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There are things that little asian girls come to learn that little asian boys never do.
Some of which I have only recently acquainted and some that I never will.
That their softness is weakness,
that when they choose to be loud they must not be in control,
that they’re replaceable, disposable, anonymous in a sea of faces that look like theirs,
that their body is another conquest of the western world, another war torn land, another export of trade and commerce.
I look at the face of my mother and see that little girl.
I look into her glassy eyes and see my reflection.
That little asian girl was my mother, my grandmother, my pau pau.
The more that I step into femininity, the more I’m exposed to the realities that asian women have accepted as truth.
I yearn to define femininity outside of the western gaze, seeking an alternate path to the expectations that I refuse to accept.

Too often our stories are written for us, expectations placed upon our demeanor and lifestyles
— but now we take control of the narrative.
I am not your butterfly, your lotus flower, your cherry blossom, your war wife, your lady boy.
I exist outside of western conventions, rooted in the divine power found within me.

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