before i was “asian,”

before the kaleidoscope stopped spinning

and each fragment

fell to the bottom,

i was just me, and before me —

the warm caress of being nothing,

of being a body, curiously inhabiting a place full of beauty

firmly believing in a glorious reception by the world,

the wind whispering

alongside the backs of my wings

flying into the wide-open world,

no trees, no fences,

just the blue of the sky, and the white of the clouds.

before i was asian

i was a chick staring out from the nest at the sky before me.

unfettered by glass or bamboo ceilings,

i could keep flying until the whole world

split itself open before me.

and i flew, i flew

and i know i will never be not-asian again.

though my wings are strong, my feathers silent —

before my eyes opened,

the darkness once filled the nascent world with wonder

(though i’m warm under the daylight sun).

i didn’t know the thing anchoring me to the earth,

i didn’t know i was losing the clarity

that made me the white of the clouds.

being asian is

staring down at my feet in a lake,

able to catch reflections of birds flying past

but knowing, with certainty, that i am looking at water,

not sky.

PHOTOS BY CASEY HE