essay on distance

Juliana Chang

when I was little I thought Taiwan became a country because it
broke off the side of China like a chunk of bread, and the people
on the chunk just stayed on and the people on the loaf just
shrugged and kept going with their lives. I suppose we took it
one step further in the early years, became a breadcrumb family
in the Bay.

once it became clear we had to go back, we lugged our couch to
the dumpster and exited the new country piecemeal: father first,
then suitcase. daughter, dog, mother. between the bad Chinese
and dust mites, my migration twisted into the inevitable
prophecy that it usually never is. here, a child that could not stay.

now, alone again in this old-new place—I take photos of spring
flowers like my mother. I wear loose pants, like my mother. I
don’t cry in front of my mother, just like my mother. 

last year in the windy city, I walked around carrying a birthday
card in my hands until I couldn’t feel it anymore. my mother
matches socks and I don’t. in the early years, I brought friends
onto the porch and told them my family owned the grey cows
grazing the hills behind our house. to prove my point, I gave
them all names.