“When I told my parents I started meditating, they were kind of horrified. It was pretty adorable, actually. They’re Christian. As if it weren’t bad enough that I’m a scientist.”
“What kind of Christian?” I ask.
Gram is Catholic, but she believes in evolution—because she’s a rational human being—and she advises Nate on which celebrity men she would prefer as grandsons-in-law, because she understands that he was born the way he is and that there is nothing wrong with him. Simple biology. Science and faith, as Dad said, do not have to be mortal enemies. But sometimes they are.
He frowns. “They protest at abortion clinics.”
“Oh, wow.”
“Yeah. Meditation helps with … that.” He rolls his eyes. “My ancestors were Shinto. I think I’m the only Buddhist in my family’s history on either side. Isn’t it funny? I’m third-generation, but still. My grandparents immigrate to America, and I wind up on the cushion.”
“That must be really great, though,” I say. “Knowing about your family’s history. Where you came from.” I take a sip of my coffee. “I’m adopted, so…”
“You don’t know anything?”
“I could take a DNA test, of course, but I don’t want my birth family to track me down. Once you take the test, that information is out there, even if you check the privacy box. Who knows if it’s actually secure? This girl I know found her birth mother that way, and I … don’t want that. Maybe I’ll do it someday, but right now, I’m not sure what the benefit of knowing my ethnic makeup would be. It wouldn’t change anything. Or mean anything. The stories and culture I grew up with, that’s what feels real to me. My mom—my mom mom—is, was, Greek American. My yia-yia and pappoús immigrated to America after World War Two on this creaky ship. Went through Ellis Island. My dad’s family came on the Mayflower, if you can believe it.”
“Boston’s so weird.”
“Right?”
“So are you into Greek culture and stuff?”
“Yes. I love it. It’s strange, though. Ever since my parents died, all of this has been—it’s been bothering me.”
Ben leans his elbows on the counter, and, I must admit, I like this decreased radius of separation.
“How so?” he asks.
“I grew up being told I’m a Karalis woman, and we went to Greece and everyone treated me like I’m one of them and I can make avgolemono … I grew up with it all; it’s my family’s culture, so I think it’s mine, too, but I don’t know—is that appropriation? It’s all very … confusing. And I don’t like being confused. I wish there were some way to determine the right answer.”
“An identity formula?”
“Yes. EXACTLY.”
I grip my cup. The words are spilling out of me, and I can’t stop them because there is something else about my parents being gone that has been bothering me, something I haven’t even been able to tell myself.
“Everyone’s talking about race and culture all the time,” I say. “Owning what you are, who you are. Shouting it from the rooftops. More and more, it’s all about your heritage. But what does that mean for someone like me? I love avgolemono. And My Big Fat Greek Wedding. And, even though I don’t believe in it, I really liked all the evil eyes my yia-yia hung around the house. And I want them to be mine—my culture, a part of me. But they’re not. The problem is, if I got a DNA test and found out I was Norwegian or something, I wouldn’t be that, either. Because blood isn’t culture. I don’t have any connection to Norway at all!”
“You’re American. That’s a culture.” He smiles. “Playing devil’s advocate, by the way. I get what you mean.”
“No, you’re right. I am American. But. American culture is immigrant culture. Everyone has these culturally identifiable last names. These stories about ancestors immigrating. Family recipes and language and all that. Everyone! Only Native Americans don’t have immigration stories, but they have their own stories. Migration stories, obviously. They have tribes. My dad’s family loves talking about the Mayflower and showing us graves in the old cemeteries here—we have Revolutionary War soldiers in the family, Civil War soldiers. There’s this line—of people and stories—that connects everyone in the Winters and Karalis families, and I don’t have any of that.”
“But you do,” he says. “Having Puritan weirdo ancestors and Greek grandparents who came over after World War Two is your family’s story. And you’re part of your family. Ergo, I think all that stuff is yours. Those are your