God help you.

I’ve realized that I yell the same things to my daughter

in the same way that my dad would yell at me

except I do it in English

which some may consider the official language

of bad Asians.

The apartment building has several single-parent families like ours—

we know the juggling of a foot to catch a door,

one hand carrying groceries,

the other a bag of toys the child has refused to hold,

children wanting us to sprout a third arm

to carry them over the threshold.

We say the same thing to their spread and hopeful arms

in three different languages

not knowing if it’s us or some god when we say

I can’t carry you.

What if this is the best we can be?

When we realize phrases like “Be who you were meant to be”

make no sense at all.

Look into a burnt-out lightbulb,

see that something that should lead to something else

is broken.

Document

I.

Let’s say the smart white girl from the wealthy family that you always thought was so pretty ends up being part of your study group, and she comes to your house with the others to work on the final project. She wrinkles her nose and asks if there are roaches, and instead of hating her you hate your mom and dad. She’ll never love you, but that’s preferable to their love, which you’ve grown to need a translator for. They taught you you were ugly long before this white girl caught your eye. They are nowhere near to hear her English; they’re off at one of their two or three jobs. You’ve learned about the Black Panthers in a gym room closet, you’ve learned about the AIM patrols in your neighborhood, but you don’t know how it all connects to crushes balanced atop nests of roaches. Don’t know what to do with these feelings but tuck it all away and hope it doesn’t crawl out like it will at sudden moments for the rest of your life. Can’t seem to figure out what all of that has to do with your war-torn family and this beautiful woman who hates the house you’re raised in, its scuttling denizens. Whether or not they’re real, she imagines you infesting this place.

II.

In my twenties, my body is bloated from overeating and I don’t know what to believe in that will make me happy, so of course I am getting porn. I am so scared someone will recognize me and force me to erase my name from every radical leftist petition I’ve ever signed. I start to pull out of the small parking lot when two white men in a big American truck pull in at the same time, swerving it in and blocking my way like that Americanmade tonnage is their dick. They’re taller than me, in their truck and also on foot, I can tell. I throw my hands up and roll my eyes, then as I back my car to get out of their way, one of the white men unbuckles his seat belt, threatening that he will jump out and kick my ass. Then he and his friend laugh at me, that laugh of superiority that you don’t even need to hear the noise to recognize: “Look, we played chicken with this chink, and we won.” Here’s the part where I say I went home and whacked off while fantasizing about having sex with his girlfriend, but that’s not true. Instead I stored the memory away and now it eats at me every time someone says they think I’m a great guy.