A personal essay by Mattea Chipman
“Identity cannot be found or fabricated but emerges from within when one has the courage to let go.”-Doug Cooper
“Wait,” I thought. “I didn’t sign up for Craig.”
I pondered that for a long time afterwards. Are we all just splitting images and personalities of our parents? How much do our families define us?
If I am half of each of my parents I am one of those dollar toy stretchy monkeys, one arm holding onto a cliff, one arm holding to the bank on the other side of a canyon. Stretched thin and dangling in the center.
My family is the definition of opposites attract.
It all started at the wedding. It was a disaster, and then a party.
My parents got married in Mom’s home country of Samoa. The day before the wedding, Dad found out his family was in charge of a dance. They all panicked, even the cow lost its nerve and ran away before they could kill it for the feast.
Mom cried through the whole ceremony. Dad says he still doesn’t know if they were happy tears or sad ones. She cried until one of her bridesmaids fainted because of the heat. Then she laughed and didn’t stop.
Dad’s family danced, Mom did a taualuga (a traditional Samoan wedding dance), and everyone exclaimed the food was amazing. Despite Grand-Canyon-big differences, they have been married for 24 years.
Mom is always moving.
Going to work with her mismatched socks because it’s Silly Sock Day at her elementary school, talking on the phone with her sisters and laughing with her high pitched cackle, cooking delicious meals with the random food found in the pantry.
Her outfits consist of flowy floral tops with bright solid colored capris. Sometimes turquoise blue, sometimes sunshine yellow. On lazy days, she wears muumuus from Goodwill and crocs from Walmart. On Sundays, she wears a blue floral maxi dress with navy buttons down the front like a river flowing all the way to her toes.
She has lovely dark brown skin and strong hands that are still rough from growing up on an island. Mom keeps her hair shoulder length and it’s beginning to have white streaks like veins of marble encased in obsidian rock.
Dad is a rare sight away from home.
He is usually found sitting quietly, contemplating and writing in his black leather notebook, jotting down random thoughts and ideas.
Like the idea to have a family ‘university’ where we all share ideas and wisdom we have learned. We all got sweatshirts that Christmas sporting a coat of arms and the words “Chipman University” but it never got further than that.
As Mom says, Dad has aged well. His eyes are bright and vivid with life. His hair has grown thinner but is still a great solid brown.
His features have changed, but his wardrobe hasn’t. Same button down shirts, same worn down blue jeans and same tall white socks with holes in the big toe. Same faded grey baseball caps, pullovers with missing strings, and chunky, grass-stained white sneakers.
I would carry my latest novel to the luaus we danced for and read any chance I got. In the summers, we would attempt to learn Samoan in between swimming lessons, lunch in the park, and trips down the river.
One set of grandparents was darker than the other, but I loved them both just the same.
It wasn’t till one summer when I started to take notes.
We were at a water park with Mom’s side when my cousin pulled back my swimsuit strap to check my tan. “Not dark enough yet cuz!” He said chuckling, “Just a little darker and then we can call you family.” I wasn’t offended. I wanted to be darker too, but it reminded me of just a few weeks before when my sister and I were praised at Dad’s family reunion for having “beautiful dark skin tones.”
It wasn’t that the differences were bad, but they were big. Reunions were always polar opposites, but fun in their own ways.
At Dad’s family reunions we sit around a big kitchen table playing Phase 10 and passing around a bowl of peanut M&Ms. On sunny days, we go on a hike together, enjoy the fresh air of the mountains and bonding with cousins we haven’t seen in years.
Echoes of “How old are you again?” and “Remember the summer when...” would bounce around the canyon as we clambered closer and closer to heaven. In the evenings, there was always a sports game, ultimate frisbee, soccer, or football. One football game was so memorable that we talked about it at every family reunion afterwards.
At Mom’s family reunions we would cook and cook and then eat and eat. After that, Grandpa Te’o would sit us all down and give a long speech as we cousins sat in a circle on the floor around him. He would then nudge Grandma Te’o until she gave a small speech, and then it was the aunts’ and uncles’ turn to speak and give gratitude. One to two hours later we would end with a closing hymn, almost always “O Le Tala’iga Moni” (we grandkids had that one memorized) and a prayer.
