‘Who Am I?’

By JI GUANG LI

Such a question!
Futile, philosophical
Asked already by the famous
Dead ones, or
Are they dead?

But I am not.
The noise of a lawn mower
From another block
And the agitation of my eyes
From staring at the damn
Screen for too long
Prove that — I am alive
And I am asking that dead
Dumb question again.

Am I the me who memorized numerous
Tang poems like I do now a variety
Of codes and passwords?

I am a son of working class
of socialist, communist,
The red China. My father,
Grandfather labored just like
The fathers and grandfathers
Who labored for Ford to put
The Americans on wheels.

I am a Chinese who is still
Trying to find my Chineseness.
I am an American who is looked
Upon as some other, sometimes
The Asian, the Asian guy.

I am an emigrant who is becoming
The immigrant.
I know all the joy as well as the silence
One sees in an immigrant’s eyes.
Eyes of different colors and shapes.
I know the sweet and bitter aftertaste
in a foreign accent —

The wrong intonation, pronunciation,
The broken sentences, the hesitance,
The inferiority, the embarrassment, the fear,
The taut lips, uncurled tongue, struggling
To say legitimate, nostalgia, frustration ...

Silence is not that bad after all
Words are not enough
Never enough
But they help cultivate
my inner silence
the rich silence
where the answers hide