Mirrored

apologies to Rafael Falcon.


I glance, slightly disinterested, at myself in the mirror——nothing unusual there. Dark brown eyes look back at me. I see a face framed by straight, fine hair. The lips are thick and small; the ears and nose are full of angles. My skin is pale now, sprinkled with moles. In summer, my skin tans red—not olive like my sister’s—and freckles dot my nose. My skin shows a beautiful mixture: Swiss, English, German, Lakota and maybe a few drops of something else.

I look a little closer into the mirror. I see my grandma’s pink-backed quilt, made from Amish dress scraps, draped over a chair. Light blue and green polyester stars. The wind-pushed snow knocks hello at the sliding glass door. Mango, the cat, mews at the squirrel sitting by the naked oak tree in the backyard. It is too early for robins, but the cold weather hawk rests on the evergreen’s tip.

My mirror reflects things treasured by the Mennonite, the Amish, the proper English culture. It reveals rich traditions, elegant crafts, and plates and trays and baskets of food. I see Grandma Rosa, stirring three pots at once. Homemade egg noodles in broth, potatoes with garlic and rosemary, spicy sweet sauce for apple dumplings later. Her hips are my hips—confident and bossy, despite the generation gap. I see my Poppie: out with the horses, close up giving me a kiss, in the kitchen popping popcorn on the stove. I see my brother Jacob, named for Poppie, bobbing his head as he plays the marimba, his adopted instrument. I see my sister Anna, who inherited our mother’s skin and unique fashion sense, steal attention with her clever, silly ways. I see my grandpa LeVon, leading hymns at church. His unwavering tenor slides over the congregation. I see my grandma Leota, who is now going blind, picking green beans from the garden, their new puppy Abby at her side. I see myself touch Grandma’s elastic-less olive brown skin, pushing down the tall veins in her slender hands.

Suddenly, I see so many treasured things! As I look deeper into the mirror, geographical boundaries melt away. Times and places blend. I see the slow, low Amish songs mixing with the gospel Mennonite hymns. I see, from my parents and grandparents, the great smorgasbord of food. Homemade Chinese food and our family’s love of rice from my mother’s time in China. Plain hot water from Rosa’s life after the Depression. Homemade bread and jam from the Amish way of life. Popcorn and apples because that is what Poppie grew up eating on Sunday nights. A love for spicy foods from my dad’s time in Latin America. Canned and frozen vegetables stored in the basement, because that’s just what is done.

I look even further. I see Poppie’s scarred legs from being burned by lye. I see his mother and siblings surviving on potatoes while his dad and oldest brothers were gone finding a new home. I see his dark skin, his high cheekbones, his confident build, his suspected Lakotan blood. I see Grandma Rosa’s blue eyes and dark hair, proud of her Swiss heritage. I see Grandma Leota’s dark skin, her tall thin build, the Middle Eastern blood that somehow snuck into her family’s pure English line by way of a wandering man and his rebellious lady. I see the proof of these in the richness of the food, the love of travel, the need to learn that which has not yet been explored.

I look into the mirror and see much more than my reflection. I see that I am more than my brown hair, my brown eyes, my finicky skin. Wherever I go, I can carry myself with pride, knowing I come from beautiful people with rich, powerful stories. The mirror shows me that my reflection is just a small sample of the beautiful, rich heritage of who I come from, what I am.