The Wal-Mart cashier stares at my license, my face,
my license again, doesn’t believe that’s me
in the picture, eyes slanted because I smiled
too much, showed my teeth to the DMV. You look
white in real life, she says and inspects the photo
a few more times at different angles, intervals,
degrees of light. Oriental, she says, tapping
one long fake nail on her proof. She names me
the way we all must name the things we fear,
like she’s picked me from a line-up, found me
hiding in plain sight. At first, I want to apologize,
offer an explanation, blame it on my mother
or my father, tell her about dominant and recessive
traits, my brother’s coarse hair, my sister’s eyes,
my round face. We can’t help what we inherit—
the drunk at a party who thought it was safe
to pull his eyelids back and mock a Chinese taxi driver,
an ex who laughed when I wanted a bicycle
and asked if I’d be making deliveries, the Japanese
boss who frowned and shook her head
when I tried to commiserate. Our ability
to hold both sides in our skin makes no sense
to them, to this woman who repeats oriental
for emphasis after I’ve said I’m half-Korean,
as if I’m mistaken about which way the sun rises
or which direction I face, as if she’s sure
when she takes my check, I’ll go out to the parking lot,
untie my dragon, and fly away, due east.