So, my mom hits the gas on I-495, 
rushing home on the weekends
ready to play endless rounds of câu cá 

She'll spread the furry child's blanket over the dinner table,
Pull out two decks of cards from the cabinet, 
one red, 
one blue, 
just in case they need to switch up the luck 
then, she’ll ask me for my quarters, 
adding, Mẹ có thắng, mẹ sẽ cho con lại nhiều hơn.

"If I win,
i'll give you back much more." 

These nights go late, 
The women gossip,
make midnight snacks,
crack jokes with child-like humor at each other's husbands  

They will let the cards pull the toxic fumes absorbed all week at the nail salon out of them
cards breathing life into the lifelessness of this occupational ghetto; 
allowing them to continue providing meals each week, each month, each year 
for a family of picky eaters 

My mom will only voluntarily pulls all nighters on 
nights like these.

Nights like these–
transforms these women
back into girls,
living the teenage experience,
that they never really had–
because countries torn by outsider war 
will bound the child 
to a premature adulthood for generations 

So it is not a gambling problem, like I used to think, 

Mẹ, 
these Vietnamese women give you validity,
make you feel whole and complete 
in a country that barely recognizes your existence,
sees it as an eyesore– 
disregarding all you have done
in it,
to it,
because of it. 

Your clients embody this:  

speaking to you too slowly, like you're a child that cannot understand them
like American intervention placing in a puppet government for the sake of “democracy” 

speaking to you too quickly, so that they can snap when you cannot understand them 
like blaming our people for not being able to choose ourselves instead of “communism” 

speaking to you too loudly, because it is always about you understanding them.
like how economic imperialism handcuffs our country to the “benevolence” of the 
white western world order 

speaking to you like you will never be able to understand 
like silent shadows hushing memories so the children cannot digest the “why’s" of 
the American War in Vietnam

Mẹ, 
I remember asking you once, 
for a project in elementary school, 
“What is the favorite part of your job?”

At first,
You said nothing…

Then,
You said making money.

I understand now that it is about survival 
and I wish the language barrier between us would disintegrate 
to tell you 
the the space that you cleared for yourself,
you are allowed to own it, 

Owning the disillusionment of the "American Dream," 
the biggest propaganda tool for “chosen” immigrants. 

Owning this economic hustle
from day one. 

Owning the heartache of separation from the country you grew up in, 
the community and family left, but never forgotten

Owning the dignity of being Vietnamese, 
never letting any liberal fusion joint tell you the right way to make our people's food 

Owning the cost of living in a country 
that cannot fuel the fire in the spirits of our ancestors

Owning the fear of old age
because you believe in the children you have raised 

And owning these card games,

giving me back

"so much more." 

Mẹ đã cho con lại nhiều hơn rồi. 

Y-Binh’s poetry and prose focuses on the poignant themes of transgenerational trauma & healing, critical compassion, queer coming of age love stories, diaspora hustles and bustles, eco-resistance sci-fi, and visionary fiction.