Seaweed Snacks

Sydney Hsu

Nose plugged, papers on the ground, I wish not to be seen.

Seaweed salt sticks to my fingers. They laugh. Point, laugh, tease. Below my blush there are bruises. “I’m going to throw up! Make her throw it away!” I throw that part of me away.

Shanghai, 1945.

My grandfather flees. My aunties flee. My uncles flee. I don’t know where I’m from. I’ve never been home. But I’ve tasted It: Pork buns. Shumai. Congee.

Dim sum on Sundays. Back to school Monday. The semester starts again And I don’t bring seaweed anymore.

These places I’ve never been, live within me. I am white. I am Chinese. I am a collection of letters and ideas and food. I don’t speak the language, or know the customs, but I know War. Isolation. Hunger.

Painful hunger that crawls up my spine into my bones and burrows. Burning.

I see them out for sushi now.

Mouths full. Seaweed spewing past their spit. They’re cultured, I’m told. Their mothers call them brave, but I still see them sneer at chicken feet.

DC, 2022.

Chinatown is down my street. I get on the Metro and Go. I’ve been here before, once Years ago.

Maybe an uncle of mine came here, looking for the same thing— To start anew. To reinvent. To bring back.

Purple Pink Sky