Marianne Chan
You are dreaming of a brown Christmas
with people who have never trusted

snow. Christmas begins on the guitar,
and ends on the windowsill

where your uncles
in your father’s hand-me-down T-shirts

lean on their elbows until early morning.
Here, the windows have no glass,

protect no secrets. This year, you ask
Santa Claus for an alarm clock

to keep you awake because you don’t
want to shut your eyes

to the stringed lights on the banana leaves,
the paper lanterns dangling from houses,

Fall on your knees, oh hear
Perhaps Santa is your drunken uncle

imparting wisdom, beating his neighbors
at chess, eating miniature green bananas,

lounging on reclining lawn furniture
with his open shirt, in his wide open

living room, yelling for his children—who
are older than you but smaller—to come

inside and eat. Or, Santa is your
mother who arrived on the islands

from a German America in the middle
of the night holding her groggy children

(you) in her arms, making an entrance
with luggage filled with canned goods

and underwear. To the balikbayan,
loneliness is given in return. A desire to leave

after remembering the melancholic taste
of ripe lansones on the lips, how

your grandfather died before he met snow,
and how your grandmother lost

her legs to disease. Fall on your knees, oh hear
the heart quiver on the stringed instruments.

Still her ghost lingers, her legs reattached
by death. On these islands, white Christmas

is a play on words. Santa exists in theory.
But the dead exist in practice.

On the dining table, leave mangos for the dead,
rice, a plate of chocolate. Then, when all

is quiet, listen for footsteps on the roof
of their house, and do not shut your eyes.
from the book ALL HEATHENS / Sarabande Books
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"As a child, I remember trying to understand the differences between Germany, the U.S., and the Philippines. In this poem, I explore what it was like to spend Christmas in the Philippines. In writing this, I wanted to capture that confusion and the feeling of being in this home country during the holidays, how even as a child I wanted to make sense of these disparate worlds."

Marianne Chan on "December 1998" 
Cover of Hai-Dang Phan's debut collection, Reenactments: Poems and Translations
"On Hai-Dang Phan's Reenactments: Poems and Translations"

"In his debut poetry collection, Reenactments: Poems and Translations, Phan, the son of Vietnamese refugees, confronts his inheritance of Vietnam War history as a 1.5-generation Vietnamese American. Phan’s collection centers on the concept of reenactment—a recreated experience, a repeated performance, a translated act."
 
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