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  “Darya! He made it,” Grandfather said.

  “Yes he did. Salaam Amu Majid,” I said, putting my cheek to either side of my great-uncle’s for the imaginary kiss greeting.

  “Hello, Darya,” Majid said with a thick accent. He and Grandfather then said what I’m pretty sure were complimentary things about me in Farsi. I recognized some words like beautiful and I smiled back. I understood some Farsi, but I couldn’t speak much of it.

  I couldn’t be totally upset with my parents for not equipping me with secondary language skills. When I was seven, I had Farsi classes on Saturday mornings, and on Friday afternoons I had Turkish classes—to appease my grandparents on my mother’s side who were from Istanbul—but neither my mom nor my dad spoke either language at home, and I got so busy with music lessons, it all sort of fell by the wayside.

  Both my parents were born and raised in the States, so each could speak the respective language of their parents, with American accents, but when they got together, they spoke to each other in English. I took French at school, so I was more likely to be able to talk about the weather to someone in Paris than I would to someone in Istanbul or Tehran, and that made me feel slightly ashamed. Like I’d lost something.

  “Your grandfather tells me you’re an excellent musician,” Majid said in Farsi. I blushed.

  “I’m um...thank you,” I said back in Farsi, but struggled with the words for bass guitar and feminist punk/pop fusion band. “I like it,” was all I could manage.

  Grandfather was beaming. I didn’t think punk was his music genre of choice, but he came to every school talent show and had pitched my band for his hospital holiday party even though our songs were totally inappropriate for that sort of function. “Menstruation Frustration” was no “Frosty the Snowman.”

  The jazzy background music for cocktail hour suddenly stopped.

  “If you could all please return to your tables, we’re about to welcome the bride and groom,” the DJ with the gelled fauxhawk announced into his microphone. I kissed my grandfather on the cheek before I toddled back to the kids’ table.

  I sat down next to Wyatt. A woman had brought him a plate of appetizers.

  “Hi! I’m Mary. Paul’s sister,” the blonde forty-something said, reaching out her hand.

  “Oh hi! It’s great to meet you. I’m Darya,” I replied. “Shayla’s cousin.”

  “I hope my boys have been on their best behavior.” Mary wiped the corner of Wyatt’s mouth with a napkin. “They were so excited to sit with the teenagers!”

  “We’re fine, Mom!” Craig said, sitting up straight in his chair. His eyes were bugging out of his face, as if he were trying to telepathically communicate that she was free to go at any time. I think he was embarrassed, what with Tara seated across from him. Mary didn’t seem to notice.

  “Wyatt’s my new best friend. If he wants to be?” I asked him.

  “I already have a best friend. His name is Justin. He’s six and a half. But you can be friends with us, too,” Wyatt said. His nose was no longer running now that his mom had come to visit.

  “I’m so happy to hear that you’re getting along, since now we’re family.” Mary gave Wyatt a squeeze.

  I supposed we were. Should Paul and Shayla have children, they’d probably look like a mix of Wyatt and me. What a pack of little heartbreakers those hypothetical kids would be.

  A familiar instrumental came on loud and clear through the speakers, playing a traditional version of a song called “Mobarak Baad” that was played at Persian weddings. Tara and I grinned at each other. Aunt Mahnaz was going all the way.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the DJ announced. “Please welcome Mr. and Mrs. Becker-Ghorbani!”

  Everyone cheered Paul and Shayla as they held hands and boogied onto the dance floor. I cheered for the hyphenated last name! Shayla’s dad had passed away when she was in college, but I knew he would be thrilled that his name and legacy would continue.

  Paul and Shayla let go of each other. Paul put his arms in the air and shimmied his shoulders like a Persian groom would. All the guests applauded wildly, especially my grandfather, who stood up at his table and began to dance in the same way. Shayla’s simple white dress was cut in all the right places to make her look taller and elegant. She and Paul languidly moved their arms in the air as they danced with one another. Paul’s hip-swaying action wasn’t so bad, and clearly they’d practiced the dance. They didn’t look alike, and maybe they didn’t have a lot in common on paper, but when they danced, Paul and Shayla looked like they were always meant to be together. When I looked at Paul, I felt like he had always been at our family gatherings, even though they’d met only a few years ago. It was a good thing my grandfather had moved to the States, and that Paul’s family had once moved to the States from Europe. I wondered how many people might not find the love of their lives because they were not allowed to live in certain countries. I didn’t know if I’d have a special someone someday. Barf. Maybe they’d be from Endor.

