Herro! My name Krystle Uy and me Asian.
The walking, talking, stereotypical Asian.

Yes! That Asian that loves rice.
That loves rice enough to eat it 24/7, seven days a week,
For breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Yes! That Asian who, when provoked, speaks with the
“Asian accent”.

Yes! That Asian with c***** eyes, half-heartedly
Hoping to be somewhat hidden by her glasses
Resting on the nub of a nose.

Yes! That Asian who rigorously studies for classes;
The sound of paper crinkling and turning resembling a locating
Device, always able to pinpoint her.

Yes! That Asian with the strict parents trailed by the
Inevitable high expectations,
That her short stature couldn’t possibly reach.
But she’s already desensitized to her fate of disapproval
With the follow ups of “try harders” and “not good enoughs.”

Yes! That Asian who was born on American soil,
Is culturally brought up in America,
And is branded as the “Chinese Twinkie” by her peers.
Yellow on the outside, white on the inside;
Never by itself because then she’ll malfunction
Banished by one and ignored by the other.

Yes! That Asian who is also … human.
Who has similarities,
Who has insecurities,
Self-esteem running on low like a car
Edging on empty, a druggie on the path of
Crashing down.

Yes! That Asian teenager who really didn’t want to
Be “The Asian Teenager” because she
Doesn’t want to be classified as
A minority that all looked the same
So little by little, she taught herself how to
Command ripples to distort her reflection,
Showing her but not herself.
But there were times when Mother Nature snatched
Her knowledge and stilled the wind,
Conjuring a crystal clear gem discovered by everyone
But her, she’s still searching for it.

And to this day, she restraints the Asian
Who lurks beneath the thin glass that barricades her, the prototype,
From the manufactured, remodeled Asian 4.0
Made from China,
Wanting to shove chopstick’s up society’s a**.