My lineage is Little Saigon
asphalt, three generations
under one roof and mother-
land recipes. On Saturdays,
my family congregates
at our favorite restaurant:
Kim Phuong. Here, we worship
the hot pot; stuff our bellies
with blessings. My auntie says—
If we’re gonna suffer,
we gotta do it over good food.
The pavement’s cracked
but we know what to do. After
all, these are neighborhoods of necessity.
I remember
the first time I saw white faces
descend upon Little Saigon,
their crooked beaks eager to pick
meat off these streets. Squawking
about craft beers and raw
denim, their foreign tongues
butcher every name on the menu.
All their Yelp reviews sound the same—
“I discovered a real gem in Little Saigon.
So authentic! I give it 4 stars.
Would have been 5, but the waitress
could have smiled more.”
Now, Kim Phuong has a 30-minute wait,
plays Radiohead instead of Khánh Ly
ballads. Waitresses speak enough English
to accommodate vegan diets.
Food bloggers all praise the tabernacle
of my childhood, beg to know the magic
of my people. In the 1800s,
riots ignited violence against Chinese
immigrants. After finding refuge
in each other, they kindled new homes:
Chinatowns. Haven’t Asian American enclaves
always been neighborhoods of necessity?
Before my people built this Little Saigon,
white flight to the suburbs sucked
this city’s economy down to its marrow.
But we know how to take leftovers
and forge something beautiful. Funny
how this city would be boneyard
without us. Now white folks flock
back to the streets they deserted;
rediscover everything we rebuilt.
Of course we learned how to be digestible,
how to shove our limbs into takeout boxes,
skin ourselves and sell the flesh
for profit. The owners of Kim Phuong
can pay off debt, send their daughter to college.
When their restaurant burns down
one winter night, they do not cry.
They can afford to rebuild everything.
In Vietnamese, Kim Phuong means golden
phoenix. I don’t say this for the irony.
It’s not this poem’s punchline, but my people’s
expectation that everything ours can burn
at any second. Koreatown, Little India,
Banglatown, Little Manila—no matter
how many pick at the bones
of immigrant communities,
we always endure the scorch
and cackle with a smile.
These neighborhoods of necessity,
always demanding we cook up
the most authentic kind
of survival: After all,
if we’re gonna suffer,
we gotta do it over good food.
Chrysanthemum Tran