Straight, blonde hair, blue eyes and brown made
curly brown hair, green eyes the foreigner 
in their mind.
 
Baba¹ or mémère², babushka³ 
or bandana⁴. A five-minute walk 
if you run⁵; and
 
coats were red in collar⁶; boys wore
their colours⁶ up: phrases spoken without
feet or a head⁷.
 
Giggles and whispers behind hands.
Walked away whenever 
I came near them.
 
*
 
Spoke mishmashed Creole,
local to his land. 
Hakka⁸ versus Canto⁹ 
disappeared when he moved. 
He became countryman 
of his homeland unknown 
 
to the new people 
he found himself with. 
Newest identity 
born from childhood palate,
indicated Indian, 
African continent. 
 
Trip back home one day. 
Money foreign-er, 
unrecognizable;
even evolution of tongued sounds showed 
he was a tourist at home.
 
Ill with homelessness.
 
*
 
Is she adopted?
Mother taken as nanny with every step.
Never considered natural
mother despite the near day-long,
excruciating labour. No words
for them.
 
*
 
Whose child is this? Odd. He looks a bit like you.
Mother bites her tongue.
Unsure how to politely 
smack them awake; 
they have not changed 
in half a decade.
 
*
 
What are you doing here? She is not yours. 
Smart mouth father retaliates:
What's wrong with you? Never
saw a blonde Chinese before?
 
*
 
Thick, black, coarse horsehair 
with loose curls, tiny eyes, tiny nose,
learns surprisingly sweet words like nana¹⁰,
prefers pao¹¹ to spaghetti at lunch,
book always in hand to avoid the shouts
calling her monster, telling her 
go back home.
 
Thick, dark brown, coarse hair dries
before the second bucket of water hits.
Big eyes, sharp cheekbones, fists
meet his stomach until he finds 
his tongue could slice them down.
 
Fine, blonde hair, tiny eyes, 
tiny nose, mischievous smile. Not 
a doll. Not your sweet thing. Live 
wasp between fingers, she scares
them away. Can't get hurt
if they're the ones carrying fear.
 
*
 
What are you? keeps 
coming up. White say
Asian. Asian say White.
Both stay standoffish.
Children decide less 
awkward responses to bury
the question of background.
One claims Asian.
One sarcasms Black or Human.
One quips Italian, Scandinavian, Greek, Norwegian;
none of these in her bloodline.
 
Overclaimed bloodline
enjoys her friends,
says they're all like her
regardless of paleness or
darkness of skin, regardless
of size and stature. Bound 
by neurology.
 
Human sits for hours
in his room, playing
online with friends 
who claim cousinship
and comradery. Jokes, 
but keeps his tongue sharp.
Rarely leaves home.
 
Asian finds true love,
tempers and laughter,
late nights stacking, unpacking
palettes of boxes
with another half & half
who agrees background 
means not being present.
 
*
 
Will the generation 
after my children 
still have to fight
the insults, the stares,
the finger-pointing laughter,
the violence, the silence,
the hatred platter?
Or will others start to look beyond 
skin, shape of eyes, size of nose,
accept and love the growing
number of children with coarse,
blonde, curly hair, green eyes, caramel 
skin, every combination
and permutation that can arise
from mixing 
and mixing until we finally see 
the truth many people want 
to ignore?
We are all one,
only one,
belonging to the same homeland
third from the sun.
________________________________
¹grandmother – Polish, Ukrainian
²grandmother – French
³grandmother – Russian; headscarf tied under chin – Ukrainian
⁴headscarf tied in back
⁵Irish idiom: it will not take much time to get there if you hurry
⁶French-Canadian mispronunciations of English; “colour” is pronounced as "collar", “collar” is pronounced as "colour"
⁷Polish idiom: does not make sense
⁸Han Chinese
⁹Short for Cantonese, not fully Han Chinese
¹⁰grandmother – Italian
¹¹steamed bun filled with meat or vegetables
---------------------------------------
Danielle Wong is the author of Bubble Fusion, a collection of poems about raising a child with autism. Her other work has appeared in Montreal Writes, Tipton Poetry, Modern Habits Broken, Kalopsia Lit, Pendemic, and various anthologies.  She enjoys walking in forests, listening to crickets, and letting snowflakes fall on her tongue. 
https://www.daniellewong.ca