i. If I’m ever annoying, you know exactly what to say.

“At least I’m not ashamed of being Chinese”

like it’s something you can clap onto my wrists like handcuffs

and hold me accountable for. 

You half-disguise it as a joke, but the joke is always

peeling at the edges, curling like your lips; and you let it show 

because you know I’ll

dry up afterwards like a hawthorn berry, flattened into 

your favorite New Year candy.

ii. Do you have at least one trusted adult you can confide in?

I used to color in the tiny circle next to Yes, so that when you’d

left the room, Dr. Sherry wouldn’t look at me 

with puppy-dog eyes

and ask if there was anything I’d like to open up about;

but I started choosing Yes like I meant it, like all I needed to

do was act like it was true.

iii. The Asian girls at school have names that taste like dessert.

Annabelle is French pastries with cream, Kaitlyn is

strawberry sorbet; Jenny tastes like apple pie, buttery and inviting. 

Some of the girls have Asian names, a rare two or three: 

bitter mouthfuls, 

all vowels and unwieldy consonants pushed and 

tangled together. They’re shortened to something that’s

sweeter on the palate: Min, Kei, Lee. And those are okay, too.

iv. The name you gave me is separate and hard-sounding.

Qing Lan. A knot that trips up classmates, substitute teachers, 

dentists, piano teachers, swim coaches.

The space you added—“In Chinese, it’s two characters, not one”—

means I’m usually Qing: Ching. Chink. Not cute-and-unique

foreign. Foreign like hawthorn candy, tart and only

tolerable to the Chinese tongue. 

v. I expect you to smile to show you understand, maybe even hug me.

Your eyes never leave mine. “I named you for what you are. 

You’re Chinese. You’re not 

a Rebecca or a Stephanie. Why are you 

embarrassed by your heritage? 

Is it that shameful to be Chinese? Do you want 

to be white?” Your mouth curls downwards, 

bobbing up and down as it grinds 

hawthorn candies to dust.