swimming lessons
it’s strange to learn a language secondhand
a language that lives in me
lives in my childhood
lives in my blood
yet shame so often holds it hostage to the tip of my tongue
it could “never be good enough”
a language that lives in the steam of dumpling baskets
the clanging of dim sum carts
and my mother’s beckoning hands
and too–
her scolding
passed down from mother to mother
“mei mei, don’t go to bed with your hair wet or you’ll wake up with a headache”
the language that lives in the food i’ve craved
as a 6 year old to 26 year old
but could never
and still cant ever
muster up the courage to order from a waiter
and claim the language as my own
my shame is my mother’s shame
and my clumsy american tongue could never be my mother’s native one
light and agile
carved around tones and ancestry
my ears can’t hear her accent
to me
her voice is just her own
to me
it has always been her own
but to her
her english was only ever
“never good enough.”
to others
her accent was a hassle
a dismissal
another reason to close an office door
to lay her off
to turn their head
to shut their eyes like blinds
she asked me at age 4 how to pronounce “zoo”
she still asks me sometimes, “shzoo”
i hear the hint of home in her accent
the hint of home
when spoken here
outcasts her
the hint of home
causing people to try to
translate her
TO TALK TO YOU LIKE THEY ARE ARE SHOUTING AT YOU FROM ANOTHER CONTINENT ACROSS THE OCEAN
but you swam here at 26
and you continue to swim
even though no one ever taught you how
at age 7
you reminded me everyday before YMCA swimming lessons
how lucky i was to learn to swim
because you were never so lucky
we would go to the pool
and you would stand at the shallow end
waving at me
standing alone
smiling
in your single
black
swimsuit
in the dressing room
i watched you gaze at your reflection in the mirror
turned sideways
head cocked
your hands cupping your belly
this swimsuit you bought specifically
to stand
not swim in
you float at the shallow end
avoiding the water so your hair doesn’t get wet
