Full Cicada Moon Read Free Page B

snowblower
    down his driveway.
    The snow cascades into a perfect trim,
    like piping on a birthday cake.
    Every time we pass by our neighbor,
    Papa waves to him.
    But no matter what Farmer Dell is doing,
    he never waves back.
    Each time he doesn’t wave back,
    my mouth goes dry.
    This morning, I ask, “Why?”
    Papa says, “Maybe he can’t see very well.
    Or maybe he doesn’t like us.”
    That is why my mouth goes dry.
    â€œBut he doesn’t even know us.”
    Papa shifts his hands on the steering wheel. “You’re right, Meems—
    he doesn’t . . . yet.”
    And then the spit comes back into my mouth
    because even if Mr. Dell doesn’t like us,
    Papa said the words,
    so they don’t scare me as much.
    Outside the car, light and dark and gray all stream by,
    and I think,
Drip, drip, drip
.

Others
    In Berkeley we lived in a two-bedroom house
    next to my second cousins, Shelley and Sharon,
    and Auntie Sachiko (who’s really Mama’s cousin)
    and Uncle Kiyoshi.
    There was no fence between our backyards,
    so it was like we all lived in the same house.
    Auntie let us live there
    while Papa finished his schoolwork,
    as long as
    he did repairs on their apartment building
    and Mama told people he was Italian.
    Shelley and Sharon have Japanese middle names
    like me: Akiko and Tomiko.
    Sometimes they speak Japanese to Auntie and Uncle
    and to each other,
    and sometimes they combine English and Japanese.
    My cousins taught me the Japanese words
    that Mama would never say.
    Sometimes we pretended we were Southern belles
    who could speak Japanese—
    â€œ
Ohayo gozaimasu
, y’all.”—
    which made Mama and Auntie cry-laugh
    out of breath.
    Papa wants us to speak only English,
    not because he doesn’t like Japan
    but because he says people get scared
    when they hear a different language.
    My cousins were my best friends.
    We had other friends
    whose parents or grandparents came from Japan
    or China, Korea or India, Ghana or Germany or Mexico.
    We all understood our families’ languages
    and ate the foods of their countries.
    It was like we were all in the
Other
check box,
    having in common
    speaking English,
    being American,
    and feeling that we didn’t belong either in our parents’ worlds
    or in this one.
    But I am not Other;
    I am
    half my Japanese mother,
    half my Black father,
    and all me.

Winter
    Quiet
    sounds like winter in Vermont:
    Snow taps the bare trees
    Flames sing in the fireplace
    Mama’s slippers scuff the floors
    The teakettle applauds to a boil
    Hot water pours into a cup
    A sip—
    And Papa’s “Quiet, please. I’m grading papers.”

Karen and Kim
    The two girls carry their trays to my table,
    pocketbooks swinging from their elbows,
    and sit on either side of me.
    I didn’t even need to invite them.
    â€œWe want to get to know you.
    I’m Kim, I’m Karen,” they say.
    â€œYou lived in California?” Karen asks.
    I nod. “Uh-huh, in Berkeley.”
    â€œDid you go to wild parties there?”
    â€œDid you surf?”
    â€œHow many movie stars did you
    meet?”
    â€œDid you go to Disneyland
    every weekend?”
    I laugh and sip some milk.
    â€œNo. No. No. No,” I say. “I didn’t live in Hollywood.
    I lived up north, near my mom’s cousins.”
    â€œCan I touch your hair?” Kim asks.
    It’s a strange thing to ask, but I lean toward her.
    She smooths the top of my head and runs her hand down my braid.
    Then Karen takes a turn, and says, “It’s so curly.”
    Mama likes my hair pulled back tight and neat,
    but a few curls always escape.
    â€œI wish my hair was curly like yours,” says Karen,
    whose hair is straight and long and blond,
    and I don’t believe her.
    â€œWhat nationality are you?”
    I try not to sigh. “My dad is Black and my mom is Japanese.”
    â€œ
Japanese
-Japanese, or was she born