Frankenstein

In preschool, my voice is barricaded by a clumsy tongue,

curling around formless words of a foreign land

tasting the new flavors of goldfish and mary had a little lamb.

I stand in front of the mirror trying to regurgitate the same sounds that enter my ears

as a cacophony of gibberish.

In kindergarten, my teacher speaks to me in the same tongue as my father

She speaks english like him, wading slowly in waters still unfamiliar

despite years of freestyle.

In first grade, I proudly recite the pledge of allegiance the way I practiced in the mirror

and everyday I am whisked away into a small room with a round table.

We try to glue together the fragments of a broken language

more puzzle pieces to replace the ones that don’t fit.

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We tie the loose ends of fraying sentences,

unravel the once crimson thread that sunset into pink.

In second grade, my english is already better than my parents’,

In third grade, the visits to the round table stop.

In fourth grade, I become my parents’ secretary.

I translate class announcements,

script out conference questions,

send thank you emails to teachers,

My pseudonym is my mother’s name.

Small talk is her biggest fear

when I am old enough to walk to my friend’s front door alone

she waits in the car.

She is ashamed of her accent.

I learn to become ashamed of it too.

When we eat out for dinner, I hate their loud voices.

Everyone in the restaurant can surely hear our foreign gibberish,

smell our garlic breath.

Shh, I say to my father,

They can hear us.

When I go to Korea, I wear my skin like a mask

On the bus, I whisper to my sister and turn away from their widening eyes.

I feel more American here than I ever do in America.

My Korean is a faded photograph

in an unmarked box in the attic of my brain.

I reach for the missing words in jagged sentences and grab air.

I speak a hybrid of American dream and Korean wave,

Crooked stitches connecting each patch.

I am Frankenstein.

When we come back from the airport, I hear sirens.

A flash of red,

Umma, sobangcha eeya

Mom, it’s a

So bang cha.

My fingers are running along stitches again, but for the first time

The missing patch is old glory, not tegukgi, not hanbok, not chun.

The wailing is now gone

But my ears are still ringing.

So bang cha.

I’m reaching, reaching

So bang cha.

I graze star spangled banner.

Mom,

It’s a firetruck.

by JINHEE HEO