I tell the boy I like my AP Chinese score
and he’s saying it’s good enough. Neither of us
heeds the elephant. I say I was raised by dragons
and he flounders, too stiff-jointed to word his
doubts. Beyond every unlikely conversation is the
elementary school we forsook in Brooklyn, which
is to say that I’m a reminiscencer. Cultural cringe is
why I go back to the same people, why I walk
backwards on the double helix to pick up all the
mirrored strands of nucleotides, why I must prove
my loyalty to generations of long-gone forebears
and the land they left behind. In the distance,
Lianjiang’s tea mountains and the waterfalls of Minhou.
The ground I first learned to walk on now lost. In
sleepless city, I rename my hometown and forget the
blood I once begged for after a plane ride. It’s border
selectivity that divides: the eagle on the cover of my
passport, the unforgiving tongue of the green card
that says I will never be yours. For once, I want to be
licit, a crossbreed written under a genus, a known
existence. Let me burn agarwood for those who came
before. Even this incense can be known as eaglewood.
Sandra Lin (林诺晨) is a Chinese American from New York who currently attends Bell High School in Florida. She has been recognized by the Alliance for Art and Writing, Rider University, and Hollins University, among others. Sandra is working on a platform that aims to empower marginalized voices in literature. She may be contacted on Instagram @sandranuochen