  Tara had her phone out recording the first dance. I knew my grandfather was going to watch it over and over again. He was a huge softie and had asked Tara to record as much of the wedding as she could.

  When the song ended, a server brought a microphone to Paul. Everyone applauded their dance while the two caught their breaths and gazed at each other. Wyatt clapped and squealed next to me, as if excited to be able to make as much noise as possible at a grown-up party.

  “Thank you,” Paul said, holding Shayla’s hand, waiting for the crowd to settle down. “Welcome and Khoshamadid.” Paul pronounced the word for welcome in Farsi without difficulty. “Shayla and I wanted to begin by saying how grateful we are that you could come to one of the happiest days of our lives. We want to thank our family who traveled from Iowa, our family who traveled from DC, our family who traveled from Boston—” Tara yelped really loud after hearing our city shout-out “—and our family from Iran.” He pronounced it E-rahn rather than I Ran. I loved this guy. “We wanted all of our family here, because you have supported us, you have loved us, you have given us the tools to be loving people, and no matter where you are in the world, no one can separate family. Especially a family who loves as much as we do.”

  This received a lot of cheers. What Paul was saying sounded nice, and I felt the love in the room, but families could be separated every day. Were being separated every day. Paul passed the microphone to Shayla.

  “We especially want to thank Paul’s parents, who are so lovely and who raised such a beautiful man,” Shayla said. Paul blushed and gave an aww-shucks shrug. The guests laughed a little at that. “We want to thank my mother, who helped make this day happen and who shows Paul and I so much love every day. We want to thank Paul’s sister, Mary, for all her help and kindness. And we want to thank my grandfather, Dr. Sadeghi, for making today possible by being the rock of our family.”

  Shayla then addressed my grandfather and the other guests from Iran in Farsi. I didn’t understand all of it, but I watched my grandfather’s eyes well up as Shayla said words I did understand, like love and gratitude. I hoped she mentioned that he’d been invited to the US over four decades ago and had forged a life for himself and his family. That he’d treated countless patients, saved the lives of people from all over the world who’d found themselves in Boston. That whether or not he was a physician, he was one of the most wonderful men in the world and we should all be so lucky to have him in our lives. I don’t think she said all that, but it’s what I wanted everyone in that room to know.

  “Are you happy crying or sad crying?” Wyatt asked me.

  “Both,” I said, wiping my eyes. So my mascara might run. I could always freshen up my face in the bathroom.

  * * *

  After dinner was served, the DJ welcomed everyone to the dance floor by playing some surefire wedding hits by the likes of Kool & the Gang and the Bee Gees. Wyatt sat in Mary’
s lap, playing his Spider-Man game on an iPad.

  Craig was on the dance floor trying his best to impress Tara with moves he no doubt would bestow upon the ladies at future middle school dances. He kept moving his shoulders up and down and leaning from side to side. Tara looked amused, giving him bits of attention during “Celebrate,” but then turning to dance with Mom once a new song started.

  Aunt Mahnaz was having a ball, stalking the wedded couple and making the photographer follow her around to document every moment of Shayla and Paul’s happy union from various angles.

  “I’ve never seen my brother so happy. Or dance so much,” Mary said as she looked out on the dance floor.

  “Same goes for my grandfather,” I replied. He was snapping his fingers with his hands high in the air, his brother clapping alongside him as he swayed. It was special to see Grandfather look so...relaxed. Whenever we visited him at home, he would sometimes watch the news and get a look of worry. He wouldn’t say anything, but I knew he was anxious about his family in Iran, about the sanctions, about the travel ban, about things he had no control over. He’d spent his entire life trying to help people, but there were some obstacles that seemed so insurmountable that it made me feel so small to think about them. Today, my grandfather looked at peace. It was a memory I’d never want to let go of.

