Longing

By Bridgitte Thao, 17, Minnesota

My blood runs brown, rich
like the soil of a homeland
I’ll never see. Yet I can taste
the fruits of that farmland.

My blood boils with the tropical
heat of a hamlet I’ll never inhabit.
Yet I can hear the village chatter,
cheery and chipper like insects.

My blood flows with longing
for a life I’ll never live, aching for
the comfort my ancestors danced in,
yet I’ll never know their tongue.

What is my brown blood to red, white, and blue?

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Despite whole-heartedly loving my home state and country of origin, I long for a homeland that I’ll never know. As a second-generation American, the stories I hear about my parents’ countries of origin fuel me with a feeling of disconnection. Although I’ve never seen the rolling hills of Thailand or inhaled the mystic air of the Yunnan Stone Forest, I can feel that connection in my blood. I can feel my inherited memories roiling and muddying my American identity. Still, I’m not at all like the people or the places I crave. In a way, I’m tainted. Or am I?

Instagram: @theebridgitte

Photo by Marcin Kaliński