The vigil, another vigil.
How do Yellow poets write about being Yellow, when Black people are still dying? The United States once hunted down my mother’s people, too.
It is a luxury to write about being human without mentioning race.
Oh Mỹ Lai, how can I go home?
I wish that I could write about astrophysics and the existence of time.
I wish that I could gaze upon a painting by Monet à La Japonaise, say “ahh,” and leave it at that.
I wish that I could write about being Vietnamese without being Yellow in a country that continues to erase its Black citizens. Oh, starry night.
I want to be a nude model. I want to strip in a studio crammed with straight white men and be painted by all of them at once. I want to use those forty minutes to stare into their blue, green and hazel eyes, while I contemplate the depths of their in-di-vi-du-al-it-ie-s.
I want to seduce these straight white men from their easels. And I want them to be in their 20s, and I want them to be beautiful and blonde and open-mouthed. Then I want to fuck them all.
And I will cry after fucking them. And they will each write a poem after fucking me. And these poems will have no trace of my black hair and my black eyes and my yellow skin and that slanted, tight, tight, tight, tight, tight, tight pussy. No, these beautiful white men will write poetry about my hu-ma-ni-ty.
And I will take these poems, publish them on the Internet. And I will not give these beautiful straight white men any credit whatsoever.
I want to take up papier-mâché.
I want to unlearn English, so I can learn my native tongue. I want to write a book in this native tongue, have it translated to English, tour Paris, then win every award.
I want the Pulitzer.
I want to write about fresh faces at Fashion Week. I want to work for Anna Wintour. I want Jake Gyllenhaal.
I want to grab the straight white man’s dick and freeze dry it stiff. I want to harvest his pubes, too. (Voilà, my very own dickbrush!) I want to paint a Master-Piece with his blood, and it will be spectacular.
But there is a firing squad in the levees. There is a firing squad in the levees.
Part 4—Fu Manchu
What happened, Fu Manchu? You left me at the crossroads of policed identities. I cannot see myself without seeing you.
What happened, Fu Manchu? Your Yellow sons and Yellow daughters are all standing by, while an entire Black community is being terrorized.
Fu Manchu, I thought you wanted the world. I thought you wanted to force the white man to his knees. I thought you wanted me.
What happened, Fu Manchu?
Image from Hallam Productions/Constantin Film.