Generation 2.5

Every Lunar New Year my family goes out for dinner
My Canadian mother says “Gong Hay Fat Choi,” which means “Wishing you happiness and prosperity”
My partner and my brother’s fiancee are reminded every year.

[My father’s best friend is always invited
He was also bullied by xenophobic children on the playground
His children have tan skin in February
They are family without shared blood.]

I like to sit next to my grandfather, even though we know sixty words in common
My grandmother comments that I’ve gained weight (again)
They sacrificed their world for me twenty five years before I was born
They use my English name, and they are glad that I am warm in the winter.

I receive pairs of red envelopes;
blessings and protections,
for what, I am unsure.

I have been called slurs
by teenagers who should have known their meaning.
Half true, wholly hurtful

All of the food is delicious,
I know the tastes but not the names.
It ignites a true longing:

Give me something ancient I can belong to
A set of traditions so mundane
that I can believe that they are mine

I am not satisfied
Knowing that half of my heritage is the peripheral identity
of an entire generation of children of Canadian immigrants who live with the

pressure of bounty,
protection, and blessings
in the form of red envelopes
given by family,

and food on the table,
and choice in the matter,
and warmth in the coldest of winters,
and most of all love.