By Demarie Hao

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To myself, who could never find the words about me.

To my dad, who made me doubt myself; thank you for trying.

i. i am

after “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon

i am from leather jewelry and silver rings
From Youtube tutorials and cell slides under microscopes.

i am from the white desk collecting hidden dust
(pristine, yet full of color, 
photos of friends and idols as decoration.)

i am from basil leaves,
the green clumps
picked and placed into foods I rarely eat.

i am from ice cream cake birthdays and a height outlier,
From the curly strands and white blouse of a friend far away to the 
maroon streaks in fluffy black hair, with fingers adorned by jewelry of the boy who sits next to me.

i am from perfectionism and apologetic meals;
From “anything you want to be except an artist” and “don’t be like those other Asians.”

i am from rusting lucky cats and
crowded rooms—too much for a prayer to grandpa.

i am from the slums of the city that never sleeps,
a child of those from the fields of the Forbidden City.

from my mother’s grueling wait, fleeing from those telling her she should settle down;
the black and white wars of my great uncle in Japan.

photos slipped into transparent books on my father’s shelves
or stacked upon books on my great uncle’s desk.
papers yellowing from timely picture frames and tea leaves,
brought out to reminisce and show
what happened all those years ago.

ii. because of him

My dad hadn’t driven a car in over a decade. And here he was, about to drive us to our hotel room from the airport.

It should’ve only been a few minutes on the road—a straight line down the highway and a U-turn on the local road.

A newer, electronic car stood in the parking lot of rentals. We settled inside—my dad and sister in the front, and my mother and I in the back.

I watched as my dad’s legs tensed up, knuckles white against the steering wheel as we jolted forward, like one of those dreaded roller coaster rides he used to force me on, nearly scratching the other cars around us. I watched as he cautiously drove down the aisles, turning around and around the parking lot trying to find the exit. It’s right there my mother urged, and I watched as he closed his eyes, letting out a strained breath and nodding. 

Make a U-turn here, my sister translated from the GPS, and the hotel is right there. 

And I watched as he drove right past the turn, face scrunched into a scowl as he cut off a car turning into the lane. You missed the turn, so it’s asking you to redo the path, she explained. Make a left turn here just as he sped past the intersection.

I watched as my dad shook his head, face in a seemingly permanent snarl as he stepped on the accelerator. Aiya—you should’ve told me earlier! Why didn’t you tell me? 

I squeezed my eyes shut.

Because suddenly I’m six again, trembling underneath my desk as my dad stands over me. I tense up as he grabs my arm just like that wheel, a grip so tight that it leaves red marks later as he drags me to the narrow hallway of the front door, tears streaming down my face. Because this is what you wanted, right? he asks me, pushing me against the door, its rough edges jabbing into my skin. I hide my face behind my arm. If you’re going to be such a disrespectful child, you should just leave, he says as freezing winds hit my skin. 

It took a week of silence to pretend things were normal again.

Why do the miles keep going up? My dad shouted as I winced at the rough right turn he made.

“Please,” I said. “Can we be a little quieter?”

Shut up, he screamed at me.

Because I’m seven now, shuffling into his room with a sheet of paper covered in dried up tears and pencil marks. What’s 6×7? He asks me, and I answer wrong. I watch as his fists ball up as he screams at me Don’t enter my room again until you get that right and I cry, I cry and I sob and all he does is push me out of the room and tell me the same Shut up, what are you crying about? I’ll give you something to cry about.

What are you crying about? My mom asked. She scoffed—This is nothing. Useless, crying over this? as I lurched forward from the sudden stop he made, the thought of I’m going to die today, he’s going to crash the car and I’m going to die today running through my head. 

Because he has never changed. I thought he had; why was he like this again? God, what happened to all the promises that he wouldn’t hurt me again—

The hit never came.

I watched my father succeed in the U-turn. I watch as he stares at me, tears and snot running down my cheeks outside his bedroom. Something is on the tip of his tongue but he quickly turns away instead, slamming the door shut behind him.

I lift two duffel bags out of the trunk, almost tiptoeing inside the hotel, waiting for my father and sister to deal with the receptionist as my mother stood off to the side.

The silence in the elevator ride up was deafening.

And before I entered my hotel room, my dad called out to me.

Ay. I’m sorry.

He shut the door to his room with a quiet click.

Process

These two pieces were originally written as two separate pieces. “i am” was written during my time as a mentee, a way to step out my comfort zone since I hated writing about myself. “because of him” was originally written for a personal speech assignment for school that I feel captures a bit of why I hate myself oh so much. The two subtitles, when read together, also further emphasize this point.