“Good question.” Ash laughs at me trying to sort out the family puzzle. “Depends on what business deal is in front of me and who’s cooking.”
This is the craziest story of an ethnic mash-up I’ve ever heard, and I don’t even know what flavor Ash’s wife is yet.
“What about you? You don’t look like the typical light-skinned sister. You have your own mixture going on yourself.” Ash takes his turn to interrogate me.
I’ve had similar exchanges about my ethnic makeup many times in my life, but I feel a kinship discussing my background with Ash. It’s the intent of the question that comes from a person of melanated skin that inspires safety in my answering. I know there is no harm meant. The curiosity of passengers in my cart at SFO who have asked about my cultural specifics is something that inevitably gets my guard up. I don’t know what category they are attempting to place me into that might trigger a change in their demeanor, tone, vibe, or all three. The anticipation of judgment makes me disordered. There’s just no grace in being asked some version of “What are you?” when you first meet someone.
“I would guess you are more than Black,” Ash hedges. “You look ...”
“Ethnically ambiguous?”
Ash laughs again at the term I fill in for him, just as Zwena always does.
“I was going to say Filipino. Or no, maybe more Latina.”
I put my finger on my nose and point to Ash. “Bingo. But not what you typically think of with a West Coast Latina. I grew up in San Francisco, but I’m from the East Coast.” I smile at Ash, inviting him to postulate on my pedigree with a few seconds of silence.
“I’m Afro-Puerto Rican by way of the Bronx. Though we did grow up attending a Mexican-heavy mass, it stuck more with my brothers than with me. The Catholic church’s stance on women, reproductive rights, and, well, creationism never sat solid with the scientist in me.”
Ash studies my face for a few seconds, and I squirm a bit under his scrutiny. I can’t figure out what he’s trying to see as he stares across the table, so I add a bit more familial clarification. “I’m the Livy in the Arroyo family, the light one. My brothers are darker like you.”
“Ah. Livy’s also more Jewish than me.” Ash adds to his own story, to relate to mine. “In Judaism, religious lineage passes down through the mother. And Livy’s dad was more than happy to let my aunt take the lead on spiritual education as long as they could spend summers in Norway.”
“Catholicism is a very patriarchal religion, and I picked apart the messages that had to do with women. My mother claims I was obstinate even in Sunday school when I questioned our teacher about the absence of dinosaurs in the Bible, so she knew what was coming when I heard about Eve in the garden.” Ash and I share a grin.
“The teachings always sat better with my father and brothers than with me, but I would argue that Adam came out the hero of that story, so I guess the boys had nothing to complain about.” I enjoy another laugh from Ash at my joke and notice how engaging his smile is, a lot like my father’s. “Though I do miss going to church with my dad.”
“I’d call myself more mixed-ish. I go to temple with my grandmother for the High Holidays, and Bubbe hosts a Passover celebrationevery year that I never miss.” Ash’s face grows somber. “It was supposed to be last week.” A weighty silence fills the kitchen, seeming to mark the winding down of our conversation.
At the mention of Passovers past, Ash falls into a sullen mood. It makes me sad after our effortlessly engaging conversation. I know I shouldn’t offer him a hug, but I want to. Not only is it awkward, I’m pretty sure his wife wouldn’t appreciate it. Maybe putting my hands over his, folded on the table, might offer some solace. Before I can decide, Ash switches the subject.
“Anyway, I’ve kept you here too long, and your girls are probably wondering where you are.”
How does he know I have daughters?
In an attempt to clean up, I sweep chip crumbs off the table into my hand and follow Ash’s conversational detour. “So, how does Mrs. Eisenberg know Steve Jobs?”
“This is a good one. In 1980, at the height of its success, my grandmother convinced my grandfather it was the right time to sell Maxwell Street Records. She was ready to be done with Chicago’s brutal winters and flat landscape and wanted to move to the warmer hills of Northern California. Like I said, she was the brains of the business, and the marriage.”
Mrs. Eisenberg’s life story, as told by her grandson, is better than any tycoon tell-all I have ever read.
“Once settled out here, my grandmother invested in a little-known produce company to honor her uncle Harry risking his life selling fruit to put food on the table. That company was Apple.”
MAY
MONDAY, MAY 6
5:18 p.m. (Ash)
At airport. Flight to LA is delayed. Any chance you’re here and we can grab a drink?
“Am I here? Is he asking if I’m flying someplace also? Does it weird him out to know someone who works here?” I put my phone screen six inches in front of Zwena’s face so she, too, can read.
“Or are you overthinking this text? And what the hell is ‘weird him out’?” Zwena asks, pushing the phone away from her nose. I, however, read it again. And then one more time.
“It means does it bother him that this is what I do for a living,” I explain in the midst of my overanalysis. “What do I do? I mean, how can it not weird him out? Look at his life”—I point to my cart—“and then look at mine.”
“What weirds me out is you letting Simon cook dinner at your house Friday night. Get divorced already.” Zwena has had no tolerance for me allowing the Buddha bum back into my life. “What you should do is meet that man,” she says, indicating Ash by pointing at my screen. “Text back and tell him to have coffee with you in the international terminal. Your boss never goes over there.” Zwena nods downthe concourse. “Even I know it’s bad to drink on the job. And for you it’s bad to drink on the couch too.”
