Nguyet Mai

When did I start dreaming in a language that’s not my mother tongue? 

When did the word biển become ocean and cá that fed my maternal family for generations become fish, the word swooshing in my mouth like Listerine?

When did the màu xanh of the sky I looked at as I daydreamed with the heavy eyes of an innocent child become the melancholy blue angst of an American teenage girl, the words that were given to me by birthright jammed in my mouth like a house key that refused to turn

as tears stung my eyes

my hands desperately moving in the air 

attempting to explain to my parents 

that, this here, me now, hands hitting my chest, 

is not Vietnam and I am not just a Vietnamese girl. 

I will date boys who can’t pronounce my name.

I will go home when it is dark out.

I will not hold my tongue at the dinner table.

I will not just listen and obey.

This is America, and here I will have my freedom.

I wanted to tell them all this, 

the thoughts came easily to me in English, 

but what came out was a slur of Vietnamese 

that did not convey the eloquence of my 

initial thoughts. 

What came out was a croak as I gave up,

the slam of a door, 

sobs, and the shattering of a heart

from me

or from my parents’

or all of us

I could not tell.