I live in the Hutongs of Beijing 

But I don’t actually. I actually live in Rose and Ginkgo Compound, Unit 91. 
But the Hutongs are where my soul lives– 
Home to many generations of people and their stories,
Where the crevices painted on the brick walls grow and extend 
Like a spider building a web, 
Or a family building a tree. 

I see in the Hutongs of Beijing 

Vines that extend their arms to cover the brick walls,
Like a green paintbrush adding life to a brown canvas. 
Like sprinkles of new to a loop of old 
And young beats to an ancient hymn.
Like my ancestors’ roots, stemming into my parents 
And from my parents, then to me. 

I feel in the Hutongs of Beijing 

The twists and turns of the narrow roads  
The never ending path that never led me home. 
I feel the stray cats and the dead ends 
The occasional grandpa who tries to sell kids handmade kites,
And the tipped-over flower pot 
on the side of the road. 

I question in the Hutongs of Beijing 

Walking through the maze,
Our elders remind us of our history.  
How the revolution molded their young minds and bodies, 
And how chalk turned rectangular, wooden tables into makeshift piano keys. 

I struggle in the Hutongs of Beijing

With my lucky Chinese-ness. 
How food and water and knowledge and everything privileged makes our Chinese life so lucky it makes us never-tasted-pain kids us never-went-through-struggle kids us lucky-to-not-be-hungry kids us kids who have what we have because our parents and the parents that came before them suffered
It makes us look at the Hutongs and think about the twists and turns of the path, how it resembles our life story 
It makes us impossible, like flowers growing out of a barren wall. 

I wonder in the Hutongs of Beijing 

If something is wrong 
If the grape trellises on the vines aren’t getting enough rain,
Or if the kite man’s hands are blistered from sewing. 
I wonder what my purpose is, 
What if everything is wrong? 
And then I remind myself,
What if everything is right? 

I love in the Hutongs of Beijing 

The way that my heritage flows through my veins  
Like how the vines on the wall twist and tangle all while still connected to each other
How my ancestors planted a seed into my chest,
And how the seed will grow to form their own vines on the wall of my heart. 
I love how I live see feel question struggle and wonder 
Who I am 
In the Hutongs of Beijing.