火花 

Fire Flower

By Joycelyn Zhang

I am Asian,

born with sparks in my belly,

the same fire stoked by my ancestors

lighting the first firecrackers.

Back then, firecrackers were lit in celebration; they scared away evil. They were long, crackling snakes with tongues of wick, and they protected the Chinese spirit. I used to think I was a firecracker as well, so I could protect my own Chinese spirit.

I am American,

English a familiar weight on my tongue,

ABCs engraved in my head, in my sentences

pledging allegiance like clockwork every morning.

Firecrackers aren’t allowed in school—they sound too similar to something else.

I burned out and buried mine deep inside long ago.

My home is clogged with soot and spicy fresh meat,

Nai-nai, her nostalgia apron stained with yesterday’s dumpling flour,

native language flowing and curling from my relatives’

native lips, like warm water.

In China, gray is in the soot that powders the ground, in the layers of smog in the sky, in the air that coats your lungs if you breathe it in for too long. But beneath that gray is the bubble of hot cooking on the old iron stove and the Chinese language that bubbles around you, like a hot sauna.

My home is cool and clear and thin

like the air, mirroring each other in winter and summer dresses;

the paved roads and streets hold their breath when the night comes out to play.

A sun that glows persimmon over the ocean is the only ornament in the clear, clear sky.

In California, the sky swallows everything up. The ocean rolls and spits white foam onto the sand. The air is clear at night, sharp like broken glass. I wonder if I can cut myself just breathing. It’s hard to breathe freely in America, the land of the free.

I am Asian, and so people at school perceive me as such.

I am almond-eyed, just like my ancestors.

I have golden-brown, glossy skin and a face that betrays no hint of color when I’m embarrassed.

But above all, I’m smart, I’m good at math; I ace every test because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Because I’m Asian.

I struggle with all my might to rise to the top, struggling to keep my Chinese spirit alive. And this time, it’s not the firecrackers protecting me—it’s the grades. And they never burn for half as long.

In China, everyone looked like me—same shiny dark hair and warm Chinese voice.

But my grandparents look at me and shake their heads.

Her skin is too dark, they agree with each other. She is full of bones. Why don’t you eat enough?

How is my golden skin perfect for an Asian girl but not perfect enough for a Chinese girl?

Plumpness is beautiful in China—it shows you have enough to eat.

Thinness is beautiful in America—it means you have the luxury of choosing not to eat.

But my stomach sits in rolls like the mantou that my nai-nai makes, far from the accentuated, glossy LuLuLemon models.

My shoulders are too broad and my arms too skinny to make up for it. I’m too plump in America and too thin in China. I will never be beautiful.

I’m a foreigner in a country I thought I’d feel welcome in.

My scrappy Chinese tumbles and trips over itself as it leaves my mouth.

姑姑 (gū gu): father’s younger female cousin

What do you do when she approaches you with her sons in tow, excitement so palpable you can taste it through your nose, and then she says, “Your little brother wanted to hear authentic English from an authentic source!”

If I could say anything to myself from back then, I would ask: do you remember how gray that place was? How you compared the underground to the sky above, how it was as if the smog outside had plastered itself onto the damp walls? Can you picture how the faded murals were the only warmth in the otherwise cold tunnels? How the poems and proverbs consisted of hanzi you’d never once encountered in your pathetic American-curated Chinese textbooks?

Do you remember how colorless you felt?

爸爸妈妈 (Dad and Mom) point in a dirty subway station: Can you read this?

At school, I’m smart because I have to be, answering question after question like they are tokens of my identity I must earn, so how can four little words leave me unable to speak?

My cheeks flame like firecrackers, and not in the way I want them to. I thought that flying to China in a Chinese plane, breathing Chinese air and speaking only Chinese and eating Chinese food would make me as Chinese on the inside as I was on the outside.

When you were little, you’d perk up like Pavlov’s dog every time the word “Chinese” was mentioned. You’d clutch your fists into spark-breathing firecrackers and shout, “That’s me!” But was it really you? Was it not the eyes and skin but the heart that made you Chinese?

What do you do then?

What if all your life, “authentic” meant being Chinese, knowing the streets with those old stone courtyards?

I’m fake. I can see it in their eyes, I can see it in quiet ai-yahs they hiss in their authentic accents, like ripe tea kettles—soft and sizzling to the touch—the sounds I’ll never be able to replicate.

I’m too American.

But am I? If even the people in China, which America sees as nothing but a communist dystopia, can see me and say, nope, not white enough, while at the same time tell me I’m exotic…which is it?

Mandarin or English?

Asian or American?

Is there a line in the sand I must find so I can be equally both?

Why do I even care what they label me as?

飞机 (fēi jī): airplane, flying machine

The only place I felt free. Because up in the sky, the clouds blurred everything. Even the invisible borders and the sea between the two worlds.

About the Author...

Joycelyn Zhang is a freshman at Canyon Crest Academy, San Diego. Despite the workload at the school, she finds time to enjoy writing and playing the piano. When she is not busy with dance class, she is thinking about how and what she should write. While Joycelyn prefers to write poetry and short stories, she is open to trying other styles. She is always looking to expand her understanding of the literary world, and is honored to have her work featured in Élan.

About the Artist...

Yujin Jeon is a 17-year-old junior at Hamilton High School. Her favorite medium is acrylic paint layered with colored pencils. By utilizing acrylic paint she can capture a wide color range and through colored pencils, she can accentuate small layered details. Her motivation as an artist is to create art depicting one’s “flaws or “imperfections” through a confident persona. She feels that it is important to appreciate one’s “flaws” through the idea of body neutrality. This challenges the traditional beauty standards as it shifts the focus from appearance to functionality. Moreover, centering vulnerability in this journey can help individuals be in tune with themselves regardless of physical appearance. She translates her art into a magazine-inspired format depicting the “imperfections” of inanimate objects and people to make it truly unique and give it a sense of individuality.