Narmadhaa Sivaraja
Stinky Tofu
I remember the first time my mother made stinky tofu.
The smell made me want to run away
And dye my hair blonde and change my name
To something that brought sandwiches in a brown bag for lunch
And didn’t cook cucumbers or put tomatoes in eggs.
I was afraid the tofu would make me repugnant too
(You are what you eat, right?).
My mother said I had to try some
Or be sent to my room alone with no dinner at all.
So I held my breath to avoid
The smell of fermentation
And the burn in my nostrils from the peppers.
I couldn’t tell if the salty taste
Was the sauce or my tears.
Afterwards I shoveled a bunch of rice into my mouth,
Hoping I’d grow to be more warm and soft and white.
Instead, I was the same yellow-brown hue as the tofu,
Which one day became desirable.
I still held my breath—
And now I held my tongue,
As my cuisine and culture were explained to me.
I welcomed the burn of whiskey shots
And shoveled more rice into my mouth
Until the fortune cookie came out.
I went home alone
But didn’t cry about that anymore
Because as I gained wrinkles,
Like the tofu when it was cooked,
My skin also became tough.
Jennifer Elise Wang (she/they) is a research assistant from Dallas, Texas who spends her time outside of the lab writing poetry, dancing, and learning to skateboard and snowboard. She has been published in Jerseyworks, R2 Rice Review, The Gunpowder Review, and New Verse News. She can be found at http://www.facebook.com/jeniversewritings/.
Narmadhaa Sivaraja is a nature and haiku fanatic who draws inspiration from photographs. See more of her work on The Chaos Within.