Office in a Small City, and: Postpartum vinegar-making, and: The Colour of Race
Rent from DeepDyve- Office in a Small City, and: Postpartum vinegar-making, and: The Colour of Race
Office in a Small City
after Hopper
And for one last time todayhe will clear his in-tray,
tidy up his desk,put all the pens back
to the right places.He compiles the spreadsheets
into a neat file for tomorrow's briefing,sales figures to justify his life with.
Those little white liesyou need just to survive.
The window cleaners are wiping cleanthe mirror surface of the building
from the outside, poorly paid spidermenin their acts, and he tries to sit back
and take in this view he's ended up with,so carefully built year after year
in this small city, small enoughto dream and wallow in. [End Page 27]
Postpartum vinegar-making
Elephantine in the ninth month,I'm the butcher's wife from Ming dynastyhunting for fresh pig trottersin the local Morrisons
instead of chilling out in Starbuckswith other nct yummy mummies.I'm busy preparing my ginger recipe:one portion sweet, two portions sour.
Make it not too early nor too late.In my house spiced with memoriesI indulge in my tribal ways. And I'm singingto my baby in the womb the classic tune
hong gai dan, ju geuk geung bat chun tim cho fen oi heeeeuuuunnng!
Black and sweet, strongly flavoured,reboil it each day as birth draws near.The perfect soup to nourish the female body.Add in the eggs when the baby appears.
Let the trotters immerse and absorbthe ginger in the claypot.Let the succulent soup bring mea buddha-faced baby on the luckiest date.
Baby daughter, get ready for England! [End Page 28]
The Colour of Race
It bothers me, this feeling of trespassingplaces, taking certain bus routesfrom Walthamstow, from Elephant and Castle:
Their colourful clothes, their dreadlocks,the curiosity in that young boy's stare,and when they smile, their white teeth …
I catch one white woman saying to another,'I wouldn't like my children growing up herebecause it is so … multicultural.'
What makes her look away, why does she tremble?Who are those in parka jackets, waiting in the darknessfor the first bus in Hounslow, in Tooting, in Oval?
Baristas. Cleaners. Grocers. Bus drivers.Lives measured in shifts and toilet breaks,happiness in the annual leave they take.
What about that man in the localchicken shop? He's been frying drumsticksfor years and years. Does he ever speak?
I know who that Chinese girl is outsideCanary Wharf station, handing leafletsto passersby, on a weekend, for a few quid.
She studies management by dayand in the evening, swipes meats and fruitsat the counter, but she'd stoop for any [End Page 29]
job in this country, if she can stay.Why does the Uber driver tell mehis story? He works seven days a week,
has never been to a theatre.In Pakistan, his father is dying.He's saving every penny for his children
So they can be somebody, he smiles.But the cab passes slowly through the streetsin Chelsea, disappears into the traffic. [End Page 30]
Jennifer Wong was born and grew up in Hong Kong. She is the author of Goldfish (Chameleon Press). She studied English at Oxford and completed an MA in creative writing at the University of East Anglia. She earned a PhD in creative writing from Oxford Brookes University. She teaches creative writing at Oxford Brookes, City Lit, and Poetry School.
