“But where are you really from?”

I've taped that question to every atlas I could find,

from day one of Kindergarten I have mapped that question from

New Jersey circa suburbia to the tropical jungles of the Philippines,

and yet I still haven't found the appropriate response.

My aunties say I'm red meat; red blood; red, white, and blue American;

but the boy with the dirty blond hair says I am a dirty word with a dirty culture.

Raise your right hand for every time you've been asked if you eat dog,

raise your left hand for every time you've been asked if you speak English.

I'm not great at math but I can count the number on one hand

of Asians I've seen in movies who aren't half-assed.

I'll never be Miss America, but you can call me Miss Exotica-

I'm a foreign beauty rarely found in fashion magazines.

I'll be your Japanese school girl, tales of a geisha, Filipino maid you come home to later,

straight-A student who wants to get the white boy savior.

“But where are you really from?”

It seems I was born on an airplane flight from homeland to house land

because the only countries that claim me as their own are

tired airport terminals searching for recognition in the faces of travelers.

I'm your Asian-American minority check box.

“Welcome to America; will you be staying long?”