Starfish

by Akemi Dawn Bowman

She doesn’t have to wonder if guys will like her because of her race. Nobody will tell her she’s “pretty, for a white girl.” She’s just pretty, period.

Mom always found our game amusing. Sometimes she’d even play along and point out which of our features looked more Asian and which were—as she’d often call it—more “normal-looking.”

You bitch

But Mom hated them. She said all the voices gave her a headache. Dad never bought any more of them after that. After a while, Taro and I found other things to be interested in, but Shoji missed the stories. He said he could see himself in Japanese cartoons in a way he couldn’t with American ones, so he started collecting Japanese comics. Manga doesn’t give Mom a headache. At least not one she could admit to.

I don’t have that kind of control. My feelings tend to burst out of me like I’m a water balloon. Mom always says it’s because I’m overly sensitive, but I can’t help it. I don’t have a box to hide my emotions the way Shoji does.

even more draining to be around so many people. I don’t know how other people do it—don’t they ever feel like they need to recharge? Doesn’t talking to people for so long wear them out?

I feel this so hard

I have the sudden urge to stretch my spine, as if every part of my body feels cramped and constricted. I feel protective of my new sisters. I don’t want Mom to talk about them. Especially not to Uncle Max. “I’ve seen a picture of them. They’re cute.” She raises her brow. “Except one of them does have your dad’s nose. Your grandma’s nose, I should say. Just like you.” Mom glances at me. It’s definitely not a compliment. She’s talking about my wide, round Asian nose. The one she doesn’t have. The one that isn’t as pretty as hers. Uncle Max laughs—like, really laughs—as if having my dad’s nose is the most hilarious thing he’s heard all day. “Don’t worry.” He winks. “They have surgery for that.” Suddenly Mom is laughing too.

Besides, even if Mom was bipolar, that’s not an excuse. There are plenty of parents in the world with mental health conditions who don't treat their children badly.

“You care too much about what other people think. I mean, so what if you fail? So what if it takes a few tries? You’re following your dreams. It shouldn’t matter to anyone else how long it takes you or what your journey is like—it should just matter to you.”

It’s strange—hope can make you forget so much, so quickly. That’s why hoping is so dangerous.

“We all have to dream our own dreams. We only get one life to live—live it for yourself, not anyone else. Because when you’re on your deathbed, you’re going to be wishing you had. When everyone else is on theirs, I guarantee they aren’t going to be thinking about your life.”

I stare at the faces for a long time, and when I’m sick of them I shut my eyes tight and let my imagination take over. I think of so many faces—Emery and Susan Chang and Francis from the tattoo parlor and Akane and Mom—and then I let everything blur together until I’m daydreaming about beautiful quirky strangers I’ve never met before. They have freckles and tans, light hair and dark, crooked features and curves, and they are all exactly as they are meant to be. I open my eyes, find a blank page, and leave the cookie cutters behind.

“Don’t live to please the starfish, especially when their happiness is at the expense of yours. That is not love. That is narcissism. There’s an entire ocean out there, Kiko—swim in it.”

I don’t look at them the way Mom looks at the faces in a yearbook. Because it wouldn’t be fair. It feels cruel, like I’m saying one type of face is better than another. Like I’m saying one kind of heritage is better than another. It’s an ugly thing to do. I’d rather have an ugly face than an ugly heart.

“It’s my fault,” Jamie says. “I was trying to help you figure out what to say when I should’ve been reminding you not to assault the artist with her own book.”

😂😂

I draw five Japanese women with very different faces, but all of them are equally beautiful because beauty is not just one thing.