With one big chop of the butcher knife, I split the coconut right in the middle, the milk spilling onto the concrete. One two three pause one two three pause, I brush the white innards against the sharp teeth, at each pause, turning the coconut countercl
ockwise, forming a cone of white flakes on the pan below. And when I see that I have won, I clack the light shells above my head, my brown soul stretching, ascending. In college ten years ago, as the elevator carried us toward t
he second floor, I saw two students stiffen their shoulders and shuffle their feet. Then the whisper: "Asian nigger." I felt the lights slowly burning through my skin, turning my body white or baking my skin black until I could no longer recognize myse
lf. And I just stood there -- with a stupid smile on my face. But now, I rub this rough brown shell against my lips. I split these last coconuts to drink their sweet juice on ice. And I listen for the sound of flesh against steel.