I came home from my weekend ritual of sacrifice, as I do every Sunday morning. On the alter I place bagels, cream cheese, bacon, lox, and coffee, in a bid to appease my stomach god (and to help bring in a good summer harvest, hahah). Sometimes I’ll leave a copy of the weeks Economist for his amusement, because even stomach gods like to know whats going on in the world. As I sat in the worlds most uncomfortable recliner and watched the baseball highlights from the night before(the Twins won again to keep pace in the central, Go Twinkies!!!), I could tell my sacrifice pleased my stomach god. He was lulled back into slumber, his monstrous roars stifled and replaced by the low gurgle of bile churning. Then came the noise.

Circular saws screaming, hammers pounding, air compressors……….umm…….compressing(if you have ever heard one you know what I’m talking about, its a rather annoying sound). From my perch atop said uncomfortable recliner I could see my father finishing up the structural part of the addition he is putting on the house. Toiling away in the warm summer sun my father, brother, and uncle work on this addition together and I am the outsider.

Never one to shy away from the swinging of a hammer, it must be said that I also do not seek out such actions. My little brother always had a knack much like my father, for building things and getting their hands dirty. Not that I myself am a Nancy, I was just never interested. Music, books, fashion, technology, all peaked my interest. These things always kept me at an arms length from my father and my brother. Our interests just could not have been more different. That is not to say that neither party tried to garner interest in the others likings but there comes a point when you just throw your hands up and concede defeat. Many a summer was spent learning to hammer, cut, measure, and construct, but try as I might I was never as good as my little brother who was obviously cut from the same genetic mold as my father. Well duh you might say. You’re adopted, of course your going to be different. But I wanted so much to be like them.

So now that the football season is over, my weekends seem somewhat aimless. So amidst the dross that is football-less weekends and after I saw my Twins highlight I decided I would step out and see how the addition was coming. My father stepped back, to observe his achievement, proud of his work. And we talked for a bit.

“So your mom tells me you feel left out, because your different, because of where we live. Is that why you are going to Hawaii?”

Left out? What the fuck does that mean. Where did she come up with left out? So I asked him what he meant by left out.

“Because your different. Because you want to be near more Asians.”

Well I’m glad we got that out of the way. I am so pleased we have come to the conclusion that I am so clearly different than 99% of the community in which we live. Let’s go ahead and rejoice because I just don’t fit in. And because I am running back to my “People”. Yeah thats it.

Actually it is kind of it isn’t it. But the lack of discovery in his tone makes me feel this way. It’s not the inherent truths in the aesthetic or the fact that the time is just plain right for me to go out on my own that makes my blood start to boil just a bit. It is the fact that I can stare you in the face and explain to you exactly what it is that makes me want to leave this place and you still wont get it. It’s the fact that the things I hold dear and the answers I seek no longer fit the mold that you have cast over me. And yes part of it is that I can stare at you and see little of me, not only physically (well nothing physically really) but our eyes gaze upon this world in different shades of light. That is out most discernible difference.

If I were cut from your biological cloth this would most likely not be an issue. We wouldn’t have conversations about me being different, or feeling “left out”. Even if I wore all black, had piercings all over my face, and had one of those stupid emo haircuts, we wouldn’t have talks like this. But I am not from you. You bought me knowing what I was and what I would be. I suppose I’ll always be “left out” and “different” no matter how good I become at putting nails into wood or finding the correct angle to cut at.

The final nail was pounded flush into the wood connecting the joists. My construction career is over for now. So I guess all there is left to is piss off back to my “people”. Maybe then I wont be so “left out”.

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