He surprises you when he asks you if you are proud to be of its people. The question seems to come from nowhere, but the way he asks it tells you that this question is no frivolity. He needs an answer. Your instinct is to lie, but the truth comes out before you can stop it. Sometimes, you say. For most of your life it has been little more than a curiosity, this root that is caught on your heel. You would tell people about it to catch their attention, if they were the kind of person to be interested. You would sometimes hide it—and hide it you could, with your mother’s blood—if you wished to be
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