the blueshift journal

My lineage is Little Saigon

asphalt, three generations

under one roof and mother-

 

land recipes. On Saturdays,

my family congregates

at our favorite restaurant:

 

Kim Phuong. Here, we worship

the hot pot; stuff our bellies

with blessings. My auntie says—
 

If we’re gonna suffer,

we gotta do it over good food.

The pavement’s cracked

 

but we know what to do. After

all, these are neighborhoods of necessity.

I remember

 

the first time I saw white faces

descend upon Little Saigon,

their crooked beaks eager to pick

 

meat off these streets. Squawking

about craft beers and raw

            denim, their foreign tongues

 

butcher every name on the menu.

All their Yelp reviews sound the same—

“I discovered a real gem in Little Saigon.

 

So authentic! I give it 4 stars.

Would have been 5, but the waitress

could have smiled more.”

 

Now, Kim Phuong has a 30-minute wait,

plays Radiohead instead of Vietnamese ballads.

Waitresses speak enough English

 

to accommodate vegan diets.

Food bloggers all praise the tabernacle

of my childhood, beg to know

 

the magic of my people. In the 1800s,

riots ignited violence against Chinese

immigrants. After finding refuge

 

in each other, they kindled new homes:

Chinatowns. Asian American enclaves

have always been neighborhoods of necessity.

 

Before my people built this Little Saigon,

white flight to the suburbs sucked

this city’s economy down to its marrow.

 

But we know how to take leftovers

and forge a community. Funny

how this city would be boneyard

 

without us. Now white people flock back

to the streets they deserted;

rediscover everything we rebuilt.

 

Of course we learned how to be digestible,

how to shove our limbs into takeout boxes,

skin ourselves and sell the flesh

 

for profit. The owners of Kim Phuong

can pay off debt, send their daughter to college.

When their restaurant burns down

 

one winter night, they do not cry.

They can afford to rebuild everything.

In Vietnamese, Kim Phuong means golden

 

phoenix. I don’t say this for the irony.

It's not this poem's punchline. It’s my people’s

expectation that everything ours can burn

 

at any second. Koreatown, Little India,

Banglatown, Little Manila—No matter

how many pick at the bones

 

of immigrant communities,

We always endure the scorch

and cackle with a smile.

 

These are neighborhoods of necessity,

always having to cook up

the most authentic kind

 

of survival: After all,

If we’re gonna suffer,

we gotta do it over good food.