Ahn Nyeong Ha Se Yo
I write
for the silenced black child in me
that grew up with Asian hand-me-downs
and a broken culture with no name
because father’s voice thickened ghetto fog
I cannot see the world he left behind
as Home
where grandma sits
contemplating on
characters from a book with smudgy ink
I cannot read the world he left behind
born under black sheep
the child roamed
through plains of immigrant Korean voices
shoes off at the door
ramen with the family
siblings with slanted eyes
안녕하세요
엄마, 아빠
the child liked it there
before being banished from Home by
intruding peers
suddenly, black
검정
the dark hue of smudgy ink he could not read
the dark hue of ghetto fog
through which he could not proceed
father’s embrace
his only education of a brown place
not enough preparation for
school’s brown space
mutual rejection
he just wants to go Home
안녕하세요
엄마, 아빠
they try to say
Home is where the black is
well he was beaten
beaten black
검정
beaten into
code-switching
identity confusion, frustration, delusion
the child, lost
nervous steps in new homes
feels like intrusion
black can’t be this hard
so he reads that smudgy ink novella
he fingers through tales of statistics and sorrow
where an unlikely hero survives – father
against villains of the same blood
but
the child cannot see the world left behind
as Home
where grandma sits
contemplating on
rolling stone, no-child-support-paying motherfucker
– grandfather
silenced savior, shotgun suicide
truck driver
– stepgrandfather
characters this child could not share love with
the child wanders.
잃어버린
now
Now I reject every place society tries to contain me in
I will not be shown where Home is
아니요
Home is in the arms of
a black sheep,
hard-headed urban street warrior
– father
Home is somewhere in the hills of Walnut, CA
somewhere I can sleep until 5PM
Home is where I can take road trips
with a goofy, fair-skinned baby brother
Home is my 엄마 and my 아빠
Home is wherever the fuck I am as long as my cell phone can reach
my 엄마 and my 아빠
Home is somewhere you cannot be
Home is someplace you cannot understand
I write
for the silenced black child in me
who grew tired of knocking on so many doors
with no answer
to let him know
he can come Home now
흑인 소년. 집으로 돌아와.
Julian Daniels
Jayulian
