\u201cDad? Are we American?\u201d<\/p>\n
I look at William, almost twelve now, the same age I was when my parents sent me away. \u201cAbsolutely,\u201d I say. \u201cIn fact you\u2019re the first natural born American in my family. Do you know what that means?\u201d<\/p>\n
William gives me a \u201cyou\u2019re kidding\u201d look and says, \u201cIt means I can run for president.\u201d<\/p>\n
My youngest, Angela, lights up. \u201cCan I be president?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure. Someday. If you like.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCan you?\u201d My younger son, Matthew asks.<\/p>\n
\u201cNope,\u201d I reply.<\/p>\n
\u201cHow come?\u201d Matthew says. \u201cThat\u2019s not fair.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cBecause he wasn\u2019t born here, stupid.\u201d William thumps his brother on the arm.<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s African!\u201d Angela giggles.<\/p>\n
I can\u2019t help but smile.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo he\u2019s not. He\u2019s Irish or British. Right Dad?\u201d William says. \u201cThat\u2019s why he didn\u2019t go to high school.\u201d<\/p>\n
Matthew looks doubtful.<\/p>\n
\u201cI went to what\u2019s called boarding school,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat kind of school is that?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe kind that you live in.\u201d<\/p>\n
Matthew\u2019s eyes widen. \u201cAll the time?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes, silly,\u201d William snaps, cocking his fist.<\/p>\n
I disarm him with a sharp \u201cno\u201d before he can unload on his brother again.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou said add hot pepper,\u201d my wife asks while writing notes in her Indian cook book, the one bought in Soho, London, or maybe at the Michaels just up the road.<\/p>\n
You\u2019d never know she\u2019s from Rock Hill, South Carolina.<\/p>\n
The phone rings. I grit my teeth. Ignore it. \u201cAnd cut back the salt and ghee,\u201d I say. \u201cOtherwise that was an excellent curry.\u201d Maybe tomorrow I\u2019ll cook one of my specialties.<\/p>\n
The phone rings again. I should have turned it off. Too late now. Damn.<\/p>\n
\u201cWho is it?\u201d Wanda asks.<\/p>\n
I glance at the caller I.D. \u201cFlorida.\u201d I\u2019ll let my dinner settle first. He\u2019ll call back anyway. He always does.<\/p>\n
Matthew cocks his head and looks at me very seriously. \u201cDon\u2019t you like Uncle Roger?\u201d<\/p>\n
The question cuts a swath of revulsion and sadness through me. Memories flash by. Dad lunging and smashing a fist into my brother\u2019s face, the explosion of red and Dad snarling, \u201cYou\u2019re in enough goddamned trouble as it is!\u201d<\/p>\n
Roger crying, pleading, \u201cSend me back to boarding school.\u201d<\/p>\n
If we\u2019d known then what we know now, would it have made any difference? Sometimes I think it might have been easier had my brother stayed dead the first time, but he didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
I miss him every single day.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/span><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u201cDad? Are we American?\u201d I look at William, almost twelve now, the same age I was when my parents sent me away. \u201cAbsolutely,\u201d I say. \u201cIn fact you\u2019re the first natural born American in my family. Do you know what … Continue reading