Like oil and water I can�t help but wonder
How can two ends of the continuum be both parts in
one
Sometimes my heart sways this way and my head
another
At other times my head turns that way and my heart
is torn in two
Is it a blessing disguised as a curse
Or is it a curse masquerading itself as good fortune
Loyalty grapples with familiarity and society
Respect for my ancestors meshed with only what I
know now
All the while I continue to struggle and search
                                                          For an identity that I can call my own.

So hard to sleep and so hard to stay calm
Everyone so anxious to leave Vietnam
All afraid that this escape might get them caught,
But to them getting to America means a lot.

Leaving a once loved country on a boat
With barely anything packed but a coat.
Everyone packed in a small space,
Cramped together and praying for God�s grace.

All hoping and waiting to see land,
As days go by they come up with an empty hand.
Seeing death flash before their eyes,
They look up to the sky and express their cries.

One morning when the seas calmed down
Everyone came on deck and there wasn�t a sound.
With the sight of land, there were tears rolling down their cheeks.
So thankful and glad that they were unable to speak.

Taken in by the Malaysians they were taken cared of and given food,
With the knowledge of going to a better place they were in a better mood.
Knowing that God will put them in a better place,
They were over excited and thanked Him for His grace.

The journey before arriving to America came at a cost,
For in their family a three-year-old boy was lost.
The Malaysians buried him in the ground
Those who were there made not a sound.

Promising the dead they will come back,
But in this new place, it is money that they lack.
In their hearts they really want to go,
But in reality they have no money to show.

Now, thinking back of how they got here
Their eyes and body trembles in fear.
The horrific boat trip and the agonizing wait,
They now believe that God controls their fate.

I am Asian-American.

Though sometimes I feel more American than Asian.

My parents came to the United States from Vietnam.

They traveled with their five young children in search of a better life.

I was their sixth child and first and only born in the U.S.

My mother was a seamstress and my father a construction worker,

They worked hard hours and long days so that they could afford to buy us the best.

They have come such a long way, now successful business owners.

Everything they did, they did for us. They want only the best for their children.

I hope that I don�t disappoint them,

I think that they believe that I have forgotten my roots.

They would love me to celebrate both my American as well as my Vietnamese heritage.

I wish to find the best way to balance the Asian me with the American me,
I think that will make them proud.

Suckling babe upon Indian woman�s breast
When will she figure out that he is not hers
But a country�s? When will he realize
He is not his, but a history�s? A broken island
Sinking into the Pacific.

He goes along the sidewalks screaming, at all the ugly faces
That all sing the same, saying �stupid sand-nigger!�
�Go back home!� �Where�s your taxi!�
He chases down the street after little broken fragments
Screaming at his mother for her heritage and her skin
And her accent.  �/ no wan to hear from your school again�
�You are Indian, and do not forget that�

He is nothing.
Forever nothing but a go between, empty faced American boy,
Who no longer cares about tradition and culture
And does not honor his parents.
He is the stupid �sand-nigger� running away
From his classmates and his friends as they scream at him
In the only language he�s ever known.
He is all these things, but...
He is nothing.
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I dreamed once I sat on a drifting buoy that had floated out to sea,
and as I watched the sun sink down into the sea
I lit a cigarette and stared through the smoke as though
The haze that it caused was the embrace of a people that called me theirs.
I listened to the clanging bell behind my head and it sounded to me
Like the language which I had longed to hear my whole life over.
A song in defiance of the sea.
I sang a hymn to solitude.
And I sang a hymn to company.
I sang such beautiful songs against the backdrop of that sea.
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�What is your name son?�
My name is John.
�No. no. no. what is your real name?��
My name is John.
�No, listen, I�m Indian, you�re Indian. What is your name?�

He is no one...
He is nothing�
He is nowhere...
Until he sleeps, and finds
That buoy to detach from its chain
to the bottom of the bay
And float, and smoke, and see
and to sing his hymns to him.