She thought of her father’s stories of Mississippi, of her mother’s escape from Saigon. She thought of how neither of those places would claim her fully—and how she didn’t need them to. The Black Valley was a patchwork. And she, Honey Gold, was the thread that held it together.
“You see?” the old woman whispered. “The Valley’s yours too. Always was.” -BlackValleyGirls- Honey Gold - Blasians Like I...
But being just anything was impossible when you were Blasian in the Black Valley. The older women would cup her face and say, “Pretty, but she got that look—not quite ours.” The Vietnamese aunties at the nail salon would whisper in rapid-fire Cantonese: Too tall, too loud, too Black. Honey learned early that belonging was a language she’d have to invent herself. She thought of her father’s stories of Mississippi,
Blasians like I—we don’t say goodbye We take both worlds and we multiply And she, Honey Gold, was the thread that held it together
“What’s it called, baby?”
Blasians like I. We don’t fit in boxes. We build our own houses.