Pebbles in My Palm

Dirt in my hand,
pebbles in my palm.
Heritage in Vietnam.
Home is where I am.

Words I know dance on the breeze.
Hoa hồng is a rose.
Hoa sen, a lotus.
I speak not with ease.

I sound American because I am American,
but I am also Vietnamese.
So I listen to tradition
passed down in song and dance.
Fans in hands, a spark of imagination.
History at a glance.

With the flick of a wrist
culture is served—up with a twist.
Feel the wind, stand in place,
let it swoosh, let it sway, let it fly across your face.

Dirt in my hand,
pebbles in my palm.
Heritage in Vietnam.
Home is where I am.

Fans close, opening as flowers on the ground
sprouting from seeds that tumble and fall.
Tossed in a turbulent tempest
_____________outward bound
blooming everywhere, all year-round.

I am the bud of a new generation,
rooted in old and nurtured by new.
I dance to practice our customs,
to imagine toiling in the soil
and rolling pebbles between my fingers
from a land that nourished my ancestors.

Knowing where I come from
helps me to become
the me I want to be.

And if ever I lose my way,
I will reach for the earth,
press dirt in my hand,
squeeze pebbles in my palm,
think of my heritage in Vietnam,
and remember that home
is where I am.

Jamie Jo Hoang is the daughter of Vietnamese refugees. She grew up in Orange County, CA—not the rich part. She is the author of My Father, the Panda Killer and Blue Sun, Yellow Sky Her work has also appeared in TIME, SALON and TinyBuddha.