“They are like my aunts. Their pain is centuries old.”
– Cathy Park Hong, Minor Feelings
To the women who locked up late, after
their hands pressed against a stranger’s skin,
eyes both tired & seeing, despite their shape.
To the women who tied their rope-like hair
back in ponytails, or twisted it into a bun, broke
hair ties the way I do. To the women with accents
& complicated pasts, blisters & hospital bills,
no insurance, waning bank balances & everyone
speaking slow & loud, enunciated hand
gestures, everyone thinking them dumb.
To the women whose names are always butchered
or changed, anglicized & simplified, bleached
like the skin on their faces— papaya soap, whitening
lotion. To the women discredited & devalued
& objectified— the vehicle of her metaphor
always a doll or a food: something pretty & muted
or meant for consumption. I want to tell you:
I am one of you & I see my own mother, auntie,
grandmothers, sister, cousins in you. I see you
for the mother, auntie, grandmother, sister, cousin
you are. I see with my own dark & slanted eyes
the ways we are made to appear silent & subservient;
the ways we are made to disappear: expendable,
numerous, mispronounced & forgotten.
Image Credits: David Flores
This piece is part of our Fall 2021 In-Residence series, Blooming Fiascoes with Ellen Hagan.
