“I love you. Bye.”
I stare at the mirror, running my fingers around my round face and my wide nose and wondering if Mom really does think she could have done better than Dad—better than Asian—and if she does, does she think she could have done better than me?
It hurts. It hurts hearing her vocalize my fear—that people might not look at me the way they look at her. And it hurts to think she looks down on Dad, and maybe down on me, and Taro, and Shoji.
Closing my eyes, I think of all the faces in my sketchbook. The ones I’ve drawn since Hiroshi told me beauty isn’t just one thing. They’re all different and special and unique. I don’t look at them the way Mom looks at the faces in a yearbook. Because it wouldn’t be fair. It feels cruel, like I’m saying one type of face is better than another. Like I’m saying one kind of heritage is better than another.
It’s an ugly thing to do. I’d rather have an ugly face than an ugly heart.
I let my hands drop to my sides and shake my head at the mirror.
And I decide, right there and then, that I don’t care if I’m not someone’s idea of pretty. I don’t care if my name might disappoint someone, or if my face might disappoint someone’s parents. Because that says so much more about them than it does about me.
Who cares what anyone else thinks? Who cares what Mom thinks, when she’s immature enough to keep a last name she hates just to maintain an imaginary war with Serena?
I love my last name. And maybe I’m even learning to love my face.
That can be enough. It has to be. It will be.
? ? ?
I draw a girl pulling her reflection out of the mirror and holding it close to her heart.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Jamie takes me to Chinatown because he can’t believe I’ve never been to one before. I don’t understand why he’s surprised—I’ve never felt the need to go to Chinatown, which probably stems from the fact that Mom never told me I should feel otherwise.
She once told me she wished she had given me and my brothers more “traditional” names because she was “kind of over the Japanese thing.” You know, because being Asian is a trend or something.
I guess it explains why she doesn’t think I’m pretty, or why she always hated when Dad watched his old samurai shows. To her, we’re an interest she’s outgrown.
Why would she ever point out the benefit of going to Chinatown?
But she should have. Somebody should have. Because Chinatown is amazing.
There’s so much red and green and gold everywhere, it feels like we’re in a different country. Every shop is full of things I’ve never seen before, and every restaurant is filled with foods I’ve never heard of. There’s a grocery store that only sells imported foods with labels I can’t read. And it’s not just stuff from China—there’s stuff from South Korea and Thailand and Japan too.
It’s a pocket of culture—some of it my culture—surrounded by the world I grew up in. The world I’ve never felt a true part of.
And I can’t help but notice something that stands out even more than the bronze lion sculptures and the overpowering aroma of noodles and soy sauce.
Almost everyone in Chinatown looks more like me than any of the kids at my high school ever did.
It feels like a dream. I’ve never been around so many Asian people before. I’ve always felt out of place, but I’ve never realized quite how much until this exact moment, when I feel completely in place. They have eyes like mine and hair like mine and legs like mine. When they smile their skin creases the way mine does, and their hair mostly falls flat and straight the way mine does.
They’re like me. It feels so comfortable and good I could almost cry.
And they’re so beautiful. Like, Rei beautiful. They know how to do their hair and makeup and dress themselves because they’ve probably been taught by parents who understand they shouldn’t just copy whatever the white celebrities and models are doing. Because they have different faces and body types and colors. It’s like painting—you don’t just use any color you feel like; you pick the color that fits the subject the best.
I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to learn the lesson I’ve needed since childhood.
I don’t have to be white to be beautiful, just like I don’t have to be Asian to be beautiful. Because beauty doesn’t come in one mold.
It doesn’t make it okay that people are jerks about race. But it does make me feel like I’m not alone. It makes me feel like less of a weirdo.
It makes me feel like Mom was wrong.
When I look around at the people in Chinatown, I don’t feel like I’m desperate for their acceptance. I feel at ease.
I think I know why Shoji accepted our Japanese side a long time ago. I think he realized there was another world out there—a world Mom wasn’t a part of. I think he knew that, somehow, finding our heritage was like finding a safe place from her.
There are so many things to do and see. We pass by a store where a man is selling bonsai trees. I try boba tea for the first time—Jamie’s is mango flavored, and mine is coconut. We look around the grocery store, spending a lot of time in the candy aisle observing how different the flavors are—green tea Kit Kat bars, wasabi drops, squid-flavored gummies, and melon soda.
And then we see an artist outside a bookstore doing a live drawing. Her black hair is separated in two buns, and she’s wearing a long skirt and a Sailor Moon T-shirt. She draws the way Hiroshi paints, like she has all the confidence in the world.
There’s a stack of books on a table nearby, all titled Manga Pop Art by Tanya Fujisaki. Positioned above them is a sign that reads: MEET THE ARTIST AND GET YOUR COPY SIGNED TODAY.
Jamie hovers over the table and picks up one of the books, flipping through the pages casually. “Hey, these are pretty cool.” He holds up the open book so I can see inside. It’s a collection of the artist’s drawings, paintings, and tips on how to draw manga. They remind me of Emery’s tattoos, but so much more detailed and colorful.
I look back at Tanya Fujisaki. She’s speaking in Japanese to a nearby teenager, who’s watching her like he’s starstruck. I’m pretty sure he’s a fan.
I pick up a book of my own, turning the pages and falling in love with the drawings the way I did the first time I watched one of the anime shows Dad brought home. I don’t know if it’s normal to look at cartoons and feel so happy, but I can’t help it. Some people look at pictures of animals and scenery and feel an overwhelming sense of joy. I feel that way when I look at art.
Jamie holds the book up to me again, tapping his finger against one of the pictures. It’s a girl with black hair flying up to the stars, her hands trailing at her sides and the rest of the world far below her. “It’s you,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I flip through the book and find a picture of a girl stuffing her face with food. “No, this is me,” I say.