My sister and I talked funny, hard t’s and wrong vowel
sounds for American
English, an invisible multiculturality.
We learned to turn pronunciation on and off. Too young
to understand whispers job-takers, intruders, or why
our mom worked
part-time, took side jobs, or stayed
at home. Job-taker: hilarious as her education was not
recognized in the US. Each job search followed the pattern
of kind words, so-nice-to-meet-you, then
awkwardness—
the checked box—Thank you for your time. Later,
I understood how little because something doesn’t happen
in front of you,
doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen is believed.
My guilty confession: I let people rail against greencards.
I let them run the reel full out before I offer, So. You’re talking
about my mom. Some days, I wish I was nicer about it. (Not.)
