In homeroom, I look for someone
like Marciela, Yu-Lin, Poornima, even creepy Eiji
or the boy from next door.
I don’t want to stick out,
don’t want to be different
or scared.
Mr. Pease shows me an empty seat in the first row.
My name is written on the chalkboard
and underlined. Mr. Pease smiles, and I like him.
“Stand up, Mimi,” he says.
“Do you have a real name?”
“Mimi is my real name.”
Then he tells the class they can me ask three questions.
Michael, with blond hair and braces, goes first.
“Where did you come from?” he asks.
“Berkeley, California.” Michael looks puzzled.
“It’s near San Francisco,” I say, but
he still looks confused.
I look at Mr. Pease,
who nods to a girl with glasses and a brunette flip. “Vicky.”
“What do you want to be when you grow—”
“An astronaut,” I answer quickly. I don’t have to think about that.
I look around, expecting nods or smiles,
but everyone laughs. Even Mr. Pease.
“Maybe you should be a comedienne,” he says,
and right away I don’t like him as much.
“Last question—Carl,” he says to a boy reaching his hand so high
he could pull the tiles out of the ceiling.
“What nationality are you?”
“I’m . . . American.”
“I mean . . . what are you?”
And then I understand what Michael had really been asking.
If everyone was laughing before, they’re all quiet now,
as if they all had the same question and made Carl ask it.
But how do I answer that?
I look at Mr. Pease for help, but his eyes tell me
he has the same question.
It’s up to me to solve the puzzle
of how to answer the question
What am I?—
when I know the real question
begins with Who.