My Chinese By Athena Chu
If you ask me if I'm fluent in Chinese, I will tell you my Chinese is a ghost lodged in my throat. A dried up flower I tore from the ground long ago, rootless.
My Chinese is missing pictures in a photo album: the first day of preschool, a mouth full of useless characters, ancient taste buds numbing out of existence, leaving the bitter aftertaste of a new language.
My Chinese is kneaded dough cut into little circles, filled with meat and folded over, cooked and served with vinegar in porc