______________________________________________________
When We Were Young
I was a month older. We both had
Chinese last names. She was also
Khmer, Thai & Vietnamese: a mix
of enemies. Thailand always
stealing temples along the border.
She identified as Khmer because
they needed her the most.
We were opposites, like our two
eventual cats. I was the aloof one,
lithe & nervous in my Audrey
Hepburn sunglasses. She was
the teasing one, smoking cloves
slouched in her brother’s frayed
skater clothes, seemingly
carefree. After high school, we lived
in New York City, met every
Gen X Khmer person in the New England
& Tri-State Area. I shredded papaya,
marveled at ahmok. Dancing
at banquets, I flared my fingers
like gladiolas opening. Like our elders,
our leisure included free Atlantic City
hotel rooms & touring the buffets. She’d blow
through a snapped snow crab leg
& split it cleanly, giving me a perfect
piece of meat. Spoiled, she called me
against the casino chimes. Her mother called
me oun—daughter. Growing up, she didn’t
know which stories about Cambodia
were true. She could sweet talk
anybody, especially a security guard.
Four generations deep in America,
I was more afraid. Chinese waiters
were confused when she spoke
instead of me. I was the light-skinned
tall girl with a blank face, the one who
paid the bill & didn’t suck the bones clean.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Shelley Wong is the author of As She Appears (2022), longlisted for the National Book Award and winner of a Lambda Literary Award. She lives in San Francisco.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Tamara de Lempicka, The Girls, ca.1930, oil on canvas.