Anger, Sadness, & Being Chinese American - A Poetry Dump

Monday, September 18, 2017
Sharing a bit of Poetry About Alienation

I've never done this before because admittedly, my poetry is trash. I joined my school's poetry club on a whim last year (it was the closest thing to a book club I could find) and for the first time, I, Kai Jiang, took a stab at writing poetry, and it was a lot of fun, but my style is hella weird. I don't rhyme (at least not on purpose) and I don't revise, I just write what feels right to me, I just write to get it out.

Both of the poems below are responses to my feelings of alienation from both my identity and my country.


One is addressed to one of Steve King's more famous tweets and the complicated feelings it evoked and the other is simply born out of a feeling of hopelessness in the face of overwhelming hatred, it has no specific subject, it's really just a pool of emotion....

Haha, I don't really have anything else to say.... Don't be too harsh, okay? ^_^ (also heads up, the poems are in scroll boxes because I didn't want this post to be terribly long.)

Somebody Else’s Baby

Wilders understands that culture and demographics are our destiny. We can't restore our civilization with somebody else's babies.
We can't restore our civilization with somebody else's babies.
Somebody else’s babies.

somebody
pronoun
one or some person of unspecified or indefinite identity.

else
adverb
in a different manner or place or at a different time.

Somebody else’s babies.
The proud words of an United States Representative.
Words that have stuck with me, stuck to me.
Accompanied by a sticky web of thought,
Vexatious and impossible to get rid of.

Am I somebody else’s baby?
In the eyes of Steve King, am I not an American?
What does that phrase even mean?
When does someone become an else?

My parents are both immigrants.
They came here searching for their American dream.

They have lived in this country for 25 years.
They have built a family,
They have learned a new language,
They have learned a new culture.
Are they still somebody else?
After all these years, are they still an else?
And am I, their daughter, born on American soil, raised on the American pledge, an else?
Am I somebody else’s baby?

What even is an American?
Is it someone who can trace their name back to a long ago colonist?
Someone who’s roots in this land go back farther than history can say?
Someone who arrived on our shores bright eyed with a head full of dreams and a heart full of hope?
Someone born into the delicate suspense of two cultures?
Someone who doesn’t elicit a word before American?
Someone whose great great great grandparents passed through Ellis Island on the way to a new beginning?
Someone whose ancestors were brought here in chains, against their will?
What does it mean to be American?

There is not one answer.

We are Americans.

This beautiful, colorful, deluge of stories and backgrounds.
Races and ethnicities.
Each one different, each one unique in their own special way.
And yet, we all fall under one nationality, one label,
American.

It is not the color of one’s skin,
The length of one’s lineage,
The origin of one’s family,
That determines their Americanness,
It is their devotion to their country.

Who is Steve King to call my parents an else?
Who is Steve King to call me somebody else’s baby?
Who is Steve King to say I am not American?
Who is Steve King to say what an American is?

I am the daughter of two immigrants.
I am not an else.
I am not somebody else’s baby.
I am American.
I am the future of this country.

Fists

I would sock every last one of them,
Feel my fists sink into their faces,
Feel my knuckles crack their noses.

But violence,
Violence is only fire,
And fire does little to quell flame.

But pain,
I want to hit,
I want to break,
Only so they’ll feel my pain,
The pain it is to see others hate you for who you are,
For what you cannot change,
For what you will not change.

But this poison,
This emotion that swirls in my veins,
Cannot be told by anger,
By curled fists,
And so I sit,
Shaking with anger and shuddering in pain.

Have any of you guys ever experienced similar emotions? Do you write poetry too, if so, what drives it?