Mom is German. Fourth generation in the United States. Her family immigrated to the states after World War II when it wasn’t a proud time to be German. The way she explains it, her great-grandparents were desperate to fit in and acclimate to their new home. The German language was forbidden from being spoken in their household and they refused to celebrate any traditionally German holidays. They were ashamed of the country they came from and did everything they could to repress their culture, stripping it not only from their generation but from the generations of family members to come.
Over time, I’m told things got better. By the time my grandmother was born, the family integrated back some of their traditions. They lost a lot of their roots; but they were able to reclaim some of the more nostalgic things they carried fond memories of, like particular foods and celebrations.
But then the Dust Bowl hit. My mom’s family originally settled in Oklahoma when they immigrated to the states and between dust storms, drought, and the great depression, they had to migrate halfway across the country and, not for the first time, faced pressure to assimilate.
Californians didn’t appreciate refugee farm families migrating into the area. Mom told me stories her grandmother once told her. How people would call Great Gram anOkielike it was a dirty word and something she should be ashamed of when neither she nor any of the other tens of thousands of people forced to leave their homes could have controlled what happened back in Oklahoma.
The move forced them to give up pieces of themselves all over again.
By the time Aaron and I were born, there was almost nothing left. When Mom and Dad were still married, we’d celebrateWeihnachtstag—German Christmas. And she’d make us german pancakes with powdered sugar and lemon curd for breakfast.
If Mom was feeling particularly nostalgic, she’d makeKartoffelkloesseas a treat to go with dinner later on in the day.They were these weird potato dumplings fried in butter. Back then, I hated them. I never understood the appeal. They were these balls of mush and when I say she fried them, don’t imagine a deep fried crust or anything like that. There was no shell that would form, giving the dumplings any sort of crunch or texture. They were just buttery mush.
But I’d give anything for a plate of those ugly beige baseball sized things. Closing my eyes, I try to picture Mom in the kitchen with her apron dusted in flour and her hair tied up in a mess.
Tears burn the backs of my closed lids.
Don’t think about that,I order myself.Don’t think about her.
But as I struggle not to recall memories of my mother, I realize it’s harder now than it was to picture her face. The way she smelled. The sound of her laugh.
A silent sob wracks my body. Desperately, I shove the ball of grief climbing up my throat away.
Blinking hard, I refocus my gaze on Deacon, reminding myself of his words as I backtrack through my thoughts and give myself the precious seconds needed to get my emotions back under control.
Rubbing at the dull ache between my breasts with the heel of one hand, I use the other to pull out my phone and thumb through the contacts illuminated on the screen.
Deacon’s opinions aren’t enough to convince me. But someone else's might tip the scales.
Despite what some people may think, race and culture are wildly different things. Yuze and Monique breaking up over cultural differences would center around the cultural expectations each of them has for living their lives.
The holidays they celebrate. The way they want to raise their children. Their system of beliefs. Their values. It encompasses norms, or unwritten rules, that are simple like never wearing shoes in the house, all the way up to more complex expectations like gender roles in the relationship or what religion to practice and impart on their children.
Race is separate from culture. It refers to outward, physical characteristics. The most common being the color of your skin but it also includes features like the shape of your eyes, the fullness of your lips, and the strength of your jaw.
I could see Yuze and Monique’s cultures being different but he didn’t strike me as the sort of guy who’d reject Monique’s traditions in favor of his own. If what Deacon suggests is true, and it’s a big if, then race could have played a part in Mo’s relationship too.
You can merge cultures and find a balance. But there is no compromise in race. You can’t ask someone to change their appearance let alone the color of their skin.
Finding her name in my contacts list, I start a new message and my fingers fly over the screen.
Me: Couple years back when you and Yuze broke up, was it because he was Japanese and you’re black?
The colorof the message bubble changes and the wordreadpops up beneath my text on the screen. Holding my breath, I watch for the three little dots to appear, indicating that she’s typing out a response.
Bingo.
“Who are you—“
I hold up one hand. “Give me a second.”
Monique: Sorta. There were other reasons, too, but it was part of it. My parents flipped out when they realized he wasn’t black. Why?
My skin leeches of color.There’s my confirmation. Swallowing hard, I type out a quick response.
Me: No reason. Random thought. Thanks.
Tossingmy phone to my bed, I slump down onto the floor.
