"The first time you came to my poetry reading. After, while to room stood and clapped, I walked back to my seat beside you. You clutched my hand, your eyes red and wet, and said, I never thought I'd live to see so many old white people clapping for my son. I didn't understand until, weeks later, I visited you at the nail salon and watched as you knelt, head bent, washing the feet of one old white woman after another" (Vuong 4).