Dirge for an Immigrant
Dirge for an Immigrant
grief flew
across the Atlantic on an isolated journey
to plummet down like a dysfunction
into the heart of a nation of stripes and
stars of promise
beautiful land, 美國，
that’s what we call the soaring landscapes,
tumbling hills tapped like monsoon water flowing
into green-grass pastures,
just a mile away are effervescent desires,
a high-rise hedonistic Hail Mary
for those back East who the rich ones called farmers
back home, they scrambled for
plows and axes, afternoon sun or dusky rain
a trace of dirt underneath fingernails,
hoping that it would promise grain
when mouths in a family were ravenous
but there is nothing but bark to peel from elmwood,
no bite, only the gratuitous grit that
begs a migration
so a 爺爺 packs his bags in 1849,
shuts his suitcase full of pickaxes
tool primed to chip away
at stone for months on end, waiting
for that golden glimmer of gluttony
he may never see his 太太 or his 孩子
again, this he knows,
but as he sails off into the grand blue
he thinks of how he could’ve made a living fishing,
if only the opportunity didn’t dive back into the murk
slithering away like a lodged farewell
grief sailed
over from Angel Island downtown in 1906,
to the Santa Ana streets where markets rustle
with leaves and lantern paper,
warm golden glow against white fog
until one day the haze
ruptured
may 25
somebody had declared a Chinese man in town sick,
said he had leprosy, like his skin was crawling with disease,
said he had spread it to every other yellow one in town
Excerpt from a 1895 map of Santa Ana, California:
“Turn-of-the-century fire insurers considered Chinese people a potential fire hazard, so they marked Chinese residences.”
“burn it,” they said.
“burn it,” the onlookers cry
as sailboats of smoke stream, screaming up to sky
pale-faced firefighters grin at their own ruins,
a remedy for a “contaminated” town,
like yellow warning signs promising danger
with their very existence
just a few blocks away
in a pen enclosed with barb wire
a 婆婆 holds her grandchildren tight,
clutches her draped 漢服 like a futile prayer,
watches wide-eyed as her second home
crumples like burnt bast paper
a 爸爸 falls to his feet, incredulous
as his tailoring shop,
the one he had worked night and day for the past decade,
leaps into flames
suits and dresses reduced to ashes ,
enough soot for solemn funerals
a 弟弟 clings to his brother sobbing,
“why us? why us?”
but all the whites will hear
is the babbling of another China-boy
taken from his motherland too soon.
Editors: Hailey Hua, Katie Truong
Referece: Lewinnek, Elaine. “When Santa Ana Burned down Its Own Chinatown.” KCET, 21 June 2022, https://www.kcet.org/shows/lost-la/when-santa-ana-burned-down-its-own-chinatown.