Orientation: A Chapbook
by Marcus Ho
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For Danielle Frandina, who made me into a writer. Or perhaps showed me that I already was.Loading...
orient | ˈôrēˌənt |1. v. find one's position in relation to new and strange surroundings.
2. n. (the Orient) the countries of Asia, especially eastern Asia.
-New Oxford American Dictionary
Table of Contents
Almost a Song For My Homeland 6
Barcarola alla Japonica 7
To America 8
Scenes from a Taiwanese-American Kitchen 10
Breakfast 10
Lunch 11
Dinner 12
Acknowledgements 13
Barcarola alla Japonica 7
To America 8
Scenes from a Taiwanese-American Kitchen 10
Breakfast 10
Lunch 11
Dinner 12
Acknowledgements 13
Almost a Song For My Homeland
At twelve, amidst the seats, I watch upon the stage
The hymns, chorales, cantatas of the Hualien choir
And listen, nodding, smiling, understanding none.
The laziest composer would recoil at songs
Containing just four tones. Yet my own family’s choir
Performs them. (For the record, my song? It has one.)
See, Mandarin is a song, an epic melody
First sung five thousand years ago; now, by this choir.
My (English) vocal training’s hardly yet begun.
The tones are easy-but words stumble off the edge
Of my clumsy foreigner’s tongue. Not like the choir
Whose language flows like holy light from fifty suns.
What son forgets his mother tongue and fatherland?
I read Pinyin-is that how I can join the choir?
Too late; the cultural string has been unwound, undone.
The concert ends; one-thirty, and I go backstage
And there it is, the tribe of Ho, in its entire
“So good to see you!” “You’re so tall!” exclaims the choir,
Sweet platitudes, I’m sure–true kindness meant by none.
The hymns, chorales, cantatas of the Hualien choir
And listen, nodding, smiling, understanding none.
The laziest composer would recoil at songs
Containing just four tones. Yet my own family’s choir
Performs them. (For the record, my song? It has one.)
See, Mandarin is a song, an epic melody
First sung five thousand years ago; now, by this choir.
My (English) vocal training’s hardly yet begun.
The tones are easy-but words stumble off the edge
Of my clumsy foreigner’s tongue. Not like the choir
Whose language flows like holy light from fifty suns.
What son forgets his mother tongue and fatherland?
I read Pinyin-is that how I can join the choir?
Too late; the cultural string has been unwound, undone.
The concert ends; one-thirty, and I go backstage
And there it is, the tribe of Ho, in its entire
“So good to see you!” “You’re so tall!” exclaims the choir,
Sweet platitudes, I’m sure–true kindness meant by none.
Barcarola alla Japonica
(after "Ondine" by Aloysius Bertrand)
I remember the boat, complaining in loud squeaks as my uncle’s lowered head brushed against its ceiling; the ceiling of wood and woven straw in alternating strips, each one seven layers deep before moving on to the next; all swinging slowly, from side to side, as the motors, spinning in their double ostinato, pushed us onto the rippling green water.
“Sit,” my mother told me, as I knelt on a cushion on the floor, counting the details in the ceiling to distract myself. Eleven-year-olds could sit instead of kneeling; etiquette was for grown-ups. We dug into plates of fish, arranged like flowers on black and red plates, and bowls of shining white rice, pure and crystalline, exotic yet faintly familiar.
I remember passing by a tree of steel reaching into the sky, and bridges built of electronic rainbows; the sun sinking into the waters of the Edo River, the last small pieces of daylight giving way to the music of night; the chorus of salarymen exiting subway stations, the basso continuo of car after endless car on the streets.
My sister sang of letting it go, and I sang of joyous rooms without roofs; and our parents applauded as the karaoke machine accompanied our strange, digital barcarolle.
