Poetic License: August 2001 Online Poetry Journal

Untitled
by Zeke

"Childhood"
by Sarah Bonifacio

"That Beat, I Hear It"
by Megan Diamondstein

Untitled
by A.M. Smith

Relic (Memento)
by Ramon Contrera

Untouchable Face
by Daniel Sanders

Untitled
by Farrah Fidler

Creeping Light
by VB

unfamiliar ceiling
by Taneka Stotts

A Lost Love
by P. Withers

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Untitled
by Farrah Fidler

I would write about the melanin in my skin
or the midnight of my hair
except I'm just a white girl from Bayside.
A bokgwai
A peggen
You might be looking at me with curiosity, wondering how I know these words.
I guess I've been interested in the Asian culture since the third grade when
Nancy Pak moved here from Jersey.
I wanted to fit the stereotypes.
Be beautiful, smart, sing well, draw.
I didn't know that I had all those qualities until later on, except for the
drawing, but Nancy wasn't good at that either.
In 5th grade I traded gymnastics for piano and hoped to play like she did,
having been able to play since the age of 3.
In 7th grade I was in the chorus, the same year I chemically relaxed my hair.
In 8th grade I began to notice the separation.
Noticed how the Asians started to form cliques that were hard for white girls
to get into.
And in 9th grade I went to Bronx Science.
I noticed that they brought these cliques with them and no matter how strong
my desire was, I would never be a part of the K-town crew, despite the number
of friends who made me an honorary Asian.

I look in the mirror.
I have wild locks my daddy brought with him to this country at the age of 15.
He came with his father who, though alive, I still have not met.
My dad's mother came overseas to join them while my father's sister stayed
in Israel because she was in the army.
My father was too young to go through this rite of passage.

During kindergarten I attended a yeshiva.
We would sing about G-d with our Hebrew teacher.
Our English teacher told my mother that I would excel in a public school.
So I left my Judaic training, left my heritage.
I even left Shlomo, one of the very few Jewish boys I will ever have a crush
on.
Now at least I can blame my Asian infatuation on my parents.

I never went to Hebrew school, never had the chance to hate going like almost
every other Jewish child.
Never was Bat Mitzvahed and while I didn't need to be, my father never spoke
to me in Hebrew when I was younger.
I resent him for this.
Feel as though this is a reason there is such distance between my grandmother
and I.
My grandmother who is old in her ways and shows love through food, always
asking if I want something to eat.
I resent my father because I can't speak to strangers in a language that
somehow relates us because my skin coloring looks a lot like yours, and your
hair is like mine.

I've never visited Israel because of some excuse or another.
It's too chaotic or my favorite which is my father's answer, If you go,
it really has to be for more than 2 weeks.
This makes me laugh.
He claims this is the reason he never went back.
Thirty-five years in America and he never looked back.
And fuck yeah it's chaotic but how many people live it and survive it each
day?
And even if I were to die there, I'd die happy because I'd die in the land I
came from.
The land of milk and honey.
The land of my people.
My people
My people I can't even communicate with.
And while I'd love to be able to write poetry in the language of my ancestors,
I'd rather be freestyling some crazy Hebrew shit.
And I'm sure that if I could speak it I'd wanna write it but at least I'd be
half-way there.
What good is being a part of something if only through a technicality?
Blood
My blood runs through my veins like the Red Sea.
My blood lies in Israel yet my influence rests unrested in another girl's
culture.
I'm neither here nor there.
I don't belong in Asia and while I look like I fit the part, I'm certainly
not that Israeli beauty you can catch in Brooklyn eating felafel and baklavah
while listening to Eyal Golan.
I'm not Asian at all to be Asian but I'm not Israeli enough to be from
Israel.
I wonder if the land of milk and honey has room for one more, no matter how
un-Israeli I seem to be.