I am ramen noodles. 

Multiple varieties, Well Loved, Slightly Sweet, 

And Distinctly asian. 

It runs through my veins.

The spice, tenacity,

the determination of my culture runs through my veins.

But, like flavor packets I transform with liquid

And after a while spice is eased, enjoyed, forgotten 

There is a time where ramen is no longer me. 

A time where being oblivious is a small price to pay for the American dream.

When you’re working, providing nobody has time to make ramen.

Nobody has time for 6 hour broths, hand pulled noodles, and dry aged eggs. 

No one has time for their culture.

So instant ramen becomes the norm.

Instant ramen becomes the substitute. 

It becomes me.

After the spice is forgotten, tolerated 

I only knew what I should like. 

“You are what you think”

“You are what you produce”

“You are what you eat”

And I tried. 

I tried to fit in. 

I tried to understand. 

Why could I not be what I ate?

To be the ramen that was expected of me 

The one that you can pick up anywhere 

The accepted version, the white version 

I determined my blood through the flavorless broth of ramen 

I determined my blood through white tastes. 

While my friends grew up eating pasta,

Ramen was my home. 

While my friends spoke their language,

Ramen was my connection 

While my friends knew of their heritage

Ramen was me, chasing the spice that was lost.