I am the granddaughter of a
field worker, factory worker,
        grocery clerk, mechanic,
        scholar, school teacher,
             handyman, cook...

I have seen my grandfather’s dreams
              crushed,
by the poorness of his childhood
                deafeningly screaming
                      a mass of immigrant misery
                             inextricably twisted
      amongst the teasing and hardship.

I have heard my grandmother’s stories
     turned into a mirror of sadness
              seen the visible pain
                     as she relives them.
Heard old folks tell their tales
              from the past,
                    rolling the eyes of
                         young children.

Grandmother was the youngest of six
    who faced America’s darkness.
         They called her WOP
              as she walked home from school.
But in the mist of all the emotions they kept on-

Blood of Italian,
      Flesh of the New World,
          Seventy-seven year old
                grandparents of two worlds
                           determined 
                                           to embrace
                                                            one.

I am the daughter of
architects, accountants, maids
government officials, farmers, 
actors, dancers, dentists,
mathematicians, engineers,
doctors, nurses, artists,
lawyers, lenders,
musicians, romantics…

My father had made a move,
a move away from his country
the move to the United States
slowly trying to assimilate to
its culture
searching tremendously to find
a new life for his family.

Still back in the Philippines,
my mother prayed and prayed
hoping for a miracle
holding her children close to her.
After all her prayers,
they were finally answered
by God the Almighty.
Now, she was ready,
ready to live a new life.

My mother, too, assimilated
learning the ways of the Americans.
She was friendly with everyone
even if she still didn’t trust her new friends.
As for another miracle, I was conceived –

A miracle born
a struggle for a true identity
an Asian-American woman
young and innocent
finding a place
within two different societies
dealing
with many different beliefs.

As I thought about what I should write about for a publication entry, I looked back to all my papers. Remembering what we did the first two weeks of Asian American Literature, I was intrigued about Genny Lim’s “Yellow Woman”. We were assigned to create our own versions, using the style of her poem. As I wrote, I was thinking about all the stories my mother told me about their move from the Philippines to America. It seemed rough at first, but they pulled through all the struggles and challenges that were in their way. All they wanted were great futures for their children. They worked and sacrificed their time for my brothers and sister before I was born. Then, things certainly happened. I was conceived and born in America. Now they dealt with me, and I understand what they went through. Since they believed so much in their religion, I was thought of being a miracle. It was quite interesting and my parents deserve to take their break from their children, especially me. Since I’m the youngest, I’m always the one they worry about. Writing this poem made me think more and more about how and why they made sacrifices. As for myself, I struggle to be both Filipino and American because of all the values and beliefs I have learned from both cultures.
 

I am the daughter of strength, honesty, love
Hardworking, loyal
Patient, forgiving
Fearless, warmth...

I have seen my parent’s dreams
Crushed
By the mistakes of their eldest dau8hter
Silently they weep
Overwhelmed by darkness
Stricken by grief

I have heard my mother’s cries
Slowly evaporating into nothing
Emptiness fills her.

Father remains strong
Crying only inside
Where no one can see

Daughter of strength
Sister filled with hurt
Six year old heartache
Struggling to forgive
One.
 

This writing comes from a family tragedy that happened six years ago. It helps me to heal inside when I can write about it. When I was asked to write Yellow Woman in my own words I was shocked at how easy it was to pick words to describe such a painful experience in my family. It was a great way to say how silent my family is when it comes to this painful time. I really enjoyed this exercise.
 

I am the daughter of
Slaves, railroad workers, miners
Poets, settlers, hunters, peacemakers,
Scholars, chiefs, fisherman, and dreamers...

I have seen my Father’s plans
Ruined
By many hurdles...
Invisible thoughts, 
A heavy weight of worries
Inextricably tangled
Amongst the thinking, huddled life’s problems.

I have heard my mother’s cries
Shaped in tombs of invisible sadness
Seen the pouring of tears
Trickling down her red cheeks

Mother was a strong worker
Living in white riches.
With patient thoughts and
A caring heart
In the spring of her grievance a gift from God
Was given to her, I was born.

Blood of many ethnicities
Flesh of the New World
Centuries Old,
Discovering the past
To embrace it as one.