[Poetry] Asian-American

When I was a child, being Asian-American meant breaking wooden chopsticks over a noodle lunchbox, sunny yellow dresses to bring out the sunny yellow of my skin, and laughing with my colorful classmates because we didn’t know yet we were different.

When I grew older, being Asian-American meant seeing for the first time my father’s oil-stained hands from days of toil, and my mother’s quiet strength as she built a home in the middle of a strange language.Read More »

[Flash Fiction] The Mural

The rickety ladder of the fire escape swayed as he climbed. Paint from the rungs peeled off and stuck to his palms. The metal cans clanged in his backpack, but he kept up his steady climb.

Reaching the rooftop, he hoisted himself up and swung his legs over, rolling onto his side with the ease of someone who had done this many times. He allowed himself a moment to admire the sight: luxury condominiums touching the sky, the 7 train chugging along, and a bird’s eye view of the living collage of graffiti artwork that covered the walls of the building he was standing on. Read More »