My father’s side dials from landlines:

when you are on our end of the Pacific,

get on a train and come to New York

and in summer I fly across the ocean

like a star, stealthy and mute.

 

Hurricane Henri is at the window,

tropical depression setting in from the east.

My grandmother has A/C but keeps the apartment warm,

slouches on the couch until she stares at the ceiling.

She handles the heat, a Californian three generations in,

and begins to tell me history. In San Francisco

her grandfather was a Chinatown bigshot

hardcore Catholic convert in silk robe

and her grandmother had tiny bound feet,

spent days in lounge chairs unable to walk.

 

But you want a true immigrant story: take her husband

village-born, did the boat, did Ellis Island, came to Queens.

He was eighteen and green in Europe,

Chinese laundry boy cutting wires in the German minefields,

ready for Japan when Truman ordered the bomb.

As a child, he was afraid of tunnels in basements

where he delivered fresh clothes.

 

My grandmother has the best memory of anyone I know

besides my father. At thirteen, I couldn’t remember the difference

between Normandy and the Ardennes or the dates of the Bulge.

In my grandfather’s last days, he forgot everything.

 

I am meeting with five strangers in Koreatown on 35th St.

We are all Chinese and none from this city,

eating bean curd stew and talking of that old war and Japan.

An American loyalty test, the terms of condition:

  1. Do you renounce the emperor?
  2. Will you serve our military?

Can you believe it? Then we talk of our childhoods

in Dallas, Sydney and Cupertino.

 

Said the LA Times of the Japanese:

A viper is nonetheless a viper

wherever the egg is hatched.

At school, my grandmother had a friend called Kay

whose father sold a brand new Chrysler to a white man

for nothing when they went into the camps.

My grandmother calls them nisei and calls me hapa,

she’s a San Francisco girl but Yankees devotee

and wore a badge in 1943 that said: I AM CHINESE. There are

so many words for half and first daughters and first sons

but none for her kind of assimilant.

MARGOT LEE
Margot Lee is a Managing Editor for the Yale Daily News Magazine. She is a junior English major in Ezra Stiles, originally from Sydney, Australia. Margot loves her cat Howl and beautiful windows.