By Emilie Galindo
GalINdo, I corrected.
Fanning out that middle syllable.
Fans.
Like the ones displayed in papi’s bookshelf–my maman’s papa–fanned out.
The ones I then displayed on my shelf.
The ones maman folded after I was kicked out.
Like she always folded that middle syllable.
Mais t’es française, non? Their mouth pressing harder on the question mark’s dot.
Yes, I am, French.
So, why the fuss?
Isn’t it cosmetic at this point?
Cosmetic like papi’s round nose. Round. Salient. Blunt. Like a butter knife. On all three of us. Can
still scrape you.
Cosmetic like his face framed by the silver of his aviator glasses.
His potbellied and vertically-challenged figure framed by suspenders. Crossing him in the back.
Like her asymmetrical lips. A lower lip made pouty by the almost absent upper one. Her slightly
protruding lower jaw. The comma shaped scar that takes up most of her forearm.
Cosmetic like stripes. Horizontal or vertical. Falling in line with stripes. Or lineage. Or the non-
existent hyphen of French identity.
That non-existent hyphen. Instead a flagpole my papi used to hurt others with. Until there was no
one to hurt but himself.
That non-existent hyphen. Maman tied the I & N together. She reckoned, the only way was
forward, and these two wild horses had to be made to pull in the same direction.
That non-existent hyphen that’s really a line under one identity above all else.
That hyphen that’s the ribs of the fan.
The whole thing’s French drenched…
I see my thoughts’ tail flapping
in the puddle formed by the words
Papi always had a puddle nearby. To bathe in anise scented Mediterranean homesickness.
Maman always had seashells nearby. And lighthouses and barks and fish. Even though she didn’t
like seafood and couldn’t swim. Drenched with the salt of the sea. Salt that came with an inherited
wound.
I see the little fan-like tail grow out
grow eyes
dovetailing
grow into a peacock’s tail.
She’s been published a few times now, but hasn’t cracked the art of the bio yet. She’s cousin Greg awkward with a touch of Phoebe’s cheerful oversharing. Yes, she is one of those people whose favourite game is identifying where she’s seen that actor before.
Hot Pot Magazine 