It’s already dark
when we finally get home;
the apartment seems
emptier than ever.
My father throws our stuff
on the kitchen counter,
sits in the middle of the sofa
staring at the TV
even though it’s off.
He pats the cushion next to him.
I sit down, and he puts his arm around me.
I lean my head on his shoulder.
Well, I guess on Tuesday
we’ll see what the Giants are made of.
The words swirl around in my mind.
Everyone says that. What does it mean? I ask.
What they are made of?
He thinks for a while,
tapping my shoulder lightly.
You know, he says slowly, like what’s inside you, I guess?
Girls are sugar, spice, and all the rest …
I don’t say anything. It can’t just be that.
I guess that’s not it.
I guess it’s about who you are.
What you have been through,
how you handle things
when things get tough.
Like the Giants are having a tough series,
so we have to see if they can pull off a win.
What if they don’t win?
Well, I guess it’s not always about winning.
Sometimes it’s just about believing in yourself.
And then he leans in.
Being brave
even if it seems
like you don’t have any chance of winning.
I look at him, and he continues.
Like your grandpa, and Mrs. Li,
and everyone else,
leaving everything they knew,
all of who they were,
through all those countries,
and then taking a ship
while the world was falling to pieces
just to land on Angel Island—
starting a whole new life
in a strange place.
He hugs me a little tighter.
I think about the past few weeks
and the idea of what we are made of,
and I can’t help but think
how tough Malia is,
that she must be made
of the strongest stuff.
And then the words just come out.
Malia had to leave school
and kids call her that stupid name,
but they just don’t know
how hard it is for her.
He looks up.
That’s right.
We sit there for a while.
And finally
I let my last
tired thought
come out.
Like Mom, too?
Yeah.
He breathes, deeply. Just like Mom.