Next, we would clean and clean and my cousin would clear the floor and set up his DJ equipment and we would shake the house with our music, dancing, and laughter.
But, as I got older, all the differences became bigger, widening the chasm.
I started to forget some memories and glorify others. I liked being distinguished as Samoan. I liked that people found my sister and I exotic and rare.
I hid my books and went to BYU Hawaii. I focused on Polynesian dancing and learning Samoan. I cringed every time I had to say “I’m from Idaho” and smiled every time someone said “I don’t believe you! That can’t be true!”
Not realizing it, I was clinging to one ledge while the other arm was a small string stretching far and barely reaching the other side.
Trying to live like this and figuring out a major was rough. My sister was already knee deep in Pacific island studies and psychology classes that emphasized the Pacific islands. I took credit-draining Polynesian dance classes and fiddled around with anthropology, business, and social work.
And then, on a whim, I took a creative writing class.
It wasn’t Polynesian-like at all. But I loved it.
One day, my English professor read “Litany” by Billy Collins and my life was forever changed. It finally gave me some direction. The poem's words hit a special part of me. The lines “You are not even close/ to being the field of cornflowers at dusk. ” and “I also happen to be the shooting star/ the evening paper blowing down an alley” stuck in my brain like a catchy song.
It made me wonder what was in Billy’s head, what he was thinking and expressing.
It reminded me of why I loved reading as a child, how I could get lost in a book all day and how one book could change the way I thought of small things, like clocks and lightning and the possibilities of magic.
This poem did the same thing.
The first poem I ever wrote was an imitation poem, using the poem “Litany” as a blueprint. It didn’t turn out as mystical, but I liked that I understood it completely, while others didn’t. I was so proud afterwards, and I still count it as one of my best works.
After hearing that poem, and trying to write one myself, I discovered that I wanted to write. I wanted the power to move and excite others. I wanted people to read my works and sit silently afterwards, with a cup of tea and a warm blanket, maybe looking at a beautiful sunset or a restless ocean, contemplating my words and finding new meaning in the small things.
I wanted to become an English major.
But I had doubts. This was a very American, white kind of major. A major for nerds. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be classified as an English major. But, thank goodness, I looked past that and did it anyways.
For the next two years I was all over the place, living in Thailand for 18 months and connecting with my Asian side (My maternal grandmother is half Chinese.) I had fun telling people that I was part Asian. I learned a new culture and loved a new kind of people.
It was a nice break from my culture confusion. No one even knew what Samoa was so I had no pressure to act Polynesian. There, I was just another clueless American.
Coming home threw me right back into the midst of things.
My parents put on a huge party for both me and my sister (who was away on little island in the Pacific called New Caledonia). Family flocked to us from every direction.
After a huge party of food, dancing, reminiscing, and fun, we all collapsed at our house. As I was doing dishes, I listened to Mom’s family talk about the night. They started making fun of Dad’s family, imitating their dance moves and egging each other on.
I started shaking, I was so angry.
I knew if I said something I would be associated with my white side forever afterwards. I also knew I would be made fun of behind my back.
“Isn’t my white side just as much a part of me as my brown side?” I thought,
“Don’t they realize those people they are making fun of are just as much a part of me as they are?” So I said something.
“Hey, I thought they danced really well. Wasn’t it cool that everyone had so much fun?”
No one saw that coming, especially from me. They were shocked into silence, and soon changed the subject.
That encounter was a big change for me.
All those past years, I realized I was trying too hard to fit into my brown side, tanning enough so they would accept me, obsessing about my outfits so I didn’t look too “white,” hiding my love of books and reading when they were around so I didn’t look like a nerd.
But, I had finally stood up for my white family, and my brown family still loved and accepted me, and probably respected me more for speaking up.
To quote my favorite poem,
"And a quick look in the mirror will show
That you are neither the boots in the corner
Nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.”
Being an English major might be nerdy but I have come to fully embrace and love it. It has taught me to look at everything with a wider lens.
I realize now that there was no canyon and I was not a sticky monkey. In fact, it wasn’t even a river, it was a small stream and I was human. Now the differences are there but they are inconsequential. I’m not stuck in the middle, I calmly rest with my feet in the stream enjoying a book and pondering on the meaning of the small things.
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