A Tragedy

I call this piece "A Tragedy"

Even though every artful embroidered stitch gently exhales the vivid colors of my childhood,

Colors that I now only recall when I close my eyes,

But the wistful nostalgia I inhale is stained with indignant melancholy.

For "our people's tragedy," as daddy reproachfully mused through so many of his sorrowful poems.

For the pennies that this artist was compensated 

For the hours that she spent sewing the essence of her motherland's soul together, stitch-by-stitch

For the countless times her weathered hands have been pricked, bloodied by her paintbrush

Over dimly-lit kerosene lamps in the impoverished village of Phú Xuyên

Only for her ingenuity to be undermined

By the economics bullies who knew her bargaining power is that of a fraction of her illuminating brilliance.

When I was 11, I learned from across the globe that my childhood friend's mother's lifeless body was found

Slumped over her sewing table, a dimly-lit kerosene lamp mourned beside her frail, petite frame

Her delicate hands were tightly clutching on to the unfinished embroidered fabric

That she was hastening to complete, so she could trade it for pennies, so she could feed her family.

They said her overworked heart gave out.

Her time was worth pennies.

Her life was worth pennies.

Who has the authority to dictate that one artist's creation is worth a luxurious wage, while another artist's is worth less than a cup of coffee?

The ONLY difference lies in the latitude and longitude of their birthplace?

How do we fix this?

How do I fix this?

Fix this....