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Not American
i.
The rotting planks creaked beneath his feet, a disjointed harmony to the rowdy
cacophony of hundreds of laborers stuffed into the dark recesses
of the ship belly, their accents a myriad
of harmonies, a sprawling tapestry stretching across the frozen mountains and rice paddies
of China, billowing in the blustery wind of naïve hope which swirled throughout
the shadows of steerage.
He hunched over his rice bowl, the sparse grains an iridescent thread
of love arcing gracefully over the turbulent waves
to a mud brick, one-roomed house facing rows of rice, their stalks bent
with destitution,
to his father’s curved back, their vertebrae screaming from acute spasms
of pain forty years too early,
to coarse yet caring hands braving the ferocity of
the midday sun to harvest so many miniscule white grains, traded for a few grimy coppers
from fox-faced merchants, painfully scant
savings slowly fed by the love of poor parents praying to change the destiny
of their son.
And still the great steamer plows ahead towards a glorified land
of prejudiced patriots indifferent
towards the optimistic souls tossed like filth belowdecks.
ii.
The detention facility rose up
above the lapping waves encircling
squat buildings, so many faithful dogs eager to escort prisoners to
their wicked master.
He knew, oh yes he knew
the horrors within, from fearful accounts whispered by broken men, broken,
Broken by this racist sentinel standing guard over America,
labelled nothing but flesh and bone with
yellow skin.
And as the black,
black windows punched into Angel Island’s walls neared, jagged holes that swallowed
his fires of tenacity,
he silently rehearsed the cold facts drilled into him, the birthday of his naturalized
“father” in the States, the address of this
stranger, the fake identity that would lull the beast of Angel Island
to sleep.
He knew the fear
the fear as sour-faced inspectors
hurled questions
like bullets at the cowering
Chinese
immigrants, their lips struggling to wrap around the terror and
anger rising up their throats, paper sons and daughters wanting
but a better life.
He knew the anger,
the anger as Angel Island’s lackeys welcomed
white men with open arms while the detainment center leered at
Chinese
like winter leers at tender saplings,
and as the months flowed past, hope
curdled in the despondent characters carved upon
the walls, so many dark characters saturated with the tears
of racism’s victims.
As Angel Island snarled,
fear coursed through the latticework of
his veins for he knew winning
the lottery for liberty was a rose
in the bosom of winter.
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I grew up not knowing about the systematic racism that Chinese immigrants were subject to starting in the late 1800s. When I stumbled upon the Chinese Exclusion Act exhibit in the National Archives museum, I was at once ashamed by my ignorance and enraged. Why was I not taught this in school? I hope this poem allows readers to question the impact and morality of keeping parts of history hidden.