Ancestors, 1994

To my Ancestors: 

Most of you have never met me. Your lungs aren't familiar with my atmosphere. And your eyes fell asleep before they could've dilated at the first sight of my toothless smile. Yet to me, you are more than just a memory I struggle to recall. You are the firework preceding my awe. The flame that gives light to my vision. The paintbrush coloring my canvas of essence and personality. 

You are the soil that incubated my destiny. And like soil, I always knew you existed; I just didn't always pay attention. But now that I'm gardening like favorite pastime, my fingers rummage through your richness like child on Christmas. I see your beauty. I savor the indigenousness of our shared ingredients. My leaves, the heirs of your nutrients. 

I do not simply stand above you. I am anchored like redwood to the bedrock you built. 

My roots, strong like the smell of home you wear on your skin. 

The fruit I reap, your sown seeds. Bountiful harvest branching off family tree.

You are not lives wasted. Or forgotten. Or gone. Your lives' accounts are recycled. And the redemption you didn't receive was reincarnated in me. I am calligraphy of tears you wept and blood you shed. 

You are the latitude and longitude where 天主 wrote my origin story. 

I hear your accent in my laughter. My posture is shape of your legacy. Dust common denominator in our DNA, yet I am diamond engineered by the toil of your loftiest dreams. 

Within my blood flows the sum of all your successes. Your mistakes. Your lessons. Our quirky traits. My shadow sometimes carries the shackles of your struggle. 

But my joy tastes like your home cooking. 

You are glacier feeding my 黄河. My sip of chrysanthemum tea. 

My endangered yet majestic mother tongue.

You make me feel like the winning Mahjong tile, a combination of hard work and unearned grace. 

You are my Temple of Heaven royalty. My Chinatown. 

My "not too sweet" delicacy. My quarantine vaccine. The Eden banished from my maimed memory. 

I identify you in my story. I am, because of you. And yet, your narrative is just an outline of this ongoing biography.

I hope I make you proud. 

This is dedicated to you.