So, I think I'm going to move to a different poem--
book, sorry, called Dear Memory, and I--
gosh, what should I say about this book?
I thought-- first, I said I was never
going to write about my mother.
And then I said, I'm never going to write about her again.
But then, I don't know, she kind of hangs around.
And I found a box, after she passed
away I found a box with a whole bunch of stuff in it,
and I said this in Ander's class too,
is that I found all these cool papers.
And so I found out a lot of information
about her that I had no idea about my background.
I had no idea.
I don't know anything about who my ancestors are or anything
like that.
But I did find all these papers, but the initial excitement
changed to sadness because I had no one
to ask those questions like, is this right?
Who is this?
And, you know, just--
I used to ask my mom those kinds of questions.
So I started writing her a letter,
and then this book eventually became a bunch of letters,
and then also some collaging because there are photos,
and then I wrote little poems that are on the collages.
So I'll show you some of that.
But I'll just read this first one, which
this is just the beginning.
So I'll read the whole thing is here,
but it's not a ton longer than that.
Dear mother, I have so many questions.
What city were you born in?
What was your American birthday?
Your Chinese birthday?
What did your mother do?
What did your grandmother do?
Who is your father, grandfather?
It's too late now, but I would like to know.
I would like to know why your mother followed Chiang
Kai-Shek, taking you and your six or seven siblings
across China to Taiwan.
I would like to know what was said in the planning meeting.
I would like to know who was in that meeting, where
that meeting took place.
I would like to know the people who were left behind.
I would like to know if there are
other people who look like me.
I would like to know if you took a train, if you walked,
if you had pockets in your dress, if you wore pants,
if your hand was in a fist, if you held a small stone,
if you thought the trees were black or green at night, if it
was cold enough to see your breath, to sting your fingers.
I would like to know who you spoke to along the way,
if you had some preserved salty plums, which we both love,
in your pocket.
I would like to know if you carried a bag, if you
had a book in your bag, where you got your food for the trip,
why I never knew your mother or father or your siblings.
I would liked to have known your father,
to know what his voice sounded like, if it was
brittle or pale, if it was blue or red, to know the sound
he made when he swallowed food.
I would like to know if your mother was afraid.
During college, I spent several weeks with her in Taiwan.
She bought me baozi or buns every morning.
The bao that steamed in small plastic bags with no ties,
and sweet dou jiang, tofu milk, always too hot for me to drink.
She sat there and watched me eat,
complained to me about your brother's wife,
complained of being sick, and how no one would help her.
Do you know how long it took me to figure out
how to call an ambulance, and then when they came,
she refused to go.
I still remember how the two men stared at me
as if I could move a country.
Listen, it's the wind.
That's the same wind from your countries.
Sometimes if I listen closely at night,
I can hear you drop a small bag at the door.
I hear the sound of the bao touching
the ground and the wind trying to open the bag,
but when I open the door, there's nothing there,
just the same wind, thousands of years old.
Happy birthday, wind.
Happy birthday, mother.
April 6, 1940.
I know this now.
All the nurses, doctors, and morticians
asked me so I memorized it, your American birthday,
April 6th, 1940,
I said again, and again, as if I had known this my whole life.