My mother calls me an “eclectic”
At first, I thought she said “electric”
As if I were a robot
Or some household appliance
With some manufacturer’s label
Describing exactly how to
Heat the food
Wash the dishes
Print that five page report that was due yesterday
What I was made of
Every function, component, and detail precise.
But she had said “eclectic”
Meaning I would love both rock and pop music
I would read everything from the newspaper
To the sci-fi novels about interstellar travel
To the picture books about magic chickens.
Meaning I would pair frilly tops with cargo pants
And I wanted that clean, slick look of modern décor
But adored the rustic, rough edge of vintage.
Meaning I would look for meaning
In cells
In the stars
In the pages of books
In my mind
And in my heart.
Meaning I wouldn’t be satisfied with just one.
“Eclectic” meant that I was born here
On the other side of the world
Far away from anything that resembled
The Filipino of my face.
Far away from a mother tongue.
Closer to the stereotyped
Maple syrup blood and politeness
Than the miles of rice and heat and dust.
Meaning that when I reached out west for the orient
I came back with eyes full
Of animated demons, and magical girls
Who would twirl their wands and save the universe.
I reached west for the orient
And came back with hands full of objects
Stamped with “made in China.”
I reached west for the orient
And found myself wrapped in clothes neither foreign or native
Eating food that was neither native nor foreign
Celebrating something I didn’t understand.
I reached west for the orient
Reached west for the orient
Reached west
Reaching so far west
That I had missed the orient entirely
And instead found mystical figures
With animal heads on human bodies
With control over the skies, and the sea, and the dead.
But like electronics, I was stamped
Skin tone
Eye colour
Facial features
My own name.
Oh, you’re Filipino?
Last name? Ah, good family. Knew your Lolo.
You speak?
No?
Born here?
Well, you should learn.
You cook?
Good. Good. Learn the native foods.
Native foods.
Made with fish that was imported frozen
Made with vegetables that wouldn’t survive the cold
Made with flavored powder that looked indiscernible from the sandy beaches
That the food was “native” of.
Native. What a tricky word.
When handed a “Check one box”
I stumbled
Between what I looked like
And where I was born.
Between what I ate
And a language I couldn’t understand.
Born in country that embraces origins
How can you bring something
That is already there?
“Bring a history,” they said,
I don’t have one yet.
“We are multicultural,” they claimed,
Well, so am I.
My mother calls me an eclectic.
Sometimes I wish she had meant “electric”
With the functions, components, and details
Written clearly on a label.
***
This wonderful, wonderful poem is by Leanna who blogs at Short Story Long Blog. She writes the most comprehensive book reviews. Do check her blog out! I’m sure she’ll love comments and appreciation here or on her blog 🙂
The prompt chosen by Leanna was the word ‘eclectic’.
Diary of an Introverted Schmuck completed a year on the first of April. To make a big deal out of my Blog Birthday, I asked some friends of mine to guest post here. Leanna’s poem is the first post and I’m so grateful to her for agreeing to write something. You rock, Leanna!
Apr 04, 2015 @ 03:46:29
Hey Mia I have a surprise. Remember that recording that I sent you? Well here it is: https://youtu.be/30TZTWMUCyY. I know you wanted to add it to the post, so I quickly turned it into a youtube video that you can embed.
Here’s to one year of blogging! 🙂
LikeLiked by 1 person
Apr 04, 2015 @ 05:39:23
OMG! Leanna, that is so nice of you! Thank you so much! I’ll add it immediately 😀
Seriously, you’re awesome!
LikeLike