You ask me how I became a madman. It happened thus: One day, long before many gods were born, I woke from a deep sleep and found all my masks were stolen,—the seven masks I have fashioned and worn in seven lives,—I ran maskless through the crowded streets shouting, “Thieves, thieves, the cursed thieves.”

Men and women laughed at me and some ran to their houses in fear of me.

And when I reached the market place, a youth standing on a house-top cried, “He is a madman.” I looked up to behold him; the sun kissed my own naked face for the first time. For the first time the sun kissed my own naked face and my soul was inflamed with love for the sun, and I wanted my masks no more. And as if in a trance I cried, “Blessed, blessed are the thieves who stole my masks.”

Thus I became a madman.

And I have found both freedom and safety in my madness; the freedom of loneliness and the safety from being understood, for those who understand us enslave something in us.

But let me not be too proud of my safety. Even a Thief in a jail is safe from another thief.

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on December 21, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.

—From the immigration questionnaire given to Chinese entering or re-entering the U.S. during the Chinese Exclusion Act

Have you ridden in a streetcar? 
Can you describe the taste of bread? 
Where are the joss houses located in the city? 
Do Jackson Street and Dupont run 
in a circle or a line, what is the fruit 
your mother ate before she bore you, 
how many letters a year 
do you receive from your father? 
Of which material is your ancestral hall 
now built? How many water buffalo 
does your uncle own? 
Do you love him? Do you hate her? 
What kind of bird sang 
at your parents’ wedding? What are the birth dates 
for each of your cousins: did your brother die 
from starvation, work, or murder? 
Do you know the price of tea here? 
Have you ever touched a stranger’s face 
as he slept? Did it snow the year 
you first wintered in our desert?
How much weight is 
a bucket and a hammer? Which store 
is opposite your grandmother’s? 
Did you sleep with that man 
for money? Did you sleep with that man 
for love? Name the color and number 
of all your mother’s dresses. Now 
your village’s rivers. 
What diseases of the heart 
do you carry? What country do you see 
when you think of your children? 
Does your sister ever write?
In which direction does her front door face? 
How many steps did you take 
when you finally left her? 
How far did you walk 
before you looked back?

Copyright © 2020 by Paisley Rekdal. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on May 11, 2020 by the Academy of American Poets.