Float
Andrea Abreu
I was born kicking in the water.
Kicking.
Kicking.
Kicking in the water.
Some kids grew up with security
This confidence they’d thrive in a world of obscurity
They got these gifts…;
Money, safety, surety,
prosperity, authority, jewellery
Things other kids begged for when they were only tossed scraps;
Backslaps, mishaps, handicaps
Scrappy kids at the feet of skyscrapers, scraping by in the scrap-heaps of day traders
I realised very early on I wanted silk sheets and chiffon
Things I couldn’t afford with just a simple coupon.
See, I wasn’t born winning
That’s why, people like us, we were born swimming.
Swimming.
Swimming.
Swimming in the water.
I know, I should be grateful
Perhaps I wasn’t spoonfed but I ate a spoonful
Other kids never got a plateful
And yet somehow I’m still hateful
Because I’d been swallowing up lungful after lungful,
Drowning in an unforgiving cesspool
It’s wave after wave of torrential rain
Floating on your back like a sinking aeroplane
If you ask the sky in the middle of a hurricane
Will it tell you why you're lagging in the food chain?
This ocean only gives you two options
Phrased like a condition, posed like instructions.
Sink or Swim?
Choose your specialisation.
So I wonder, is this my inheritance?
Am I an heiress only to pain and pointless resilience?
With only one choice for self-defence;
Kick.
Kick.
Kick.
Don’t stop kicking when you’re sinking in the water.
There are webs between my fingers.
A struggle in me that lingers.
A remnant of the years and years of
Wading
Wading
Wading through the water.
I got these hands from my father.
He was raised to wait on others
He found a job across the sea
To feed his family
His hands are rough like his dad’s
A sailor under the world’s commands
He did his time, riding the tides
His mailbox, on a hundred docksides
This is the day I learnt that just living comes with sacrifice
Hearing my history, over a lesson on how to cook fried rice
I cut up garlic
To stories and family trees,
His voice cathartic
He tells me I’m one eighth Chinese
I'm a descendant of a paradise
That was sold at market price
Now we return home as strangers
While our people work for our ‘saviours
A bargain
A steal
A win
A loss to the island’s true lover
Day by day we slave away
While they visit our home on a getaway
My hands are rough
And my father’s much rougher
He works for people with palms are much softer
I get these gills from my mother
She’s learnt to breathe in the dark blue under
A hunter. A terror. A true, new wonder
She shares her treasure chests
Works day and night, and never rests
I get my drive from her
An inherent desire
She gives me reason to pass my tests
She’s why I can never settle for second best
Swimming was something I grew to knew
Winning was something I learnt in the womb
But I grew to detest this
After I tried to suggest this;
To float
To lie
To ignore the tide
A chance to rest, to shut my eyes
Otherwise, It was a quality I hadn’t asked for.
An instinct I abhor
To keep my head above water
But lowered to the floor
It’s like having your head dunked under water
And loving the person who pulls you up after
They can be a life raft to latch onto, but liable to to tip over
A floatie with holes in it, a rope that gets caught behind a rudder
Sink or swim?
What cruel options in turbulent winds
Swimming is rough and tough and insistent
It’s hard when I’m tired and I can’t make the distance
I was born kicking,
lived by swimming,
and will die unremitting
A life-long habit to paddle and hope for shore
And pray for wings so I don’t have to swim anymore
My head is fuzzy and my body is sore
And all I know is, I don’t want to swim anymore
But there’s pride in my stride
I’ve gotten this far
I know there’s an upside
To life, so bizarre
As I lay floating in inky waters, surrounded by stars
I think not of the chasm beneath but of future memoirs
When I leave my legacy What will they think of me?
What do I leave behind if not a generational anxiety?
Houses, apartments, maybe a few cars?
Poverty, loss, and psychological scars?
Or hope and dignity and trying so hard?
They told me
You should be grateful, others have it harder
And I resented those words for years and years after
But my legs are strong and my heart is harder
From living a life away from harbour
There’s things to see and so much laughter
A life I’d miss had I stopped swimming in the hereafter.
Andrea Abreu
Andrea Abreu is an emerging writer at Macquarie University who avidly enjoys being creative across a variety of mediums. She grew up drawing and painting which solidified her love of bringing stories to life.
