Poems by Anh-Hoa Thi Nguyen. Dear Ba, Sometimes I drive past our old house, looking to see if it still houses all the wounds I endured there. The stifling silence, crowding of needs, the hand-me down desires. I can still hear the hurricane of dishes, your anger howling, the denial of longings. […]
Unsettled, because settling was never a choice, after the first and third displacement. One foot ready to run, feelings wrapped in a box, packaged and shipped onward. I am wrestling with peace and tension, grabbing at altercations and violence, waiting for something to be ripped away again…
A poem by Anh-Hoa Thi Nguyen, "One Note. One Dish. One Love." This poem introduces a new mini-series #metoovietnamesebodies, which explores how "Vietnamese bodies" have been impacted by "#metoo" experiences of sexual and power abuses.
I live in a three-bedroom house with my mom and dad and little sister Michelle. We have the corner bedroom because my mom can’t sleep. Down the hall, the biggest bedroom goes to my uncle and aunt because they have three sons. The smallest room goes to my aunt Kim because it’s only her and Sophia and Marcel who don’t have a dad.
It had rained hard for hours, and now the monsoon accumulation gushed through the streets and sidewalks of District 1. I was caught in the downpour while riding my motorbike through the boulevards of Saigon, wide lanes relatively devoid of traffic on this wet working day.