You say it’s because of your ancestors,
not tactile hallucinations, or
a sterile diagnosis. It’s because
of all the things you saw
in those dirt bunkers of stench and uniforms
Things these young American doctors and
your American daughter
can’t fathom-don’t understand
All these years later something
in your mind has begun to rewind
and you remember
Your father, a shadow without a face,
crouched down, his body eclipsed
by gunfire and hunger
Your mother, cutting the flesh of
a burnt orange persimmon while
the leaves curled outside
Knife in one hand, love in the other,
a wisp of a November memory
miracle that survived a diaspora
Ghosts now live in your mouth
where she once filled it.
You slice the cadmium-colored sun in half
to find a star-once-seed –
a resurrection sermon. Koreans say,
“We should always leave
a few persimmons on the trees for the magpies”
The bittersweet bites of fruit
received, pieces of hope like little anchors
sinking into my sadness
I swallow them. I ask Jesus
to leave a few memories like persimmons
on the trees for my mom and me
Tell Me The Dream Again
Reflections on Family, Ethnicity & the Sacred Work of Belonging
This is the year that my book will make its way into the world.
It’s been a little over two years since I signed the contract for a book deal for this book. Like most things, stories cannot be rushed or controlled.
I wrote about the cover for my newsletter community, Shalomsick Notes, a couple of months ago. If you aren’t already subscribed there, that’s where I share book news first, along with regular thoughts on being shalomsick.
For those of you who haven’t had a chance to see the cover, here it is!
Isn’t it beautiful? I can’t wait to hold it in my hands.
Tell Me the Dream Again releases in May, but is now available for pre-order wherever books are sold!
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Yellow is a Protest
My daughter has a yellow puffer coat
a bright bundle of color
skipping on sidewalks
A protest against the monotony of overcast sky
a wake-up to wonder color
joy reaching far and wide
What would my world be without her yellow?
She is the zest and zing of lemons
worth the weight of gold crowns
scent of fresh pineapples and papayas
and the hope of daffodils rising
A goldfinch colors the sky with yellow song
reminding me that God made yellow things too:
mustard and marigolds
cornfields, kong-namul, canaries
And the sun, oh the sun,
colored with burning bush-fire
and the wild scribble of kid’s crayons
What would we be without your heat, wax, and birdsong?
I am yellow
shades of skin and starlight
moonshine in the dark
reflecting the Light of all Lights
bright, beautiful, beloved yellow:
A protest against virus lies, superiority, and silenced lives.
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Kimchi Jar Baptism
Originally written for PAX
My mom fell into a kimchi jar
at night
She was twelve.
She tells me
how the red stained her clothes
soaked into her thick hair
like conditioner.
How she shouldn’t have
snuck out in the first place.
She tells me stories like these.
Listen to the rest here.
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How Do We Measure the Immeasurable?
I count the white, wiry hairs poking from the part in my scalp. There are too many. I give up and measure the length from root to where the color changes. These markers are comforting to me right now. I’ve never been a numbers person, but lately, I cling to what feels measurable.
I stare at graphs, trying to grasp the invisible movement of a global pandemic. I print and cut out guides for measuring my kids’ ever-growing feet. I check the ratio of water to rice in our rice cooker, making sure it comes to a round curve in just the right place close to my flattened knuckles, before closing the lid and pressing start. I number each page of a letter I wrote and count how many sticks of butter we have left in the fridge. I add up how many days it’s been since Breonna Taylor was murdered, and the days since stack up without justice: 154.
My son begs me to check the weather again, asking me exactly how long the on-going summer storm will last. Irritated, I give him the same answer I’ve given him ten times in the last hour, “It looks like it will last for most of the night, but I don’t really know.” I tell him he’s safe, and I feel like a liar. The muscles in his shoulders and forehead stay clamped together at my response. I recognize my own stress in the creases above his brow. I see the stress of a nation and world in his small, light brown shoulders.
I want to know how long things will be the way they are too, but the things I want to measure most are immeasurable.
Originally written for (in)courage. Read the rest of the post here.
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