Uống nước nhớ nguồn
Remember the source when drinking water
—Vietnamese Proverb
My name is a hand-me-down of my mother’s middle name.
Her tongue pushes the “T” to the forefront, the sharpness
of the “tuh” sound at the very tip of her tongue, like a shove
on my shoulder, lashing me to put it on already,
make her proud, already.
But what happens when I’m not strong enough to carry
its weight, my head hanging? At the fancy American
restaurant, the old White man calls me unprofessional, suggests
I call myself Tina, like that successful writer, Tina
something or other—
Society has the ears, the mouth
to shape the name Tina
but its hands point to my rags.
“THIGH,” it jeers, laughs at the ill
fit that frames my bent spine.
My mouth goes dry, a thirst beating my throat.
The salt from my eyes carves a crooked
line to my lips—like the path to shore Mom found,
when her boat crossed rough seas—
reminds me I was made to swim.
Her hand-me-down wraps me, skin.
I straighten my back. His hollow eyes
widen as they catch the sting of my voice:
“Call me the name my parents gave me,
THI.”
Thi Nguyen is a poet, California native, born from Vietnamese refugees in San Jose, currently living in Los Angeles. She received her MFA in creative writing with a focus on poetry from the University of New Orleans (UNO). Her poems have been recognized with Honorable Mention for the Vassar Miller Poetry Prize and the Academy of American Poets Award in 2024.