We were so jazzed to have Jason Sublette on the show this week.
Little Brown Liar
copyright 2009 Jason Sublette
Since
we moved to Eagleville, Missouri—which is either quaint and charming
(says my father) or oppressive and scary (says my mother)—I’ve tried
and tried and tried to answer truthfully the awful question that is a
buzzing mosquito in my ear. But when they hear my answer—“American,
just like you”—they say, “Okay, but where are you from?” When I say, “Out West, Arizona,” they shake their heads no
and show that extra friendly toothy smile like maybe I don’t understand
English, and repeat very slowly, “Yeah, but, you know, just what are you?”
I
know what they mean, of course, but the truth is just not an option.
Not here, not now, not ever. What’s the point of saying my mother is
Korean? They’ll just ask if my Jap grandfather flew his kamikaze plane
into Pearl Harbor. They won’t care that my Korean grandfather
engineered the washing machines for the U.S. Navy in Pearl Harbor. I
certainly can’t tell them that my other grandfather was not only a real
German, but a real Nazi soldier. Some of their grandfathers were at war with him. Besides, it’s clearly not the non-identifiable German genes that they care about. It’s that there skin, them eyes.
So I have to say something because
they keep asking. It’s all that seems to matter in rural Missouruh,
the $64,000 question. Kids, parents, teachers, storeowners, the dogs
and cats that wander aimlessly through our yard, the curious fleck of
ragweed pollen that has lodged under my left eyelid, the nosy drifts of
pure white snow that tackle me by the ankles, the outraged bibles
leering at me through the stained glass windows of the churches we never attend, they all demand an answer. Just what are you?
So
I’ll lie. I’ll become Hawaiian. Hawaiian guys are cool, laid back
surfers. Hawaiian women are exotic and mysterious. Who doesn’t want
to be Hawaiian? The King, Elvis, wanted to be Hawaiian. Hell, even
hip California mixed chicks like Fanshen and Heidi probably yearn to be
Hawaiian. So what if I have no actual Hawaiian blood, have never even
been to the islands? My mother was born there, my grandmother lives
in Honolulu, and three pot-smoking Hawaiian college boys (who surf!)
are living in our dingy basement (and yes I smash my nose to the vent
in my sister’s bedroom when I hear their giggling). Plus, I’ve eaten
poi, can converse in pidgin English, sometimes refer to white people as
haoles (when my haole father’s not around),
am proud to display a full can of Primo beer on my dresser, can
effortlessly flash the “hang loose” sign with both hands, and know all
the words to “Lovely Hula Hands.” So doesn’t all this give me the
right? Doesn’t it?
Since
they’ve decided I’m something—Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, however
that goes—why can’t I choose what? Why shouldn’t I be cool and
exotic? And when I say Hawaiian,
they’ll believe me because with last names like Cook, Miller, Smith,
and Snider, how could they possibly know I’m lying? Can’t the stupid
skin and eyes and nose work for me just once? Is it such a crime for me to tell this one little white lie?
Okay, so it’s a little brown lie.
Originally published in slightly different form in Blue Mesa Review.
Another long mixed-roots themed story in Green Hills Literary Lantern (http://ghll.truman.edu/ghll17/fiction/Sublette_Motion.html)
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