Golam

My mother told me that as a child, if I were ever lost, all she would need to do was look toward the nearest field. There I’d be, lying on the grass, counting flower petals. My mesmerization of the natural world, how to be a good sister and why my mom loved yellow took priority. I didn’t contemplate the implications of my cultural identity — I wasn’t conscious of it.

That is, until one day I was lying in my elementary school’s garden, and a shadow hovered over my hand-picked daisy.

“Aren’t these flowers pretty? My dad calls me golam. His pretty flower.”

“You are really pretty,” the boy responded. “Well, except for your nose.”

I looked at him, confused and speechless. He stared back with a complete, almost innocent neutrality. It was a sincere remark that he stated as if it were an indi