VOLUME NO. 2 COMING SOON
But while you wait check out this exclusive sneak peak!
My father was born in south India
And never wears shoes in the house
He prays everyday on his way to work Thanks Shiva for this life, and bows
My mother was born in urban China
And does taxes in Shanghainese
She put me in all of the martial arts
All the kung fus and karates
Coriander fills the air in our house
Mixed with some cumin and chili
Battles for dominance with other smells Like green onions and sesame
But I am lost when it comes to the names Of the dishes I grew up on
Is it chapati, dosa or roti?
Porridge?—no, pao fan?—no, congee?
And how can I ever try conversing
With all my uncles and aunties?
Can’t speak Mandarin, no Cantonese too Not a single word of Hindi
So at their parties I cling to the wall Waiting for them to be over
I feel so alone, not able to speak
Or understand my own mother
I barely fit in with others at school
At least I know ‘nough to get by
I laugh at their jokes and try to relate
And sometimes I don’t have to try
But with my shallow depth of knowledge, I Worry for my future children
I know too little to try to pass on
All of the culture of our kin
So what should I do when stuck between worlds?
Select one over the other?
But if I do that, then what ‘bout my kids? Know only one half forever?
Or will all my culture just die with me? Food and art and history past?
They all say that I’m first generation
So why do I feel like the last?