Tuesday, February 12, 2013

In a manner truly befitting the rich cultural touchstones of my ancestors, I celebrated the Chinese New Year this weekend by going to an Italian restaurant for lunch, where I ordered a panini. That’s Italian for “sandwich,” by the way, and my hope is that while it was devoid of Asian ingredients, it was festive enough to cover my bases. In truth, I completely forgot about the holiday, until a random comment brought my negligence to light. This may partly explain why I was compelled to purchase a box of Pocky tonight–at Target, of all places–and power it down, in a kind of ethnic penance. Technically the stuff is made in Japan, if we’re being totally aboveboard here, but that’s close enough for me.

This weekend, I will be honoring my heritage in an altogether different fashion when I drive down to Greenville, South Carolina. The main purpose of this trip will be to reconnect with family friends, though reconnect is a generous term here. That’s because I don’t remember them. I must’ve been what–two, three?–the last time I saw these people. I know there are roots here, but I don’t remember them at all. It’s a strange feeling.

The brutal truth is there will be a stark inequity in this reunion–they will likely derive far more meaning from seeing me than I, them. It just doesn’t seem fair, and I suppose that’s inherent in the idea of inequity. I’d like to correct this, of course. Any good vibes thrown my way, I’d like to return in kind. There’s this concern, too, that certain things will be expected of me. What if they look to me to say grace at dinner, for instance? I’ve been drafting lines in my head all week in preparation. Certainly I’m overthinking all of this, and I have a hunch that intent, rather than the execution, is what’s important.