I spent my childhood, unassuming. The activities in which I participated began as a means of escape from living in a strict household; though, I found hard-worn walls melt from genuine kindness and friendship. I was taught to give others the benefit of the doubt, that a smile could open a hundred doors. These helping hands encourage me to seek a thrill beyond the pages of a book and a quiet, sheltered nook. I was invigorated by youth; I was made invincible by our glittering eyes. I traded walls I saw as prison bars for the open hills of thudding feet, trekking step after step. The miles collided into each other; sometimes, I could not discern the beginning from the end. I reveled in the wide air, encompassing the entirety of me. The world was not as small as I once thought. I started my race as usual, softly humming and mind wandering. I traced the backs and shoulders of my fellow competitors; I chuckled, carefully, at my cheering comrades. Breaths were to be used sparingly. I wore my number with pride, pinned above my belly to be adorned across my bedroom wall once we made our bus ride home. I did not notice her; I was dreaming loudly at the sky, counting each bird. Her mouth moved as though she were vomiting instead, and not speaking, and I saw that her fingers were aimed at my head. Her child was ahead of me, a comrade; but, she released her wrist, trigger finger bled. Her words painted red: “beat that ching-chong!” I can no longer remember if her daughter reacted; in me, a fire ignited. With as much right as anyone else born upon this soil, I dug my heels into the dirt and with the grace of the goddesses, the wind herself pulled me forward. This home is my home, too. I closed my eyes and chanted rhymes told in elementary school, “this land is my land, this land is your land,” hoping to deafen her bile from my mind. Words are naught to be said on the track; but, actions could blare beyond the stadium, over students’ heads, defying loudspeakers. Intolerance is unacceptable; we are taught to love and respect each other. My knees wobbled, ankles about to buckle; but a lesson needed to be learned. My chin leaning forward, head past my thighs, and my back at a slant with crooked arms; the wind could only guide me so far. I did not aim to win, but if I could only extend my limbs farther enough across the field; my fingers leading me on; my breaths, guttural, erupting from the pit of my stomach— Arms up, finish line crossed, but I hear no words. A teacher places a medal upon me, its weight against my chest. I turn. I see the same mother berating her daughter. I nod condolences and forgiveness toward the daughter; I understand the difficulty of a rigid, expecting home. But, they are far behind me, and she with a bare neck.
This land is my land, too.
Keana Labra was born and raised in Bay Area, California. Knowing the importance of representation, she would like her work to be evidence that Filipino Americans are also present in the literary and art world. She uses her experiences as reference for her poetry.