Their Names | Kyoko Uchida

Their Names

For Daoyou Feng,​​ Xiaojie Tan,​​ Hyun Jung Grant, Yong Ae Yue, Suncha Kim, and​​ Soon Chung Park, murdered in Atlanta, March 16, 2021

We know so little of them, those women:

even their names withheld, so far from kin

were they murdered for what is called the sin​​ 

of being who they were, no, who they’d been

to some, their names withheld: so far from kin,

from who they might’ve liked to be within.​​ 

Of being who they were—or who they’d been,​​ 

perhaps in braids, unafraid—we know nothing,

of who they might’ve liked to be with in​​ 

that moment. We mean well but can’t imagine:

once in​​ braids, unafraid, knowing nothing​​ 

of being spat on, leered at, called​​ gook,​​ chink.

This moment: we mean well, can’t imagine​​ 

that so little has changed, lulled into thinking​​ 

that being spat on, leered at, called​​ gook,​​ chink

the past. Yet for daughters born here, even,​​ 

so little has changed. Lulled into thinking

we were safe now—from ourselves, how we’re seen,​​ 

the past, for daughters born here, even​​ 

shame is shameful: a fight not to give in

to​​ We’ll be safe if we stay quiet, unseen.

Asked​​ Where’re you really from? Where?​​ to begin:

Unashamed, still a fight not to give in

to silence, incensed, common sense, not Zen.

Asked​​ Where’re you really from?​​ where to begin?

Not where some would like: land of temptation

and silence, incense, Kama Sutra,​​ Zen,

blue-black hair a cascading curtain.​​ 

Not where some would like: land of temptation

in God country—the sin desire, not killing,

blood-black hair cascading a curtain​​ 

over their shame. The first immigration

law in God’s​​ country—against desire, not killing—

barred as​​ immoral​​ Asian women, a screen​​ 

to cover its own shame, a migration

of blame—not ours yet ours to defend

against. Now labeled​​ virus​​ on TV screens,​​ 

behind Ivy degrees or rice-scrubbed skin

we’re blamed for what’s not ours to defend​​ 

yet for girls, mothers, grandmothers to mend.

Behind Ivy degrees or rice-scrubbed skin,

long hours tending pain don’t pearl into gems​​ 

but girls, mothers, grandmothers. How to make amends?

This is not where it ends;

long hours tending pain don’t pearl into gems,​​ 

no prettifying image for nameless victims.

This is not where it ends;

there’s nothing new about this. The burden

of not prettifying but naming every victim:​​ 

Daoyou, Xiaojie, Hyun Jung, Yong Ae, Suncha, Soon Chung.

It’s nothing new but it’s our burden​​ 

to bear: knowing so little of each woman.