Chapter Ten #2
They ran our house the way their boarding schools had been run.
But outside of the doors of their house, we lived what felt like an aggressively American life.
Except for the weekends. We spent weekends attending functions and had more aunties and uncles than my American friends could comprehend.
We shopped at African and Asian food markets, cooked and ate like they do at home—outside and with our hands.
When I was ten years old, they moved us from the diverse Silver Spring area to one of the whitest neighborhoods in northern Virginia where my father’s new job teaching history at Georgetown Prep came with scholarships for his children.
It was a great privilege but isolating in its lack of diversity. It was good in that it prepared me for a life of code switching that has become second nature to me now.
I have three different accents depending on which one of the cultures I straddle is claiming the moment.
It wasn’t until I got to New York that I realized how wrong I’d been to think of my identity as something fractured.
I’m Ghanaian-American and Black and first gen and the child of immigrants.
Instead of treating them as competing narratives, I’m learning to hold space for all of those at once.
Their doorbell’s ridiculously loud chime snaps us all out of our thoughts. “Oh no. He’s here. Thanks to you, I’m not ready. Let me go and get the door.” She stands up and sucks her teeth as she walks past me.
“As if I’m the one who demanded we have a meeting right now,” I mutter as soon as she’s out of earshot.
My father tuts in disapproval. “You make problems bigger for yourself when you try to hide them,” my father says in that nonjudgemental tone that makes me wish I was the daughter they wanted.
“Wasn’t trying to hide anything. You were already not happy that I was joining The Spectator.”
“Sin, at the very best it’s a lateral move at a time when you should be leveling up.”
I bristle at that. “I’m pivoting, Dad. And I’m still making good money.”
“Is that the only thing that matters?”
“Dad, it’s a job. Getting paid is the only reason any of us have one.
I don’t want to be defined by it anymore.
I’m sorry if it’s disappointing to you. I want so badly to make you proud.
But I couldn’t keep living a lie just so you and Mom have something to brag about at the next wedding or outdooring you attend. ”
“Oh. Is that what you think we care about?”
“I mean…what else could I think when you both call my step in the right direction a step down? Maybe you’re right and I’ll regret it, but I want to know what it feels like to taste regret that comes from the back of my own throat.” My voice cracks and I touch my neck.
“Sin, we sacrificed so you wouldn’t have to. We’ve lived the American dream. We want you to do even better.”
“Dad, what if that’s not my dream?”
“Who doesn’t want stability?”
“I don’t think what I want is incompatible with stability.”
“Well, first thing you did was end your long-term relationship and leave your long-term job so, maybe.”
“Dad, I want to see what I’m really made of. To find my own way. To define what my dreams look like.” I’m breathing hard when I’m done.
Speaking those words aloud makes my heart race. It took me twenty years to learn that owning my life, my mistakes, my triumphs is what makes me most alive.
My dad gets to his feet and places a hand on my shoulder.
“This is the hottest July I can remember here.” He looks out of the huge bay window behind me and wipes the corners of his eyes.
My father is so rarely emotional that I’m completely disarmed by it. “Daddy, are you okay?”
I cover his hand with mine, and he looks down at me with a fond smile that reaches all the way to his eyes.
“I was afraid that this weather would be too much for you after a decade living in colder climes. I see I was worried for nothing. You’re stronger than I gave you credit for. I’m very proud of you, Sin.”
My relief is boundless. I may want to blaze my own trail, but I never want my parents to feel dishonored by anything I do.
“Thank you, Daddy. Can you tell your wife that?”
He barks out a laugh and shakes his head.
“Absolutely not. It won’t change anything.
You’ll do what you want, and she’ll feel how she feels.
You’ll butt heads and then find your common ground.
” He puts an arm around me and steers me to the door.
“All we want is for you to live a good life. One that you are proud of. We came here not so you could go to Princeton, but so you’d have the choice.
In all things. Now, let’s go greet our guest.”
“Who is it? She said it would just be us.”
“The son of our landlord.”
“She has a son?” I ask with a confounded expression.
“Yes. We didn’t know until her lawyer called to tell us that she passed away.”
“She died? Oh no. Is everything okay?” I pause, worried. They’ve lived in this house since I was a child and even though they don’t own it, I know they see it as their home.
“We hope so. He asked to come by and deliver something on his mother’s behalf. Your mother invited him to join us for lunch.”
I can hear the deep rumble of a man’s voice next to my mom’s and I reflexively look in the mirror.
Not that it matters because I’m closed for business when it comes to men, but I’ll never hear the end of it if I meet one of my mother’s guests looking less than presentable.
I walk out arm in arm with my father, smiling and reassured that the rest of my secrets are safely tucked away.
“Arsinoé, this is Kwame. Kwame, this is our eldest daughter.”
In the month since that night at The Salamander, I was certain that my memories were exaggerating how handsome the man I’d met that night had been. I was also certain I’d never see him again.
I was wrong.
About everything.
Fuck.