for the daughters of émigrés and immigrants.

inextricably sound

journey of 6,770 miles,

the voices of the past announce:

she is relevant

her voice belongs.

she is a delight.

her tan skin,

brown and black moles freckle her face

blessed by the West’s salt and sun,

she is delight.

across and between the vast pacific,

bound and tied

from the cusp of both shores

the ancestors shout:

“beautiful country, she is yours!”

“affirm her, challenge her, love her!”

she is delight.

“Mei-guo, she is yours!”

“affirm her, challenge her, love her!”

she is delight.

        

obligations weighted by history,

molded by untold tales

and heart-kept whispers,

hidden songs and muffled stories.

                                                

homes built on uncertain hope,

each grain rises with toil, masking

the unfamiliar tongues.

identity weighted by Gong-gong and Po-po’s

she takes the stories of souls’ past

threaded collectively

and layered intricately

and moves forth

obeys her curiosity

navigates the voices

and values her desires.

resilient from and reliant on

the gong-gongs and the puo-puos,

the ah-mas and the gu-mahs,

the ba-bas and the mah-mahs,

she rises.

selective comPassion

I first heard the phrase above after an intense Dharma session when the yoga teacher instructed us to level down and sit cross-legged at the foot of our mats.

we choose who we care for, she told us.

we choose what we care about, she told us.

we often have selective compassion, she told me.

I remember tears streaming down my face, meeting with the sweat that accompanied my headstand. Previously upside down, turned around, and whatever else she made us do, 

she had suddenly turned me inside out and worse, 

called me out.

I am stretched so thin, I thought, how do I not have selective compassion?

The number of prison beds are manufactured based on
the results of 4^th grade reading assessments,

It’s not too difficult to see who can read and who can’t.

who will be able recognize her name and who will struggle.

who gets the bed time story

and who doesn't.

who sees himself next to the crossword puzzle on the cereal box.

who never sees herself on the pages of a shimmering book, fighting the battle, winning the prize.

             How do you not have selective compassion? I cried out. 

 

That was 2 years ago, and I am still struggling with having compassion for everyone.

What’s different now is that I’m starting with myself – 

do I have compassion for me?

What areas of my life do I need to re-build and renew, so I’m stretched thicker than thin,

Courageous rather than ashamed,

Everyone has a story -

pockets empty or full,

language learned or mother tongue,

ivy leagued or home-schooled,

tall and handsome or short and stout.

Because in the end, we won’t know who will win the battle for us.