From Changsha
by Victoria Hou
When I split open a syllable of a word in my mother tongue,
I hear four tones itching to break themselves
into countless meanings. These lao wai can’t scrape
their teeth on the lilts of our phrases and the dips
of our ming zi. We place our last name
before our first because our blood runs so thick we paint
our weddings and our New Years the color
of our stomachs, since the most sincere gong xi fa cai
is as red as the firecrackers we light and the chopped
chili on our plates. When I break my bones,
my mother wraps my limbs in bitter leaves and tree bark.
She lathers my bruises in wan ying zhi tong gao that stings
my wounds to health, because my people cherish the love
that is born from labor that stoops our spines like drooping
bamboo. We are afraid of the cold
so we set fire to our mouths with garlic and hong jiao plucked
near the river that runs like an aorta through our lao jia,
where the salt is a blend of five-spice, the envelopes are laden
with gold, and the smoke dances from the incense rooted
in the graves of my ancestors.
*Translations:
lao wai: foreigner, often refers to Caucasians
ming zi: name
gong xi fa cai: a way of saying “Happy New Year,” literally meaning “wishing you great wealth”
wan ying zhi tong gao: electrical medicated balm, widely used in Chinese households to treat minor wounds
hong jiao: red pepper, commonly used in Hunan cuisine
lao jia: hometown
I hear four tones itching to break themselves
into countless meanings. These lao wai can’t scrape
their teeth on the lilts of our phrases and the dips
of our ming zi. We place our last name
before our first because our blood runs so thick we paint
our weddings and our New Years the color
of our stomachs, since the most sincere gong xi fa cai
is as red as the firecrackers we light and the chopped
chili on our plates. When I break my bones,
my mother wraps my limbs in bitter leaves and tree bark.
She lathers my bruises in wan ying zhi tong gao that stings
my wounds to health, because my people cherish the love
that is born from labor that stoops our spines like drooping
bamboo. We are afraid of the cold
so we set fire to our mouths with garlic and hong jiao plucked
near the river that runs like an aorta through our lao jia,
where the salt is a blend of five-spice, the envelopes are laden
with gold, and the smoke dances from the incense rooted
in the graves of my ancestors.
*Translations:
lao wai: foreigner, often refers to Caucasians
ming zi: name
gong xi fa cai: a way of saying “Happy New Year,” literally meaning “wishing you great wealth”
wan ying zhi tong gao: electrical medicated balm, widely used in Chinese households to treat minor wounds
hong jiao: red pepper, commonly used in Hunan cuisine
lao jia: hometown
