{"id":729,"date":"2011-09-25T05:29:40","date_gmt":"2011-09-25T05:29:40","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue10\/?page_id=729"},"modified":"2019-04-02T12:59:10","modified_gmt":"2019-04-02T12:59:10","slug":"chris-tse","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue9\/spoken-word\/chris-tse\/","title":{"rendered":"Chris Tse"},"content":{"rendered":"

Jobs<\/strong><\/h1>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cI hate how these immigrants come to our country and steal our jobs,\u201d<\/p>\n

He was saying to his friend<\/p>\n

Motioning to me, and Hardeep, and Eunji<\/p>\n

As if we didn\u2019t understand<\/p>\n

He steps up to my till<\/p>\n

And I wanna grab him by his greasy undone collar and throw him against the wall<\/p>\n

I want to pound his maggot bigot face into the ground<\/p>\n

Before I tell him how my father<\/p>\n

Moved to this country as a 17-year-old<\/p>\n

Fresh-faced and scrawny and yellow and immature<\/p>\n

To escape the suppression of a dictator government<\/p>\n

He worked at a Chinese restaurant during the day<\/p>\n

Burning his hands on the wok and scarring his arms in the flames before<\/p>\n

Sprinting the five blocks to Concordia University were he attended classes that he never had time to study for anyway<\/p>\n

Nighttime meant McDonalds<\/p>\n

Where he mopped the floors for petty change<\/p>\n

Before retiring to the back of a 1972 Firebird, all Pontiac power and American muscle<\/p>\n

And shiny motivation that in order for him to make it in this new nation, he would need to one day live in more than just a car with no windows<\/p>\n

Four years and so much pain later, my father graduated from university with his degree<\/p>\n

Instantly packing his bags and leaving the east for the greener grasses of BC<\/p>\n

\u201cI like the oceans here,\u201d my father one told me, \u201cbecause I feel like if I get on a boat and float, one day I\u2019ll make it back to the place where I first became, to the place where my race survives and thrives, the place that I forced my memory to erase so that I could make a new life for myself here in Canada.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd I like the mountains here,\u201d my father once told me, \u201cbecause they remind me to always keep climbing.\u201d<\/p>\n

My father\u2019s face is lined with pain<\/p>\n

His wrinkled hands bear burns and scars that scream pain but spell out desire<\/p>\n

His tired eyes belie a fire that still burns within<\/p>\n

Yearning to escape and mete revenge on the white boys in college who told him a chink would never make it<\/p>\n

His hair is gray beyond his years, a result of fears<\/p>\n

That held him jailed<\/p>\n

And tears<\/p>\n

From classes failed<\/p>\n

Yes, this is the image of a man who embodies the working immigrant<\/p>\n

Who came here with nothing to make himself something<\/p>\n

All the while giving everything he has to a country that has barely given back anything<\/p>\n

Yes, this is the image of a man who eked out a living while living in an old sports car<\/p>\n

Working hard at the jobs that offer little more than minimum wage and labour scars<\/p>\n

Taking the slow rumble of the passing trains as motivation, remind him that those<\/p>\n

Who built this nation<\/p>\n

Were Chinese, just like him<\/p>\n

The original victims of exploitation<\/p>\n

And still today, they exploit Asians<\/p>\n

Regulating, berating, and hating Asians<\/p>\n

So when that train finally slowed down and pulled into the station<\/p>\n

My father found peace, remembering those who came before him<\/p>\n

My dad\u2019s one of those old school type of immigrants<\/p>\n

The type who believes that success is still found on your knees<\/p>\n

Scrubbing the floors and clipping weeds<\/p>\n

The type of immigrant who would never scold me for tagging school busses<\/p>\n

But would beat me for skipping third period chemistry<\/p>\n

So I guess maybe now I realize why<\/p>\n

My dad never came to my basketball games<\/p>\n

Or my races or my shows<\/p>\n

Instead, he chose to sit at home reading the paper<\/p>\n

And when I walked through the door, he\u2019d simply ask,<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, how\u2019d it go?\u201d<\/p>\n

And when I brought home trophies and medals all he ever said was, \u201cWell done, son.\u201d<\/p>\n

It\u2019s the sign of a man who came from nothing into something because the one<\/p>\n

Day that I brought home a $50 bonus from Mcdonalds for being employee of the month<\/p>\n

My dad ripped that shit out of my hand faster than I could blink and said, \u201cWe\u2019re going to frame this.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about those,\u201d I said, pointing to my trophies.<\/p>\n

\u201cThose make you an athlete,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis makes you my son.\u201d<\/p>\n

This poem is for the Filipino housekeeper.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s for the Indian security guard and the Tamil construction worker.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s for the Vietnamese corner store owner and the Chinese truck driver.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s for the run-down immigrants who work shit jobs for shit pay to make sure their kids\u2019 lives are worth more than shit.<\/p>\n

This poem is for my father.<\/p>\n

This poem is for his scars.<\/p>\n

And this poem is for the man in McDonalds: I\u2019m sorry I took your job.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n