Name: The Language We Were Never Taught to Speak
ISBN: 9781771835879

Grace Lau

This collection of poetry explores an immigrant woman's lived experiences, from coming out to a deeply religious mother, to idolizing the "bad boy" of the NBA, to understanding how to relate to her ever-changing Chinese-Canadian identity. A meditation on family, food, and falling in love, The Language We Were Never Taught to Speak reveals how the stories of immigrants in Canada contain both universal truths and singular nuances.

The Language We Were Never Taught to Speak

Frida Kahlo

I received an eARC copy from Guernica Editions via NetGalley in exchange for an honest review.

Actual rating 3.5 

A beautiful poetry collection that touches upon various sensitive topics immigrants face when moving abroad. We see different elements of the troubles each immigrant faces: shame, misunderstanding, expectations, rejection. Adding queerness, religion, and race to this mixture produced a very moving autobiographical poetic memoir. All of this accentuates the powerful and emotional expressiveness we notice between the lines in this collection. 

The writing is exquisite, placing the words at the right spot, expressing the complexity of the feelings and emotions that resulted from great sacrifices. 


  The Next Time You Scold My Body

Nothing
and nobody has fought for me
like my body has, against stomach flus and rulers, 
the honesty
of open palms, 
my body, my protector, 

my body, faultless
witness to nightweeps
and skinned knees, secrets
hidden between sleep's sheets.

My body remembers 
every war
fought on the too-dark fields
of my skin, every
little death.

My body, 
truthful 		 loyal
insistent upon my existance, 
howling light.
I am here. 

My Grief is a Winter
.
.
.
In Chinese, sadness is a wounded heart. I wish grief
	 would visit
my liver instead. I should love myself
more. I should drink less. 
My lover tells me to love 
myself more. My mother tells me to love God
more than this, 
but love has always been the mother
of my grief.
.
.
.

Red Lips

Tell me a secret 
your lips keep

in these sweet and sticky
sunset streets. I've come

to you in solitude, ungodly
nostalgia, ultra

drunk on your Holywood smile, 
your starlet nights. I came to see

what the fallen look like
under the Melrose lights.

I found them dancing
on The Abbey's tables, 

I've seen them in Venice
handing out CDs and divinities

that would make God jealous.
Does heaven ever feel lonely?

Oh won't you tell me
the secrets these red lips keep — 


However, not all the poems felt as powerful. Some of them gave me a misplaced feeling, like an odd disjoined family member. Some of the verses were difficult to understand and, even after reading them a few times, I still did not connect with the words nor felt the emotions or had the understanding I ought to. 

Praise to the beautiful cover! It somehow encapsulates the homesickness and nostalgia with new worlds, people, new challenges and misunderstandings. In combination with this poetry collection's title, it speaks volumes.

Stephanie Midolo

Overall, this collection was nice. Nothing particularly stood out to me and the language wasn't especially poetic. I enjoyed the intertwining languages in some poems, but several pieces seemed disjoined.

The Language We Were Never Taught to Speak

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