Jeremiah

My mother is Italian. My father is Caribbean. And our food is a mix of it all just like me.

My mother always says for me to try and understand all sides of people. My father always tells me to listen more than I talk. So with those combined I’ve become the best people watcher there is.

I watch how she drains the pasta and then adds oil so the noodles don’t stick together. Is that an Italian thing? I don’t ask, but it’s probably a side of her she's trying to keep. I listen to my Dad hum while he makes ox tail. His humming sounds like waves hitting a shore of an island he misses. I want to ask him what it was like in St. Croix. But I know that's an emotional topic, and I’ve learned that he’s not a fan of emotions.

But I am.

I like seeing the different ways people express their emotions. My mom smooths her hair when she's nervous, my dad pulls at his pointed beard when he’s feeling tense. My teacher chews her cheek when she's stressed. My best friend Malik brushes his hair over and over with his boar bristle brush when he's controlling his anger. Me? I laugh.

I laugh when I’m angry. I laugh when I’m scared. It's not great, I know. It gets me in a lot of trouble. But that's what happens. I feel my emotions in my stomach and they make me laugh.

My mother says I get it from her father, a fisherman, who would laugh when he’d bring home no fish. My grandmother would shout in Italian for him to “go live in the sea!” And even though he was disappointed too, he’d laugh in response making her more furious. My dad says I get it from his Mother, her last days in the hospital when all the family was in tears, she would laugh saying “Dem tears don’t fool me chile! I’m ready to go!” Although I’m pretty sure she was a bit sad.

Guess that's where I get it from. I’m a mix of it all, and I laugh through it all.