The ragged edges of my grandmother’s quilt wrapped around my toes
My head resting on my Father’s arm feeling his breath as in and out it goes.
My ears are tuned to the near fable like history that seeps into them.
My father’s narrative is not just his past, it is his essence, not just where he has been.
But to me it is simply a story that exists in the space between my living and childish dreams.
Poverty, Ignorance, Bondage, are just words, I don’t yet know what immigration means.
The unstoppable path of the plane through the thick yellow smog
The horizon is lost in a looming toxic cloud, a mocking imitation of clean majestic fog.
Though my eyes are veiled my vision is open and for the first time in my life I see.
Just a glimpse of the reality of my father’s narrative, the child he was so I could be.
The sun begins to slide in a bloody trail to the west as our car jolts along a sad excuse for a road.
Tin, bamboo, mud, and grime are no longer paint in a story, they are my reality like a heavy load.
The embrace of my tight gold gown along my body, the sting of six inch heels on my feet.
I am standing at the edge of stage, in the tantalizing zone where shadows and the spotlight meet.
The edge I stand on is more than a reality though, it is immaterial too.
I stand on the edge of a culture that I do not see myself through.
These people are my father’s narrative, they are my narrative, but I am theirs as well.
I now know that for a chance for freedom and opportunity some their culture will sell.