I feel like that sometimes—like something without any history. Like I don’t quite fit in.
An Italian last name, a Japanese middle name, a splatter of freckles across my nose that Mom insists are from her Irish father’s side of the family. And a Chinese grandmother whose face I’ve searched a million times for little bits of me that I was never able to find.
I’m American, but that only explains my passport. It doesn’t explain all the other pieces of me that aren’t easily labeled.
Not to mention how Chloe calling herself American and me calling myself American get very different looks from people. Sometimes it feels like if I call myself American, people will only ever follow up with, “But what are you really?”
But if I lead the conversation? If I tell them everything I am? If I point out all the pieces of my heritage to explain why I have my name, and my face, and my culture? Then people tell me I don’t get to be all these other things—I only get to be American. Like the rest of me is suddenly erased. Like my heritage isn’t important. Like all the pieces that should mean something don’t mean anything at all.
And in all honesty, I’m really tired of other people thinking they have any authority whatsoever on what I’m allowed to call myself.
Popo gives me a gentle hug and hands me a red party bag stuffed with yellow tissue paper. She has the happiest eyes of anyone I know, even though her mouth rarely breaks into a smile. The weight of the bag surprises me because it’s too heavy to be clothes.
And Popo has never bought me anything that wasn’t clothes.
Popo loops her arm around mine and leads me into the kitchen to join everyone else, so my curiosity has to take a back seat.
Bunches of blue and yellow balloons are positioned around the room, and glittery silver streamers and stars dangle from the walls. With the exception of my youngest cousins, who’ve already found a comfortable spot in front of the television, most of my family members are hovering over Mom’s Brie and honey appetizer, and the rest are digging through the beer cooler.
Mom shoves a cheese-covered cracker in her mouth and hurries across the kitchen to check the oven. The moment I set Popo’s gift on the counter, Mom’s head lifts back up like a deer sensing danger.
“Not on the counter, please. I just wiped it down,” she says with gentle-scolding eyes.
I really want to point out that this is probably the best time to put objects on the counter, being as it’s clean, but I keep my words stuffed in my brain where they belong. I still want to believe there’s a chance I can change her mind about school, and arguing with her over silly things will only hurt my cause.
“Popo is still spoiling you, I see.” Dad eyes the gift bag as I pick it back up and set it on a table in the hallway instead.
“Grandmothers are supposed to spoil their grandchildren,” Popo retorts from around the corner. When I’m back in the kitchen, her head is tilted to the side and she’s staring at Mom. “You look tired. Do you have a cold?”
Mom sighs the way I do when Mom overanalyzes everything about me. Maybe it’s a mother-daughter thing.
“No, Ma, I’m fine,” she says. “I hope you’re hungry. I made pumpkin ravioli.”
Popo walks past her and presses her cheek to Mom’s in a weird almost-hug. They’ve never been good at showing emotion with each other, even though they show so much to everyone else.
Twisting her mouth, Popo says, “You should’ve asked me to cook. I could’ve made chicken stir-fry.”
“Harley likes ravioli,” Mom says calmly. She pulls a tray of garlic bread out of the oven. “So does the rest of the family.” She means Grandpap, mostly, because he’s the only one who turns up his nose when anyone cooks anything that isn’t his own idea of “American.” We’re expected to treat Italian food like it’s totally ordinary, but if Mom ever served up ramen or Spam fried rice, it would be treated like it was something unusual. Something exotic.
I wonder sometimes if Grandpap defaulted to his own ways when Grandma died. Dad says he can’t remember very much of her since he was so young when she passed away, but since he and his siblings all have Japanese first names,