Shape of 한

They named me quiet before I spoke.
They measured my worth by the size of my eyes,
as if vision could be confined to a shape.
Skin too yellow to matter,
they thought.
Hands better at equations than revolution,
they assumed.

At home, I am the oldest child.
I built the bridge on my back
to carry the stacked commandments of my family.
Be strong.
Be better.
Be silent.
Carry the honour of generations.
Shallow your hunger.
For so I learned.
Laugh, and the world will laugh with you.
Weep, and you will weep alone.

But I am not your straw doll
that moves in any way I don't say.
I am not your shallow shadow,
standing in the corner of your story,
swallowing your sins.
I am a free bird with ruptured wings,
because you eject neglect to deject my effect,
and so the 한* was carved into my identity.

But I don’t fault you,
you feared what you didn’t understand-
my silence, my language, my race.
You built walls from what you thought was lee,
not seeing they became my cage.
I want to rise for you with no anger, but in knowing-
your blindness was taught,
and I want to be someone who sees it.
I want to be a free bird with seamed wings.

*[ha̠(ː)n] a deep Korean emotion of sorrow, resentment, and longing, born from suffering or injustice, yet carried with endurance and hope.