In my poem, “Unpacking Malibu,” I connected the ideas of language and home. While growing up, I was constantly moving homes, and it felt like I was living in a constant state of flux. I wanted to play with the idea of unpacking—whether it’s boxes, emotions, memories, or the word “home.” Home is defined as a “dwelling place” according to the Oxford English Dictionary, so I wanted to use the double meaning of the word, dwell. I also touched on my identity growing up as an Asian American.
Unpacking Malibu
“We’re moving.” When I’m dwelling about home,
Mandarin and English mix like the dry and wet
ingredients in a recipe for a cake.
When I taste the words, it’s sweet on my tongue.
I consume love in two languages.
The glow of memories blur cities and oceans;
I see them behind a veil from above the clouds.
Home. Dwell. 家.
I look at my hand. I’ve moved so much that I’m losing
count on my fingers.
I’ve felt the tears down my cheek
mirroring
the tears down my mother’s cheek.
If you look inside my body,
You’ll see the remains of cities I’ve lived in,
In the leaves and the furniture where I left my imprint,
In the air.
You’ll see tear stains.
You’ll see me refusing to speak the language that others
taunt. The face that others haunt.
You’ll see the beating of my panicked heart.
You’ll see the moving trucks
And cardboard boxes lining the walls of my bedroom,
The stale smell. The heavy weight.
Things got lost.
The waves of the Pacific Ocean washed them away.
My peace ran away from me.
I never wanted to unpack.
Home. Dwell. 家.
Slowly, the Mandarin leave my lips for good, and
I wish I didn’t scare it away.
If only I could coax it back.
I slowly unpack all the boxes and slowly
unpack my words.
Afraid—I unpack the heaviest boxes, the ones that carry
an orange peel taste of memories
of each move, of each home.
I toss out the boxes filled with tears of shame.
And I take out my face and my voice.
“We’re here.” And I’m unpacked.