Parachute Girls
by Lisa Qi Chen
Parachute girls get left behind in three-bedroom condos near the airport in Millbrae.
They arrive at school with new names like Lydia and Grace and Margaret that share the first consonant with their foreign names.
They have scheduled phone calls with their parents in Taipei, in Seoul, Hong Kong at odd hours of the day and are asked, “What time is it there?” and “Are you eating?”
Parachute girls look at you through their bangs. You can get them to do just about anything because no one tells them what American girls do.
They wear pink polyester-blend sweaters from Hong Kong boutiques with shirt collars you realize are fake once you get them off.
Parachute girls get money orders in the mail and head to the mall to buy Hello Kitty and DVDs of soap operas they miss.
They have boyfriends who can fuck them on every surface in the house, on the fake marble tile in the bathroom, against the kitchen island, on the tangerine-cream couches arranged around the glass coffee table. It is like fucking in a furniture store.
Parachute girls drink Pepsi for breakfast and pour spaghetti sauce over rice.
They swear at you in their language because the dirtiest words are the ones you are born with.
When asked about their parents, they look away and say their mothers are not well and their fathers are away on business.
Parachute girls are kidnapped by thugs who know how much their fathers make. They are held captive in suburban tract homes, tied up, and fed instant noodles from Styrofoam cups.
They get their pictures snapped holding the day’s Los Angeles Times and cry into the phone receiver.
Parachute girls believe once they get their degrees they’ll live at home again, when in fact they have begun to die here with their strange names in the western style.
If you liked this poem, read more by the same author in our current issue. Available through us or your local independent bookseller.
Lisa Qi Chen lives in San Francisco. E-mail: Qispoon@yahoo.com |