I know, I know.
My skin is yellow.
My eyes are small.
My accent is funny.
Stop.

“You got that A because you’re Chinese.”
“Well, you’re Asian, so it’s easy for you.”
“Yes! I beat the Chinese girl!”
“You’re only good at music because you’re Japanese or something.”
“If Nicole got it wrong, we all definitely failed this test.”

I spend hours doing homework.
I practice violin until my fingers bleed.
And you dare to tell me,
That my country gave me this.

It’s okay to mispronounce my name,
After all, I have no idea how your names even work.
But if you turn my family name into a joke,
My ancestors will turn you into a pulp.

No, I don’t eat cat.
No, I’ve never eaten the foot of a chicken,
Though it’s supposedly delicious.
No, I won’t say your name in Chinese.

I don’t speak Mandarin.
I’m not a communist.
I’ll probably never learn martial arts.
Don’t ask me.

I used to watch anime.
I still listen to K-Pop.
I find Asian fashion fascinating.
And you want to laugh at me.

I’m Chinese.
That doesn’t make me your entertainment,
Nor your scapegoat.
You’re just as strange to me as I am to you.