3 minute read
eyes Erica Juarez
Eyes
By Erica Juarez
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West LA
Ching chong. New York? Nah, this girl is from China. You’re so exotic. I like my girls with piel canela and eyes like yours. Look, my girlfriend looks like you. Why is it that I have been reduced to nothing but my eyes, or more so, “the lack of them”? As a child, because of remarks like these, I have grown resentful of my Asianness, my Japaneseness. Afraid to look at the mirror because of these “ness-es.” Whatever that even means. But, maybe I can fix it? Maybe I can cut my bangs and grow them out long enough to cover my eyes? Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. These third graders won’t catch on. I just moved here. The whole school year I’ll be just like this. I’m emo anyway.
At the Pool
20
Oh no. I’m at the pool with my friend and her mom. They’re Ecuatoriana. I’m not. Her mom’s friend is going to notice. Uh oh. She’s already talking about it. She’s not talking badly. But out of defense, embarrassment, shame, I’m trying to spare the possibility of it. Just pretend your eyes are in pain, Erica. They burn. It’s the pool water. Wipe your face. Keep blinking. Look away. Whatever it takes, just hide them. My bangs can’t protect me. They’re laid back by the tight elasticity of a blue swimming cap, accentuating the Asianness of my eyes. She found out. Just call me Chinita already. ¿Su mamá es Japonesa? Su papá es Mexicano? Ah, que bueno. Thank you. Thank you, I think, with the greatest relief ever. Thank you for saying nothing more of it. That is all I need.
ASIAN OUTLOOK
Who Do You See?
To look in the mirror was to see my mother. To see my mother in the mirror was to see a stranger. And what I saw in the mirror was what others simply saw through me. I can’t tell what was the worst part about it. My mother had never been there in my upbringing. So it wasn’t fair how I had to carry her around everywhere. Why was it that somebody whom I never saw, never talked to, never available to call, dictated my body like that? Why was it that when I looked in the mirror, it was a constant reminder of looking like something I grew to not ever want to be a part of? I was Mexican. Only and just that. I spoke the tongue of Spanish. I breathed the aura of champurrado and arroz con leche. I ate with tortillas and didn’t know a thing about how to hold chopsticks. Who was it that existed within the mirror?
Although these pieces of writing reflect upon the sentiments of distaste and aversion that I have carried against my Asian identity, these reflections are also a marker of time and a signal of growth. I was able to reconnect with my mother when I started university. With the complements of age and maturity factored into this sudden change, the exposure to my mother and her experiences allowed me to understand and accept why she was not always there. I started to water my Japanese roots that were once violently dry and brittle. To those who also face confusion, pain and uncertainty through their mixed-racial identity, your experience is valid and deserving of sunlight and fresh air to clear the garden.
“Bathtub” By Nicole Xu
