.orange slices and mint imperials II

memories ingrained in


my mind 


of 


sticky juice running


down my chin and a


family far too stuffed to 


even think about 


dessert.


yet sweet wedges 


of orange, for good luck


and after - a mint imperial 


whilst they argue over 


who takes the 


bill.


How does a stereotype become the 


reason for your existence 


how it lets you authenticate yourself 


tell you you’re worthy


tell you you’re Chinese 


enough for everyone 


looking on.


but we don’t even speak Chinese


I know that


our servers always know that. 


perhaps it is confusing for them


to see a gaggle of Chinese ladies 


and what looks like white children.


I’m not too sure


yet I am embarrassed every time I can’t 


pronounce 


my favourite 


dish.


so instead I


distract myself,


with my own reflection 


seen in the muddied glass of the aquarium


in the restaurant 


the fish look back at me with blank expressions 


they know 




I am not Chinese enough 


to *actually* be Chinese




they are judging me like 


i judge myself.


I am only a child


yet so self reflective ?


not really, 


probably just narcissistic.


Do children know that they don’t truly belong ?


I suppose they do.  


I suppose I do.


my memories are often hazy,


elusive and just out of reach 


perhaps the elusiveness of my belonging 


is because I ate too many mint imperials as a child


after all, 


no-one truly knows the origins of the sweet


or,


perhaps so long spent staring into the abyss of aquariums,


gave me the memory of my friend 


the fish itself.


But even though 


I am not enough


of any of my ethnicities,


I still have fond memories 


of those aquariums 


and just waiting for the sticky juice to run down my chin


when I bite into a sweet wedge of orange 


for good luck.