About to turn ten years old, my eyes were hovering over my globe—Asia. I had demanded for this globe when I was four to understand what this “world” was…I had been blown away by what I had been hearing. Now, I was back from this weird scenario, and I was feeling confused about this continent. I figured I would ask, which I did, for an Asian big sister—it was my sole request—because where was Asia? Where was Asia in my textbooks? I figured, given that I was saved by a Brazilian-Jewish family that I might use this an opportunity to explore another continent…I didn’t care where in Asia, I was trying to give some room. Maybe I would learn a language, I thought that would be good. I had so many questions—what was going on here? Where were you in America? Did Asians call themselves Asians?
When I got matched—I ran, full speed, down the Big Sisters of America hallway—I couldn’t wait to lay my eyes on her. I scared my Big Sister of America. She would begin singing the Jurassic Park theme. Halting in the threshold, frozen and visibly waiting to receive me, I told her to her face that she wasn’t Asian, looking at this case worker. She was ashy blond with highlights well-done, blue eyes from Santa Monica, and a full mouth—attractive. She was about twenty years older than I was working in finance, but she didn’t age.
Without missing a beat, she grabbed her slouchy bag.
“Oh no, I am definitely not Asian,” she said with an assured hand, getting up to her feet.
“I’m from Bakersfield…”
She was tall with a barely detectable drawl…
Crossing her arms, looking down at me, “and you,” she said, “you are not eight.”
Eyeing me, a piece of work, she said to our case worker.
“Eight is not the same thing as ten…”
She was a straight shooter—she wanted an eight year old, not ten.
I blinked. She knew how old I was?
She knew I was about to turn ten and when my birthday was. She didn’t even need to open the file in her hand to check! Smirking, she was a clear, smart person.
She was easy, breezy, quirky: she could brush her layered locks—layers, she would say deliciously—off her shoulders. She could make circles with her hands and perch her voice high; sweet. She was grounded, complacent, with flurries.
With a pointer finger at her chin, we were in a predicament.
I was not eight and she was not Asian.
Where was she from…her accent…it was barely there but her mannerisms, too. Something else going on.
Snapping and hitting her palm, she was driving her pointer finger respectfully around my face.
Her mother was from Orlando, the “real” one, and swinging a little, proud, or making fun of its seriousness?
“Home of the casserole.”
I had never heard of such a thing.
She never wanted to have children, it was never her desire, so she was a very special person who wanted to show up for a girl in this very special way.
With a circle, we could all agree, the case worker did not say one word in this entire exchange, that ten was not eight and Asia was a very large continent. I appreciated it. But where, where is Asia? It was also a large question. I was smart—she liked that. Was she on the basketball team? Ah, yes, she sure was. Hm, she was pleased with me. It appeared, according to her, that we were in the same boat. And she stepped up to me as if a good coach…maybe because she knew more about children than this lady did. She was confident and she had heart.
What do you say, she cut to the chase, we give it a shot.
Wait, what? I hadn’t moved really.
Sometimes, and she gave it me like a coach, you just gotta give it a shot.
The ball.
What do you mean?
Turning her head, you just gotta give it a shot.
Okay, I said, I just wanted to see the world…what’s Bakersfield like?
“Ohhh,” she was laughing, talking to me like a kid but not down to me.
The two of us walked out the door, leaving our case worker behind…
She would always say that sometimes all you have to do is take one clear step and the whole universe shifts…
Arms crossed, she was listening to me.
It was time have dinner with my parent time—at Italy’s Little Kitchen.
Opening her menu, the server made an assumption.
No, no, not my husband—about to turn seventy—not my child.
Yeah, I nodded on that one. I would ask her questions later—straight out the gate.
She would call me the most adult child she had ever met…