Writing by Wen Hsiao // Photograph by Wei
Writing by Wen Hsiao // Photograph by Wei
I grew up getting told I could give the least effort,
no one minded if my words or I was clever,
my extended family wants day silence,
and when asked? they brush it off as shyness.
I grew up getting told I could give the least effort,
Uncles telling me college is never,
that an educated women will drive men away,
it’ll just be a mistake put on display.
I grew up getting told I could give the least effort,
that to other men, I will be a prize and a dessert,
the side dish and the consolation prize when men succeed,
that if I follow one, their success will read.
I leaned the way that I’m supposed to be,
when my grandmother had a wing for me,
but two wings for my brother,
even though two wings for me wouldn’t be a bother
I leaned the way that I’m supposed to be,
where everywhere I look tell me I’m supposed to be small as a pea,
but have a heart and patience like the deep sea,
and find a man that is like a tree.
I leaned the way that I’m supposed to be,
My skin should be as white as the snow people ski,
despite living in a country where it feels like constant summer,
I got to a place where I understood,
the ground I stood wasn’t too profound,
the stereotypes and expectations of an Asian woman:
delicate like porcelain,
pale like the first snow,
sensitive like flower.
