming need to ask, “How could you let this happen?” I posed similar questions when thinking about my own situation, “What have you done? How could you?” But exactly who was I asking and upon whom could I rightfully place the blame? I sought to forgive Má, but who said I was in a position to forgive anyone?

That’s the convenient thing about ghost people. Without substance, without an independent voice, they become whatever we need them to be. We can read stories of others in similar situations. We may even understand their circumstances on a personal level, but the results will more than likely be the same. Without all the things that make them equal in their humanity, they become little more than amorphous puppets.

We don’t even have to feel guilty about it because without substance, they aren’t real.

Ghost mother…my mother…Má

I can never rewrite or remake my mother as the person she was or might have become. The best I can do is place emphasis on the significance of her existence, hushing the voices of those who would presume to speak for her. The inner one is the hardest to quiet. It’s the voice of longing – the need to have my questions answered, to know Má, to understand her, to love and be loved by her.

*The wisps of smoke hang suspended
before an alter that’s still craving a face.
The empty picture frame holds nothing
but questions and laminated adoption documents

The need to fill a void can be overwhelming when dealing with so many significant unknowns. It has stretched my imagination to its limits, but I refuse to repeat the mistake Dad and I previously made. The emptiness isn’t for me or anyone to fill. It’s a space reserved only for Má no matter what that may mean.

*exerpts from The Feast of First Mourning.

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amorphous by sume

As a Vietnamese adoptee who knows next to nothing about her past in Vietnam, Tết Nguyên Đán (Feast of The First Morning) has become a time of both mourning and celebration. Because of the custom of honoring ancestors during the New Year celebration, “the loss” hits me hardest during Tết. I have struggled with this poem for almost a year and now realize that it’s just one of those poems that will never develop in to a “final draft”.

Má, how is it that you flow through my veins
yet I possess the least of you?

I was born twice before my thôi nôi,
a daughter born of flesh
before being rewritten on paper.

My soldier father left Việt Nam in 1970
but before he boarded the plane,
he buried his memory of Ma’
beside the runway.

With a duffel bag of souvenirs under one arm
and I, in the crook of another,
he left without ever asking her name.

Years later he would recall how I’d howled
and kicked from Sài Gòn to Honolulu.

“It was war,” I’m told,
as if that should explain why

Má didn’t exist
before my fourteenth birthday.

Unable to accept that my blood
flowed in another direction,

my American mother never spoke of Việt Nam,

but the maternal compass
that had first mapped my veins
left markers that kept Sài Gòn
firmly imprinted in the corner of my eye.

Cung chúc tân xuân, Má. Happy New Year.

A mother in neither name nor memory,
it pains me to think that until now
she has eaten alone or not at all
on the Feast of the First Morning.

Forgive me, Má, for letting over thirty years pass
before I lit incense for your ngày gió.

The wisps of smoke hang suspended
before an alter still craving a face.
The empty picture frame holds nothing
but questions and laminated adoption documents

that offer no resolution for a severed bloodline
that’s been cauterized with the lie

“born of unknown parents.”

Má, come feast with your American daughter
on what has become your death anniversary.

I have nothing of substance
to entice her back among the living,
only my words as I rewrite her

into existence

knowing she was
and can be again
because I am here.

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There is an article on StarTribune.com about fellow TRA, Bryan Thao Worra and his wife, Ka Vang that is well worth the read.

Maverick artists Ka Vang and Bryan Thao Worra, who share family histories of secrecy and shame, use their writing to agitate for change in the Hmong community.

“We have two totally different approaches to life,” Vang said. “But we arrive at the same destination.”

Over the past eight years Vang and Worra have become an Asian power couple who have challenged Hmong early marriage, teen pregnancy, domestic violence and polygamy — drawing death threats in the process. In a tribal culture that had no word for art, they are among its literary vanguard, using edgy contemporary poetry, plays and stories to document the Hmong experience and heal its ills.

continued.. 

 

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dvc02067b3.jpg
“speechless” by sume

Tact

Tongue thrashes and groans
behind the lock of lips

the words swell inside
a constricted throat

forced down into nuance,
I let them ferment,

age out their bite
before they force their way
through my mouth and nose,

the acid left behind
to pool in my gut

* * *

The calls home have become automatic, ritualistic like the prayers I use perform during the days when I thought they’d be answered. The phone rings, there’s an exchange of information about who’s doing what to whom followed by a moment of silence.

It’s a choreographed tick of the clock staged by yours truly. It’s my way of telling my father, “Okay, we’re done with the niceties. I’m listening. Now, tell me what I want to know.”

It’s not an uncomfortable silence anymore, only filled with expectation as I mentally urge him to speak. Can he hear my inner screaming? The thuds as I bang my head and fists on the door?

“So when are you moving back home?” he breaks the silence and with it, my resolve. Another instant has been fed to the dogs as I once again go hungry.

By now, I can string those moments together like beads and wear them around my neck like a trophy of nothingness. It’s grown heavy over the years, this burden that I carry without knowing why.

“God never answers the way we want Him to answer,” my elders use to tell me.

Obviously, neither do my parents.

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Sadiq Alam and Tiel Aisha Ansari have done a beautiful job of putting together the first ever Sufi Poetry Blog Carnival.  They have posted it in two parts, one on each of their blogs.  Just click on the links and take a look.

It’s both humbling and inspiring to be among so many beautiful souls.  Thank you both for putting this together and offering yet another reminder that we all still have much to learn from one another.

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Three books of poetry that are in the top tier of my “to buy” list are:

Sun Yun Shin’s Skirt Full of Black

Lee Herrick’s This Many Miles From Desire

Bryan Thao Worra’s On The Other Side Of The Eye 

Poetry has always held a special place in my heart.  It was my one means of expression where I could let it all hang out in a way that only I knew exactly what I was saying.  It’s inspiring to see my fellow TRAs getting their voices out there.  What they’re expressing reverberates with me as much as the form in which they’re expressing it.  I hope that makes sense.

Still, I can relate to their writing on other levels that go beyond TRAness.  I feel a sense of completion when reading many of their poems.  Asian American, SouthEast Asian, woman, human being and so on.

More later, but for now, I can’t wait to read them!

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