eyes
there is this look in the eyes of that woman
she has grubby hair, freckled cheeks,
her lips curled but frayed at the ends into a miniscule frown
a minute ago she was hollering jokes with her customer,
the one who had two loaves of bread,
a jug of milk,
a box of yogurts and
white skin.
she says nothing.
my mother fidgets with her wallet, grabbing for her credit card and i--
i can’t do anything. i just stand by and watch as
the woman frowns (with those frayed ends)
pushes the cart unhappily and
shoves our yogurt box down and it hits the edge with a slam.
hasn’t said hello, or how are you, or anything at all.
no joke.
those frayed ends sit back and watch
my mother scurry to put our groceries in the cart again
“hey, what’s taking so long?”
“i’m trying,” and that smile, that smug, knowing sort of smile she gives
to the customer behind us,
the one with two boxes of cereal,
a bag of fruit, two jackets, and
white skin. and she returns to looking at us,
smile gone,
just that look in her eyes, crossed arms,
those frayed ends on her lips.
in that moment i hate white skin. it’s like they team against us,
like we are a lower race. like it is of no worthy respect
to come here and speak in scary tongues
at grocery stores, doctor’s offices,
school events,
with neighbors.
like my mother has no language because she does not have
their language,
like there is no merit to her being a teacher of Korean,
staying up late creating new curricula,
no merit to her high esteem when she had a job back at
home, no merit to her studious attempts to learn
there is no merit to that. what she does
does not matter because
how she speaks
ruins it all.
my mother feels the anger but she knows not how to express it
in a language they will understand--
intellectually,
or linguistically.