CHÀO BÀ CỐ CON ĐI VỀ
(AND OTHER THINGS I CAN'T SEEM TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO SAY)

What severed the ties that could have bound my family together?  I lose myself in alternate realities, fantasies of a reality, a different reality, where I would have felt guided and seen, tethered to something safe.  My work calls to ancestors I feel unsure of, lost in whether to call to blood or to home.  

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My most recent work, chào bà cố con đi về (and other things I can't seem to figure out how to say), was a grand gesture to prove my dedication.  In this piece, I beg my ancestors, specifically my great grandmother, to see that I’m trying, and that I need her— all of them— but the gesture feels empty.  The ceramic offerings, frozen in time, are heavy and inedible, the incense unburnable.  A 10 foot table is patched underneath with scrap wood, and sugar packets level the table’s legs.  The surface feels secure, yet I hold my breath wondering if I’ve built something stable, or if it will all fall apart.