The moment you believe them, you don't appreciate what you have. I hadn't realized I had a strange family until kindergarten. After that, my family's oddness seemed to increase with each passing school year.
"Mom, why is our family different?" I asked in second grade.
"Because our family is full of love." Her answer didn't make me feel better.
By then, I had noticed most of the kids in school came from small families. The typical family size was one to three members. No one had a monstrously large family like ours: One mom, one dad, and eleven kids. Yup, we were that huge. We couldn't fit in an average car, traveling everywhere in a used Baptist bus. Do you know how it feels being dropped off at friends' parties in a rusty bus while everyone else comes in compact, environmentally friendly cars? The word humiliated is not a strong enough verb.
But that wasn't the only thing that made us stand out. Oh, no. We were a "rainbow family," as Mom liked to call us. Each member of our family came from a different country. Dad was Egyptian, Mom a New Zealander, my oldest sister was Guatemalan, and so on. We were all rescues from orphanages or the Department of Child Services. My brother Tommy was as mean as the neighbor's illegal fighting Pitbull. I am pretty sure Mom found Tommy in a garbage can.
Even Mom and Dad had started their lives as orphans.
Everywhere we went, our large rainbow family stood out. How could we not, in our predominately Jewish neighborhood?
The more I noticed our differences, the more I wanted to run away.
I still remember the day that changed my heart. My fifth-grade teacher stood before the class with the enthusiasm of a yappy dog barking at their shadow. "Our school procured a fabulous grant that I cannot wait to tell you about."
"What do I care about Grant?" I thought and picked up my book Charm and Strange by Stephanie Kuehn. I loved a good mystery. I could be a private detective one day. I would confidently walk into a crime scene like a Doberman Pinscher, commanding the attention of all around. Then, even more brilliantly, I would...
"Cedella," the teacher said. I looked up. Her hands rested on her hips, and she had that teacher look; cross and disappointed.
I stared. What did she want?
"Cedella, let me repeat the question. Do you know what race you are?"
I slumped in my chair. Why would the teacher ask me that in front of the class? I darted my eyes around the room. Yup, I was the only dark-skinned student in there. At least the teacher was dark like me.
"I am black," I whispered.
A few kids giggled.
"That isn't your race, stupid," Heather said as her red braids swayed back and forth.
"Now, Heather, let's not call names." The teacher turned to me. Her voice softened to kindness.
"Do you know your bloodline? Black is an adjective, not a race."
My eyes dropped to my lap. I was already a freak. Why did she have to point it out?
"I know my race," Heather said. Her declarative statement came out snappy and short. "I am Irish."
"Irish is a good race," my teacher said. She smiled at Heather and then turned to the class.
"Most of us don't know where we came from. So how do we know where to go? As I was saying, the grant given to us will give all of you a chance to discover your heritage. In other words, what races you are made up of. Consider it a mystery. One in which you uncover the secrets of your ancestors."
"Ohh," came the death moans of many of my classmates. I, too, might have sulked with them if the teacher hadn't said the word that had hooked me.
"Mystery."
I loved mysteries. Besides, maybe I should discover where I came from.
That night, the entire family gathered together. That usually only happened for weddings or funerals.
"Gather family, gather," I called out as my family assembled into our too-tight family room. I clapped my hands and jumped up and down as I tried to contain my excitement. The smell of Mom's meat pie still hung in the air, and I wished there had been enough to make me full. What took everyone so long?
The family slowly entered, a few siblings mumbling under their breath.
"Hello, hello," I said. "Please sit."
"Why do you look like a dork?" Angelica, my fifteen-year-old sister, asked.
"Oh, this?" I said as my hand passed over my trench coat and top hat. They had a plasticky feel to them. Too bad they weren't real leather. "My name is Detective Cedella, and I have a mystery to solve."
-More grumbles.
I began, imagining myself with the lead part in a play. "Long time ago, in a faraway land, each of us was born. But who are we, really? Some of us know little about our biological parents, and some of us don't even know what culture we are."
Brandon, my nine-year-old brother, bowed his head and looked at his lap. He had Asian features, but no one knew his race. He hated that.
I paced back and forth, my face emotionless, playing the part of a big-time detective.
"I will pass out my top-secret vials, which you will fill with spit."
"Eww!" My sisters said, squirming.
"Right on," were my brothers' reactions.
I handed out the containers to each family member.
"How is spitting into this going to help me discover my race?" Brandon asked. His forehead tightened, and he looked skeptical."
"Well, you see, some guy name Grant gave our teacher lots of money to give each member of our families access to DNA testing." I switched my stance and deepened my voice. "With your spit, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, we will see exactly where you came from. We will trace your lineage--"
"Lineage," Mom corrected.
"What does that mean?" Angelica asked.
"Kind of like your family line," Mom answered.
"Come on, people. Let us not waste any more time. Give me your spit, and Detective Cedella will trace your race."
***
I mailed off our saliva samples and spent the first week checking my daily email for results. I couldn't wait for our family to know where we came from. But as the days passed and no email came, I forgot about the DNA tests.
Then, two months later, the email arrived. With my detective outfit on, I poured over the results of our tests. I was disappointed that the results put us in general regions of a continent but didn't say, "Brandon, you are Japanese."
I hadn't expected the test to link me directly to biological family members. The test matched Brandon to a first cousin, and he learned he was Korean.
I contacted my biological mom and learned I was full Jamaican. My birth family didn't feel ready to unite with me, but they gave me several pages of my family line.
I finally had an identity, which made me feel valuable.
Every birthday after that, Mom made sure we celebrated our birthdays in the traditions of our origins. She helped us learn more about our race and each other's. She united our differences and celebrated our similarities.
As I learned more about our extraordinary origins, I found pride in my rainbow family. Those other kids at school only had one or two races to celebrate. Our family celebrated half of the world's races.
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Pride in my Family
by Stephanie Daich
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