By Irene Van
That moment when the author is trying really hard to impress her mom with lipstick and her hair done. The lipstick disappeared after she dug into her dinner. Shrugs.
mẹ ơi
you taught me that a woman’s beauty did not come from
the depth of her laughter
the mountains that she carries on her back
or her rapid fire wit
but from the smile on her face
the curtsy in her stance
and how tight she can tuck her tummy
it was as if my appearance
was the most precious sapphire in the world
and I needed to spend 3 hours a day polishing its beauty
you told me that I couldn’t hold a partner
because my skin didn’t glisten in the sun
didn’t feel like silk to the touch
that the bulges in my body
cried “break up”
so with every insult you slit into my soul
with a roaring fire in my belly
I scratched your words off my shoulders
until I bled resentment
I became everything you didn’t want me to be
I defied your rules of engagement
licked the sugar off plates
drowned myself in beer and whiskey
(like father)
and watched hips extend further into space
It was as if every bite I took was
my resistance to your saltwater words
like you could never burn holes in my chest again
like I
had
power over you
but truly
my body in a mirror
was just a reflection of years of
women on women hatred
how I forgot of bà ngoại
deemed the “most beautiful woman in her village”
sitting above her windowsill
laughing below at women who did not have her golden skin
cheeks like pillows of heaven
and a smile that could realign the stars in her favor
sometimes, I imagine
she wanted to unwind her hair
climb down her watch tower
escape for
just one moment
How you, mẹ, grew up thinking that
spitting venom at each other
like we were dirt
(when really we were goddesses)
was what power looked like
that trading in our divine beauty
for shame
is what you wanted to teach me
Even now
You’re most proud when I wear makeup
but mẹ ơi
even if my hands never whisk skillful across my face
never learns to paint this mask
I will still yearn to be your mirror
Your twin
How I want
The depths of your laughter when you’re alone
like the roar of a lion awakening its pack
The majestic mountains that you carry on your back
from being a Vietnamese mother in a broken country
And that rapid fire wit
Declaring that nobody
ever
messes with us
If only that was the reflection of you
You saw in me…
About the Author: Irene is a queer Vietnamese womyn who reps her hometown of San Jose real hard. She has a strong passion for social justice, working with young people, theater and poetry. She is always dreaming of ways to take over the world with love, laughter, and 100% fierceness. She also enjoys thinking of ways to survive the zombie apocalypse.
