"The attached piece, "Angelia," discusses the loss of culture — as well as the "othering" of our heritage — that the children of immigrants often feel. I've always felt a distance between me and my Vietnamese heritage, and this poem highlights that feeling."
What was it like
To see murals of your own past
On agonizingly gorgeous walls formed from
Eons of your own triumphs and falls,
Each emblem an old war in your heart
And each crack on the adobe,
Just another scratch you endured
While wandering the deserts of the New World
Holding desert jewels from Egypt,
And stolen relics from the North
Your past, long estranged from the present
And the future, long gone from your hands
Ever since you took the fall from the skies,
And erased your name off your face.
Has everything been the same?
I know the horrific journey across lava
And the cruel voyage across the ice
Tore parts of you away from yourself.
But was it worth it, Angelia —
Are you still that angel?
Or have you become something much more?
But either way, you have been left in the wastes
Away from home, never to return
The rebellion you once sparked long over,
And soon enough,
even your name will be forgotten.
You were always a beacon of justice,
And to them, you were the bringer of evil,
But were you either one in truth?
Your hand brought endless destruction to the skies,
But your justice released millions from shackles
You were a demon in the eyes of those you killed,
But you were an angel in the eyes of those you saved.