Metamorphosis

by Michelle Duckworth

What makes me, me? My heredity? my dark brown almond-shaped eyes? my raven-colored hair? my heart-shaped lips? my petite stature? the two moles on my lower left cheek? or is it the food I eat? the alcohol I drink? the strain I smoke? the air I breathe? the clothes I wear? the music I listen to? the books I read? films I watch? pictures I take? ideas I formulate? stuff I write about? cities I've visited? landscapes I've painted? languages I speak? animals and people I interact with? my memories? my past lives? my zodiac sign? my place in the universe? my continent? my nationality? my ancestry? my family? my friends? my history? my traumas? my pains? my loves? lips I've kissed? skins I've touched? organs that've penetrated mine? my sex? my gender? my consciousness? the microcosm? the cosmos? gravity? force? energy? my species? my brain? my neurons? my cells? my atoms? my soul?...lately, I'm not so sure. I am a fish outta water, threading through space time...and a crowded plaza...over there, a fountain. Over there, lovers kissing. Over there, a narrow alleyway where I walked and walked and walked and walked and walked until I saw a bright orange sign that says, "CoCo Fresh Tea & Juice." There's no line. Strange. There's not much customers. Strange. Only five or six inside, mostly Asians.

A Japanese dork welcomed me, took my order, "Un té con leche con tapioca extra por favor." I heard foreign words escape my tongue. Was that really me speaking? Strange. The Japanese dork smiled at me, took my order, took my cash, and then asked me to wait at one of the plush pink sofas. I chose the one next to the clean big mirror so I can take a better look at my surroundings.

I eavesdropped conversations. The two ladies who sat behind me spoke Japanese and the two others who sat far far behind spoke Taglish. I tried to find my home in that tiny space but I couldn't. The sofas were too kawaii, the color of the walls were too pastel, the Asians...well, were too ABGs.

I came there for boba tea and boba tea only. But it felt nothing like home. I could surround myself with millions of Asians and still feel lonely. But I didn't feel alone when I was with Stevie, or Ivan, or Lucas, Albina, Tayda. Perhaps I've picked up scents of home, a part of myself, in these people. Like the smell of weed on Stevie's sweatshirt, the smell of cigarettes on Albina's trench coat, Ivan's inked skin, Lucas' inquisitiveness, and Tayda's youthful glow. They—a Serbian, Catalan, Italian, Russian, and (a part) Ecuadorian—are my people, my home now.

I've changed. Completely.