she must’ve been trying to teach them something about their heritage.
But then she got sick, and since her family still lives in Japan, Grandpap pretty much raised three kids all on his own.
I think that’s why Dad feels more tethered to his Italian side than his Japanese side.
Both my parents are biracial, so family gatherings have always been—as Popo calls it—chop suey. Mixed.
And it’s not that everyone doesn’t get along, because they do. On the surface, anyway. But sometimes it feels like there’s another layer that doesn’t quite fit right—like four different colors that won’t blend. And maybe that’s fine for my grandparents, who don’t necessarily have to blend, but it’s different for me. Because I’m parts of all of them.
And I wish I could feel like I was all four parts at once, instead of different parts at different times.
For the record, this is one of the reasons I hate Halloween. People get understandably upset about people dressing up like they belong in another culture, but honestly? I’ve felt like that my whole life. Like I’m pretending. Like I’m wearing a costume from someone else’s background. Like I have no real claim to all the different pieces of my family’s heritage.
Mom motions for everyone to sit down at the table, and there’s so much talking over the entire meal that I start to get a headache.
Grandpap keeps telling stories about his time in the army. Popo gushes about how tall I’m getting—even though I stopped at five foot four sometime during freshman year and haven’t grown a millimeter since. My cousins won’t stop fighting over the Nintendo 3DS they have hidden under the table. Aunty Michiko keeps trying to ask me about school, but Isabella is sitting next to her and crying about not being able to fling pieces of ravioli onto the floor, so it’s too hard to hear.
At some point Uncle Jesse makes the mistake of talking about politics, which sets Grandpap off into Ultra Nightmare mode. They spend the next thirty minutes in a heated debate about everything from taxes to gun control to paternity leave. Grandpap insists Italians are “passionate speakers,” but it really just sounds like he’s yelling from across the table.
After everyone’s had a piece of cake, Mom ushers them all into the living room to relax while I help her and Dad clear the table. Popo lingers in her chair, sipping a glass of water. Her movements are always so delicate and careful. I think it’s because she spent so many years as a dancer.
“Well, I’m officially exhausted,” Mom says, tucking her hair behind her right ear. She chopped most of it off at the beginning of the summer, and it’s still too short to tie up. She nudges me away from the kitchen sink. “Come on, it’s your birthday. Go sit with the family—your dad and I can wash the dishes after everyone goes home.”
“Technically my birthday was yesterday,” I say, but I move aside anyway.
“Always so literal,” Mom says with a smile. “Every time I look at Isabella, I remember what you were like at that age. It goes by so fast.”
“You were better at eating, though,” Dad points out almost proudly.
I try to smile, but I realize whatever I’m doing with my mouth feels mega-unnatural. I’m not good at pretending I’m happy when I’m not. Mom and Dad seem determined to act like yesterday never happened, but that’s not going to make my feelings disappear.
Orientation day will be here soon enough. How much trouble will I be in if I don’t turn up?
Dad grabs another beer. Mom pours herself a glass of wine.
I count the seconds it takes for one of them to notice me.
Mom frowns. “What is it, honey?”
“I was just—” I start. Thinking about not going to school. Thinking about chasing my dreams. Thinking about how I wish you would try to understand me.
Mom and Dad watch me like I’m a mild curiosity in a museum. And I know that look on their faces too well—the look that says, Don’t say it. Don’t disappoint us. Don’t be disrespectful.
And the sinking feeling in my gut tells me that they’re never going to listen. It doesn’t matter if I say all the right words, or fill every hole in my argument. They’re never going to agree with me because we don’t see the world the same way. We don’t see my life the same way.
I pull my lips in and shake my head like the hope in my heart