My voice drowns in a saltwater throat.
In a nation which has ditched melting pots for “tossed salads”
The hyphen between Asian-American is not a bridge between two cultures
but a dividing line between those who have to answer questions like
"What’s your real name?” and “where are you really from?”
and those whose names flow cleanly
out of the mouths of substitute teachers.
The checked box next to ”Asian-American or Pacific Islander”
means I am submissive, never mind that in the past two weeks
I received three first-place trophies in varsity debate.
The checked box next to ”Asian-American or Pacific Islander”
means I’m a math and science genius,
never mind that I failed my first Calculus test but got
an 100 in Humanities.
The checked box next to “Asian-American or Pacific Islander”
means that I will be an engineer,
nevermind that I hope to be a teacher,
so I can tell the Osuchukwus and Viswaprabakarans
that they should not let themselves be chained to the hyphen
that they can transcend the stereotype
that they are more than what others assume them to be.
But I am confined within the thick lines of census boxes,
bound by definitions I did not choose.
So I’ve learned to swallow the assumptions the way I choke down
stinging ocean water after going in too deep.
My voice drowns in a saltwater throat.
It is impossible to speak while swallowing.