Familiar stranger

There's something about the girl in front of me that looks familiar, yet distant. Everything about her, outwardly, is Chinese. Her braided hair is ebony, her eyes wide and almond-shaped, her frame petite and lithe. Most people would probably consider her fairly pretty. I don’t. I can’t pinpoint what about her that I don’t like – it’s just the feeling that something is never good enough.

Despite this I want to know her better. I want to say hi but she wouldn’t be able to hear me anyway. So I wave. She waves back tentatively. I step forward, reaching out my hand to her but I’m stopped by a cold barrier of glass I didn’t notice before. I press my hands against the glass and gaze at her. She’s much nearer now; I only notice now how fair her skin is. She’s Chinese, through and through.

We must be completely different. I am nothing like her. I can’t speak Mandarin. I don’t really understand the Chinese culture either. It’s not my business to know; I was born in America, not China. But there’s a sense of longing to learn the vernacular of the Chinese, to blend in with their culture, to be part of their world – to be part of a world.

I’ll never get to know the girl. I haven’t spoken a single word to her, nor will I get to. When we part she will most probably take a plane, return to her group of Asian friends and huddle together, comfortable in a world where everyone is of the same skin and hair colour.

***

The girl sighs and steps back from the mirror, tucking her black hair behind her ear. Then she turns around with her back facing you, so that all you see is a lone silhouette, fragile in a dark cavernous room.