I know I shouldnât say anything and I do anyway.
âI didnât know you didnât speak Korean.â
He turns and looks at me over his shoulder, not angrily, just blankly, with a sort of shrug.
âWhy should I? My mother is Mexican.â
I mean duh.
He knows that I know that, but he insists on beating around the bush.
And that means one of us just has to say what weâre thinking.
Not it.
I find another way to skirt the real question.
âWhat did you do while you were in Korea for the music video shoot?â
âI used a translator like any other foreigner, â He doesnât even look at me, still staring at the glass-
I feel pin-pricked-
A thousand pin pricks-
But these rosesâŚ
Are immaculately, angelically, infallibly white.
âItâs not a foreign culture when itâs your fatherâs...â
He just shakes his head, âTell that to my mom.â
I want to say something but for once my mouth knows better than to let me.
When I donât reply Kat keeps talking, maybe for my benefit maybe - because heâs been waiting to get this off his chest - the words pour out like a monologue heâs been rehearsing for years-
âShe never once told me I was biracial when I was a kid.â
Alicia.
âWhen I was in grade school and the other Hispanic kids would tease me for my âAsian eyesâ she would tell me that her grandmother had eyes just like mine."
