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, 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 is splitting down the middle. “It’s nothing. I was just thinking about the new set list, that’s all.”
Mom’s shoulders relax. “I think you’re going to really love it. Rehearsals start next Wednesday, if you want to watch.”
I force a weak, flimsy smile.
Dad holds up his beer bottle. “Speaking of which, I’m sorry to disappear, but I’ve got work to do.” He kisses Mom on the cheek and nods toward me and Popo. “I’ve got about a thousand photocopies to make of all the new sheet music, and if I don’t start now, I’ll be up until three a.m.”
He vanishes back into the hallway like he was hardly here at all. Mom motions toward the living room. “Are you coming?”
I’m trying so hard not to cry, that Popo’s hand on my wrist makes me jump.
“We’ll be there in a minute. I want to talk with Harley first,” she says with the raspy, adoring voice I’m so fond of.
When Mom’s gone, Popo pats my arm. “Why don’t you go and get the present I brought you?”
The bag is still in the hallway, and when I get back, Popo is looking out the window like she’s remembering something from a long time ago.
I sit down next to her, and when Popo nods at me, I pull the contents out onto the table.
It’s a rectangular photo album, covered in bright red leather with gold flowers embroidered along the edges. In the center are some characters I’m not familiar with, but I am pretty sure are hànzì.
I run my finger along the metallic words. “What does this say?”
Popo’s eyes are fixed on me. “It’s our family name. Soong. From Taipo’s side of the family.”
Our family name. Like Popo thinks I have just as much of a right to the name as she does.
I turn the cover and find an old black-and-white photograph on the first page. It’s of a little girl wearing a short dress with her hair in a blunt, straight cut. She’s frowning at the camera like the sun was too bright, and there’s a woman standing behind her with her hands on the girl’s shoulders.
“This is my mother, Chin Choy. Your taipo.” She points to the little girl—a great-grandmother I’ve never seen before. Popo looks at the photo with heavy creases beside her eyes and points to the woman next. “And my popo.”
Curiosity sweeps over me. “Were you close?”
Popo doesn’t take her eyes away from the ghosts of her past. “She worked very hard, especially when my mother was younger. She was born in China, and her family was very wealthy. But then the war happened….” Her voice trails off, and she lets out a sigh. Popo doesn’t like to dwell on the negatives of the past, even when they’re from someone else’s past. “She took a boat all the way to Hawaii and married when she was only sixteen. She worked at a factory and would send all her money back to the housekeeper in China, but she found out many months later that the Communists had been living in her family’s home. They would give the letters to the housekeeper but keep all the money that was inside. After she found that out, she never wanted to go back to China. I know she missed home—but I know she loved Hawaii, too.”