"Does it speak Swedish?" a blonde haired boy asks, pointing at 5-year-old me, a dainty beast with ebony colored curls, thick rose lips, and skin one shade darker than cappuccino.
"I do," I respond in a whisper, credulously smiling. The boy walks right past me, head turned up in hoarse laughter.
Growing up in northern Sweden, my two siblings and I were often "its." Although we knew no other culture, we couldn't be Swedish because we looked nothing like our Swedish peers. We were, as my childhood friend Julia put it, "Negroes," and it took me about six years to fully comprehend this. Upon realizing that I looked different, a lion prancing around the Scandinavian Savannah amongst bears. I went to the source of the affair for further questioning, my blonde haired mamma , and buried my head in her lap while revealing my suspicions in a loud cry:
"I know you're not my real mamma, you look nothing like me. Take me back to America where I belong, take me back to my real mamma." Every word slapped the air like hands patting a djembe drum. My bewildered 6-year-old self accused her of kidnapping me, and threatened to call the police if she didn't return me this instant. I wailed in fury that I yearned to be someone, not an "it." Mamma sighed; tears fell from her unblinking eyes as she elucidated that being different will make me a stronger person, "you're a cappuccino colored babe because daddy's Afro-American and mamma's Caucasian." Her words hung thick mid-air, making no palpable sense whatsoever.
* * *
At the age of 13, my mamma told me she was pregnant with a petite baby-boy. He was half-Turkish and to be named "Ata."
"He won't be my real brother, you know," I hissed through the palms of my hands; a statement which I had planned on sticking to forever, but as soon as Ata was born-as frail as a bird with eyes the oceanic color they have before they get a color-I just couldn't. I had to keep an eye on him so that he wouldn't break, or whatever it is unattended babies do. Just in case.
His blonde head now rests on my 18-year-old back while we lay on the living room floor watching cartoons. "Now why would they disregard the kitten just because it's a kitten? They're dogs, and they obviously have an organized crime mob," I say, pointing at the TV and plot hole. Ata bursts out in childish snickers, punching me playfully in the face. I kiss his plump cheeks in response.
It took me a while to understand that belonging isn't determined by eye-catching genetics. Mamma says I ceased to be an "it" the day I got bumped up a grade due to my intellectual promise and found my place amongst other ambitious children. I say it occurred the day I realized that my mamma and siblings are mine, like the way the moon and night sky belong to one another.
This is such a beautiful piece.
I was just a little confused by this part:
"He won't be my real brother, you know," I hissed through the palms of my hands; a statement which I had planned on sticking to forever, but as soon as Ata was born-as frail as a bird with eyes the oceanic color they have before they get a color-I just couldn't.
Maybe instead of statement change it to idea/ideal?
