by Keira Deer
I do not confide in my father and mother. They would not understand. How could they? He is English, she is Chinese. I am different to both of them– a stranger, tho their own child. “What are we?” I ask my brother. “It doesn’t matter, sissy,” he responds. But it does.
-From Sui Sin Far’s “Leaves from the Mental Portfolio of an Eurasian”
My Yeye’s name was John Deer, though it was not his first. He was my father’s father. Pulled from the mothballed corners of bedroom closets and dresser drawers, he wore slacks and a white tank top every day I knew him, staking a cane alongside him when he shuffled quietly, room to room. In his high cheekbones and thin face, I could see my father’s, and I could see mine.
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