Mother

I.

My Mother grew up hating her own name

Wanted to be called “Margaret” instead

“Leinani” too Hawaiian, too “exotic”

She asked for a nose job on her 17th birthday

“Better pretty than smart,” “seen and not heard”

Drilled through her skull since childhood

“Pretty” code for white

“Pretty” code for girls named Margaret

With brown hair and trophy wife mothers

I’ve been told rich white women play tennis with their daughters

We pass apologies back and forth instead

I am overflowing with “sorry”

Choking on my letters

Not my fault just a phantom

Floating somewhere in my hippocampus

My Mother says I have beautiful skin

Olive complected and warm toned

Asian/Indigenous/Colonizer mutt

I call her a hypocrite; after all

I have her cheekbones, her ink black hair

her nimble frame, small but muscular

II.

I grew up one of three Emilys

At nearly every school I attended

First name, plain and easy

Last name, a recurring question

A vestige of heritage lost

My shame tastes of stomach acid, bitter and untrue

Gag reflex no matter how many times I swallow

My throat, burning

My Mother’s mouth, numb

She makes womanhood look like cherry blossoms

Soft and pink and forgiveness comes easy

But it does not come easy

I could count the number of histories that have been butchered

Until my last breath; even then

There would still be infinite left undocumented

There’s anger underneath it all

But I learned anger from my Father

Which is to say

I never learned anger at all

Most days, I let it shrink/dim blue

And call it hurt instead

III.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself the same questions on repeat

What if I made friends with my mistakes?

What if my pride was limitless?

My great great great great

Great great great great

Great great great great

Great Grandmother lived in a Matriarchal society

Do I have her blood in my skin?

I swear I can feel it boiling

With the rage of 13+ generations

My Grandmother says I am a warrior

An ink-wielding, word-churning, idea-making warrior

I’m writing everything down because I don’t want to forget

I’m tired of apologizing

My name, not a question, but an answer

My Mother, gentle and strong