Originally

I was born speaking Vietnamese,
And when I started school
I was not American.

So I learned English,
And when I came home,
I was no longer Vietnamese.

So I went back to school,
To talk to my friends,
But that didn't make me American.

They ask me,
"Where are you from?"
"Santa Clara," I reply.
"No," they insist. "Originally."
"I am Vietnamese," I tell them,
Saving myself from the unneeded, diabolical dialogue.

"Where are you from?"
"Where are you from?"

I know the answer they seek
Because I've answered it my entire life,
And in answering,
I have learned how not to answer it.

They ask me,
"Where are you from?"
"California," I reply.
"No, where were you born?" they insist.
"Massachusetts," I say.

Their questions shoot from the barrels of their throats,
Each tonal shift of interrogation a bullet
that I deftly avoid.
I am a buffalo, and my life is open season.

"Where are your parents from?" they shoot.
"They met in Philadelphia," I dodge.

"I am Vietnamese," is the answer they want to hear,
so I give it to them eventually,
But it is not my answer.

I cannot answer a question
that I don't know.

I was born speaking Vietnamese,
And when I started school
I was not American.

So I learned English,
And when I came home,
I was no longer Vietnamese.