To JK Rowling, from Cho Chang.

When you put me in your books, 
millions of Asian girls across America rejoice:

Finally! A potential Halloween costume 
that wan't a geisha or Mulan.

I mean, what's not to love about me?

I'm everybody's favourite character!

I totally get to fight tons of death-eaters

and have a great sense of humour,

and am full of complex emotions.

Oh wait! That's the version of Harry Potter 
where I'm not fucking worthless.

First of all, you put me in Ravenclaw.

Of course the only Asian at Hogwarts' 
would be put in the nerdy house.

Too bad you didn't have a house that specialized in computers and math and karate, huh?

I know, you thought you were being tolerant.

Between me, Dean, and the Indian twins

Hogwarts' has like five brown people.

It doesn't matter we're all minor characters!

Nah, you're not racist!

Just like how you're not homophobic 
cause Dumbledore is totally gay.

Of course it's not mentioned in the books,

but man, hasn't society come so far?

Now gays don't just have to be closeted in real life,

they can even be closeted fictionally!!!!

Ms Rowling, let's talk about my name.

Cho Chang.

Cho and Chang are both last names.

They are both Korean last names.

I'm supposed to be Chinese.

Being named Cho Chang,

is like a Frenchman being named Garcia Sanchez.

So [* loud crowd cheers* ] thank you for giving me no heritage,

thank you for giving me a name as generic as a ninja costume,

as chopstick hair ornaments, Ms Rowling,

I'm either just the latest participant in a long tradition 
of turning Asian women into a tragic fetish

Madame Butterfly: Japanese woman falls in love with a white soldier,

is abandoned,

kills herself.

Miss Saigon: Vietnamese woman falls in love with a white soldier,

is abandoned,

kills herself.

Memoirs of a Geisha:

Lucy Liu in another schoolgirl porn,

so let me cry over boys more than I speak.

Let me fulfil your diversity quota.

Just one more brown girl boarding(?) her white hero,

no wonder Harry Potter's got yellow fever:

we giggle behind small hands, and no speak engrish, what else could a man see in me?

What else could I be but what you make me?

Subordinate, submissive, sub plot, go ahead,

tell me I'm over reacting.

Ignore the fact that your books have sold over 400 million copies worldwide.

I am plastered across movie screens, a best selling caricature.

Last summer,

I met a boy who spoke like rain against windows.

He had his father's blue eyes.

He pressed his wrist against mine and saying he was too pale,

that my skin was so much more beautiful to him,

I was Pacific sunset, almond milk, a porcelain cup.

When he left me I told myself I should have seen it coming.

I wasn't sure I was sad, but I cried anyway.

Girls who look like me are supposed to cry 
over boys who look like him.

I'd seen all the movies, and read all the books.

We were just following the plot.

[* crowd cheers...* ]