Dumplings by Daniel Park

Preface:

From what I can remember, I started to fall in love with writing when I was in 7th grade. I spent my elementary school days being the ideal Asian kid, taking gifted courses and stuff for reading and writing. And later in middle school, where I would find myself in an international school in China, the constant thread of people wanting me to write stuff in English for them would boost my ego and dopamine levels until I’d develop a strong passion for writing. So honestly, I have a love-hate relationship with my APIDA identity. On one hand, I have to thank my APIDA identity for getting me this far, for shaping me into someone who’s currently passionate in poetry, writing, social justice, and everything else that makes up me. But on the other hand, it’s also limited me and so many other artists I know in so many ways, especially in the art form I love most. Slam Poetry.

I joined my high school’s slam poetry club my sophomore year, when it was first created. But it wasn’t until junior year where I truly fell in love with the art form. The flow, the rhythms, and the energy involved basically enabled me to channel all my frustrations of being an APIDA kid who constantly had to move and fit in. The reason that I only fell in love after my junior year, was because initially the crowds and the community wouldn’t respond to me. Slam poetry is an intense platform, where issues of racism, violence, rape, drugs, and death are constantly thrown into the battlefield. A balance of rewarding actual art and the issues presented are often a controversial topic. As an Asian male, from a highly ranked school, my issues I’d state in my poetry were compared to the death defying tales of those living in the ghettos or those who’ve experienced hate crimes, and etc. Normally I would stand no chance in slams because of this. There’s a stereotype within the community that “Asian poets can only write about being Asian”. But in my junior year I took a shift in my writing, focused on stereotypes and incorporating humor into my writing. The reception I received became explosive. It even brought me to the finals of our yearly poetry slam competition. But in the back of my mind, I’ve always thought something wasn’t right about the crowd being interested in my issues after I would continuously insult myself and make a fool of myself on stage. Other Asian artists were writing about similar things and not paying the due interest they deserve, and thus I decided to write this poem in response to that.

Dumplings

If you couldn’t tell already,

I’m Asian.

My mom’s Asian.

My dad’s Asian.

My mom’s side cousin’s dead dog was Asian

And no, she was not tossed into a stew and devoured

With guts and entrails and fur stuck in our yellow buck teeth

With squinty eyes peering over the lid making witch noises like

“Eeheheheheheheh”

“But wait, hold up, what do Asian people eat then?”

“Bro, are you stupid? Asians eat dumplings.”

“Bro, no fucking way”

‘Cause if you couldn’t tell already

I fucking hate dumplings.

“But you’re Asian!”

Of course. I acknowledge your abilities to observe the obvious.

I’ll have you know that my Asian ass has been eating dumplings

since I was birthed from my mother’s womb.

But I am sick and tired

Of being force fed my own culture like it’s some exotic fad.

Till I puke and become a caricature of your caricature

Dumped down with dumplings.

Constructs of identity

built upon what should've been millions of years

of tradition and reverence

now overcooked and dumbed down

to a stereotype barely covered by wilting shells of superiority

that scald the tongue with every bite.

And for those of you who can’t tell

This is both a literal hate and a metaphor.

And I feel like I shouldn't have to explain this metaphor,

because the “power of poetry” is supposed to explain it for you.

But of course, to you,

an Asian screaming about Asian things isn't metaphorical,

it's just funny.

You laugh at my dumplings,

but then you force feed dumplings

to other people until they drown in dumplings.

My world is a dumpling.

The universe is a dumpling,

My life is a dumpling.

But you don't give me the chance to own it.

And I don’t want to be a dumpling.

I'm more than that.

I’m a wonton.

Not really a dumpling

but a specialized appreciation of culture

that people might misunderstand.

Do you understand the metaphor?

Do you understand that all I'm trying to say

is that I don't understand why people think I'm funny

or have meaningful poetry

only when I'm making fun of my own race,

every time I mention fried rice and bananas

and yellow skin and squinty eyes.

I'm not some disgusting delicacy of delusional dumped dumplings

dancing in front like a dumb dimwit

so that you can just laugh

at the problem I'm trying to tell you.

I'm trying to tell you

that I hate dumplings.

And if got a problem with that,

then guess what?

You're no longer going to get that from me.

You're going to get rice noodles,

egg tarts, and hot pot.

You're going to get loudmouth Pu-Erh teas

and crackhead fried milk.

You're going to get an emotional bowl

of pig knuckle stickiness.

And if you still don't understand the metaphor,

then just sit down, shut up, and listen,

It all means one fucking thing.

You're going to get me.

Just me.

An Asian who hates dumplings.