Half
I was quiet. As his friends continued to drink, laugh, and
dance, I stood still – really and truly not wanting to be bothered. My mood was
low and I was sleepy from being jet-lagged. The Cuban jazz band played all of
the classics. I felt myself effortlessly swaying like Californian palm trees as
the rhythm of the Congo drums vibrated through my body. I think part of me was
feeling a slight separation anxiety from Havana. Santa Monica Pier’s sunset was
nice to look at on this summer night but the frequent cool breezes that blew my
afro’s natural curls from tight squiggles to puffy waves made me cold. I really
wanted nothing more than to crawl into the guest bed that was waiting for me
and fall asleep. They all ordered another round of drinks, again offering me
one, and still not understanding how I could be my brother’s sister because of
the fact that unlike him, I don’t drink.
“So, you’re from LA right? What high school did you go to?”
One of his friends, who hadn’t really made much of an attempt to talk to me all
night, began asking me questions just to make conversation.
“No. I’m from New York.”
“But… Al is from LA. How are you from New York?” I wasn’t
given the chance to answer him before he began answering himself. “Ohhh… You
have different parents or something?”
“Yes. Different dads.” Both my brother and I said, almost
simultaneously.
About a moment went by. No one else asked me anything. I
guess they were thinking about the new information that they just learned about
us. Maybe wondering what kind of scandals my family was hiding. Or maybe they
didn’t care at all. I thought I was finished socializing. I was ready to get
back into silently reminiscing about my jazzy nights along the Malecon, while
listening to this live band, until I looked up and noticed the tall, blonde friend
of my brother, wanting to tell me something else. This time he bent down and
spoke directly into my ear.
“I have a half-sister too. She lives in . . .”
I stood still. The volume of the upbeat atmosphere seemed to
be muted and it felt like no one else in the room was moving. I couldn’t hear
anything else he said because the word “half” echoed through my head like the
gongs of the Big Buddha temple in Phuket.
Half.
H a l f . . .
H a l
f. . .
Half? I have never considered my brother and sister a half. Sure
we don’t share the same fathers but still yet, they are my brother and sister.
There is nothing divided, incomplete, or partial about them in my eyes. To add ‘half’
as a prefix of their titles felt derogatory and demeaning. The connotation of
him whispering our newfound commonality into my ear only added to the
indication that this phrase is disparaging and too ignominious to share it with
the rest of the world.
How was I to respond to him without sounding angry or rude
or annoyed? Was there a way to open the dialogue while avoiding the possibility
of overwhelming this stranger of a man with my inner emotions regarding the
relationship between my brother and I? Was I going to be able to convince him
not to use that pejorative term to describe someone who shared the same blood
as him again?
His eyes waited for my lips to separate but I said nothing. His
face reminded me of an Aaron Douglas painting as the shades of his shame
blended perfectly with his boneless red cheeks, daunting me for a rebuttal… but
my energy was fading and my patience was fleeting…. So, I just looked at him
and said nothing.
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