  “Little man, you want to dance?” Mary asked her son as she placed a hand on the edge of the iPad, signaling playtime was about to end.

  “Okay.” Wyatt let go of the game and scooted off of his mother’s lap. “Can Darya come?”

  “Why don’t you ask her,” Mary said sweetly.

  “You wanna dance?” he asked me.

  How could I say no to that face? “I’d love to,” I said. He ran onto the dance floor, but my feet were killing me. I inched toward the floor but winced with every step.

  Grandfather noticed and walked over to me. “Darya joon, take off your shoes,” he said as he gave me a kiss on my cheek. “I want to dance with the most beautiful girl in the room.”

  “Mom will be embarrassed if I go barefoot,” I shouted over the music. I’d always tried my best to be the kind of daughter she wanted, like Tara, but it was getting more difficult the older I got.

  “You could never embarrass anyone. Everyone should be so honored you decided to dance with them. Don’t let anyone’s ignorance make you feel that you don’t belong somewhere. You belong wherever you are,” he said in my ear. When he backed away from me, he held on to my shoulders and looked at me like I was the only person in the room, like he wanted me to believe that who I was, who I was growing up to be, was just fine. More than fine. I bit my lip and nodded. “Baba Karam,” an old Persian song, started playing through the speakers. “Now we must dance!”

  I held on to his arm as I lifted one foot up at a time and took off my shoes. I placed them under a table and joined him and the rest of my now larger family.

  I didn’t worry about what I looked like or that I didn’t quite have the movements mastered. I didn’t worry that Tara was going to record my awkward dancing. I didn’t worry whether I was making a bad impression or about how I looked in this stupid dress. I didn’t worry about what might come next for the world.

  I was dancing with my grandfather. He loved me as I was, and that was more than enough. That was everything.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Sara Farizan is the critically acclaimed and award-winning author of the young adult novels If You Could Be Mine, Tell Me Again How a Crush Should Feel, and Here to Stay. Her short stories have been featured in the young adult anthologies The Radical Element: Twelve Stories of Daredevils, Debutants, and Other Dauntless Girls, Fresh Ink, All Out, and Hungry Hearts. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University, lives in Massachusetts, kayaks way too much, and thanks you for reading her work. You can follow her on Instagram @sara.farizan.

  WHERE I’M FROM

  Misa Sugiura

  RUDE

  It’s pouring rain the day I move into my dorm freshman year at Duke University. My parents and I walk down the hall, wiping rain off our faces and checking room numbers. 210... 212... 214. My roommate, Chloë, is already in the room with her parents.

  Introductions and small talk ensue: what rotten luck we had with the weather today, of all days. What the flight was like from Minneapolis-St. Paul to Raleigh-Durham, where we stayed last night, how the rain caused three accidents on the highway between here and Chloë’s hometown of Charlotte.

  “So,” say Chloë’s parents to mine, “where are you from?”

  “We live outside of Minneapolis,” my father answers, looking confused—didn’t we just go over this?

  “Oh, yes, right. But where are you really from?”

  “Mom,” says Chloë quietly. She looks at me, clearly mortified.

  “What?” says Chloë’s mom.

  But my dad doesn’t notice, doesn’t care, or maybe he doesn’t want to embarrass Chloë’s parents. So he tells them, “I was born and raised Takarazuka, Japan.” He nods at my mom. “Natsume is from Ōsaka.”

  Later, as we say goodbye outside the dorm, I tell them that they don’t have to humor anyone who asks them where they’re really from. My mom says, “But we are really from Japan.”

  “Yeah, well, when I’m asked that question, I’m going to say, ‘Minneapolis is where I’m really from,’” I say, but my mom shakes her head.

  “Eriko, that’s rude,” she says. “Don’t do that to people.”