“Sit,” my mother told me, as I knelt on a cushion on the floor, counting the details in the ceiling to distract myself. Eleven-year-olds could sit instead of kneeling; etiquette was for grown-ups. We dug into plates of fish, arranged like flowers on black and red plates, and bowls of shining white rice, pure and crystalline, exotic yet faintly familiar.
I remember passing by a tree of steel reaching into the sky, and bridges built of electronic rainbows; the sun sinking into the waters of the Edo River, the last small pieces of daylight giving way to the music of night; the chorus of salarymen exiting subway stations, the basso continuo of car after endless car on the streets.
My sister sang of letting it go, and I sang of joyous rooms without roofs; and our parents applauded as the karaoke machine accompanied our strange, digital barcarolle.
To America
Atlanta, Georgia. March 16th, 2021. Robert Aaron Long
entered the spa with his gun
and opened fire.
The targets were the Asian women
who worked at the spa. He killed six.
Eventually the police found him. He took it on the chin.
Does anyone remember Vincent Chin?
Surely it hasn’t been too long
since that happened. A baseball bat, six
times to the skull (perhaps a gun
was too quick for him?) and that woman,
his fiancee, sees him cremated on the fire
of hate, when the Chrysler workers got fired
and wouldn’t distinguish between Nihon and Ch’in.
And now Vincent is joined by the women
from the spa. They shake pallid, white hands. There’s a long
pause, as the last echoes of the gunshot
reach the ears that cannot hear them. Half past six
the radio blares in my mother’s car. “-They say his sex
addiction may have been a factor in-” Please set my ears on fire.
I’ve heard enough stories about the man with the gun.
As if he had a really bad day. The radio host keeps his chin
up, of course. Oblivious to his own job: stringing me along,
making me think about anything but those women.
entered the spa with his gun
and opened fire.
The targets were the Asian women
who worked at the spa. He killed six.
Eventually the police found him. He took it on the chin.
Does anyone remember Vincent Chin?
Surely it hasn’t been too long
since that happened. A baseball bat, six
times to the skull (perhaps a gun
was too quick for him?) and that woman,
his fiancee, sees him cremated on the fire
of hate, when the Chrysler workers got fired
and wouldn’t distinguish between Nihon and Ch’in.
And now Vincent is joined by the women
from the spa. They shake pallid, white hands. There’s a long
pause, as the last echoes of the gunshot
reach the ears that cannot hear them. Half past six
the radio blares in my mother’s car. “-They say his sex
addiction may have been a factor in-” Please set my ears on fire.
I’ve heard enough stories about the man with the gun.
As if he had a really bad day. The radio host keeps his chin
up, of course. Oblivious to his own job: stringing me along,
making me think about anything but those women.
I still can’t remember the names of the women
who died that night. All six
escape my mind. But Robert Long
is there. He just burns, a white-hot fire
in the pit of my chest, stroking his chin
and smiling. His legacy holds me at the point of a gun.
To those failed activists–the Asian action heroes with their big guns
and big explosions, helpless women
in their arms, the politicians up to their chin
in meetings and compromises–I say nothing. Six
soprano voices whisper in my head, stoking the bright yellow fire
of revolution. Huh. What a shame it took that long.
You’ve held it there for so long, pressed against my forehead. The gun.
Even now, you fear what I’ll do without it. But in the name of those six women
I forget restraint. I forget moderation. I raise my chin, and your world erupts in fire.
who died that night. All six
escape my mind. But Robert Long
is there. He just burns, a white-hot fire
in the pit of my chest, stroking his chin
and smiling. His legacy holds me at the point of a gun.
To those failed activists–the Asian action heroes with their big guns
and big explosions, helpless women
in their arms, the politicians up to their chin
in meetings and compromises–I say nothing. Six
soprano voices whisper in my head, stoking the bright yellow fire
of revolution. Huh. What a shame it took that long.
You’ve held it there for so long, pressed against my forehead. The gun.
Even now, you fear what I’ll do without it. But in the name of those six women
I forget restraint. I forget moderation. I raise my chin, and your world erupts in fire.