I Am
I am my mother
A distant land
I am my father
Shouldering the burden of hope
I am a child
Holding on to a foreign tongue
"describe the sensation," he says,
but how do you shape heat into something precise?
how do you name the heaviness pressed into my chest
when the words are salt eroding my tongue?
When you "explain," another voice enters the room.
The interpreter speaks,
but now I’m left suspended in the space
between your words
and the ones I carry from home.
Is my cough not enough to show my pain?
My mother’s voice would call the pain sakit, dolor, ਦਰਦ, ألم, my doctor presses on my abdomen until I yelp
“Inflammation.”
My mother’s voice would call this sensation nasasakit ng ulo, estrés, ਫ਼ਿਕਰ, ضغط ; my doctor calls it
“Anxiety.”
My mother’s voice would call the breathlessness hirap mg hinga, falta de aire, ਮੈਨੂੰ ਸਾਹ ਨਹੀਂ ਆਉਂਦਾ, ضيق نفس ; my doctor makes me speak until I’m robbed of air.
Your words dissect me.
“Non-English speaking female, suspected generalized anxiety”
each word tries, each word fails,
and I float in the space between them,
suspended in questions neither can hold.
Sitting quietly helps me swallow the pain
My doctor calls me withdrawn and uncommunicative.
Here I am
Fearing that the street may be
More welcoming than those in white coats
Those in power who deny
Deny my voice
Deny my right to care
Deny my right to live
Reduced to a number on paper
Defined by a stamp
Fighting for my right to live
For so long that I forget
My mother’s tongue
My sense of belonging
Who am I?
I am an immigrant
I am your patient
I am human.