  GUARDIAN ANGEL

  When I was in eighth grade, a Japanese kid showed up at school. She was awkward and pimply, and on her first day she wore a sort of sailor uniform with a navy skirt and a white middy blouse with a big navy scarf tied in a bow. To top it off, her name was Miho, which is a pretty name in Japanese, but I just knew that the boys were all going to ask her, “Are you a ho? ’Cause that’s what your name says.”

  Mrs. Mintz, our homeroom teacher, pulled me aside before class and introduced us, beaming. “Eriko, I’m appointing you to be Miho’s guardian angel for a few weeks,” she said, and she moved my seat partner and best friend Zayna so that Miho could sit next to me instead. “I know you’ll help her get acclimated and make lots of friends.”

  How could I possibly help this girl? I didn’t speak enough Japanese to be able to translate anything beyond the simplest conversational phrases. I was suffocating at the bottom of the dogpile that was the eighth-grade social hierarchy, struggling to hang on to my elementary school friends as they changed and clawed their way up and away from me.

  Miho looked at me with dull eyes in a round face. She murmured, “Yoroshiku onegai shimasu,”—a phrase I vaguely understood to be a polite greeting of some kind—bobbed her head at me in a deferential little bow and came over to the desk next to mine. She did another head bob at me as she sat down. Now that she was next to me, I could see that she had probably been crying earlier. I felt sorry for her—how miserable it must feel to be new, to not speak a word of English, and to have to start off in that ridiculous outfit that I was sure her mom had made her wear, with that awful name, and she wasn’t even pretty.

  But I felt even sorrier for myself. Miho was exactly the kind of person that I feared everyone saw when they looked at me: weird, awkward, foreign. Japanese. I could not afford to take on an anchor like Miho, with her Japanese face and her Japanese clothes and that humiliating little Japanese bowing thing she kept doing every time I looked at her. I hadn’t asked to be her friend, I told myself. It wasn’t fair to lump me with her just because she came from the same country as my parents.

  Eighth grade. Sink or swim. Eat or be eaten. I endured Miho’s presence next to me in class, muttering a few broken Japanese sentences to her when I absolutely had to. Once the bell rang, I cast her off and went running to Zayna and Sophie.

  “Oh, her?” I said. “She’s Japanese, not like me. Real Japanese people are weird
. Look at her. Look at how weird she is.”

  CHOPSTICKS, AGE 13

  Zayna and Sophie and I spent the day at Schulze Lake Beach that weekend, and Sophie’s mom got us Chinese takeout for dinner. I used chopsticks, they used forks.

  “How do you do that?” they asked, not for the first time, and not for the last.

  AMERICAN CITIZEN

  The summer after Miho, we went to Japan and my mother enrolled me in a sleepaway camp so that I would learn to speak Japanese. I was surrounded by a hundred Mihos, girls who Mrs. Mintz had thought I would understand. No one was unkind to me, but they gasped when I poured soy sauce on my rice. They stared, shocked, when I sat crisscross (only boys do that!). The toilets were awful squat toilets.

  One day, a girl asked me when I was going to come home to live in Japan. I explained that I was an American, so I’d probably stay in America.

  “You’re not American,” she said.

  “I am, too.”

  “You’re Japanese.”

  “Yes, but I’m also American.”

  She gave me a long, hard look. She asked me gently, “Have you not seen yourself in a mirror?”

  “I know my face is Japanese. But I am American because I was born in America.” I didn’t know how to say birthright citizenship in Japanese. Or in English, for that matter. All I could do was keep repeating, “I was born in America.”

  She shook her head. “Make sure you look in a mirror when you get home. You’re definitely Japanese.”

  CHOPSTICKS, AGE 18

  My roommate Chloë’s mom visits Duke one weekend and takes us out for sushi.

  She asks me, “Can you use chopsticks?”

  DOUBLE

  Shortly after that week of sleepaway camp in Japan, my mother and I passed a Starbucks on the way back from the train station to my grandmother’s house in Osaka. It was a steam bath outside, and I was dying for a taste of home. I asked my mother to come to the counter with me to help me order, but she insisted I try ordering on my own first. “It’s practically the same menu,” she said. “Even the sizes.”