Mutt
There was once a girl who was trapped in a bottle. That girl was me, and that bottle was my salvation.
This bottle which I speak of is no spectacular sight. Sometimes, I can’t even remember what it looked like. Most of the time, though, I can close my eyes and see it with my mind’s eye as if the bottle actually lay in my hands again. I have this hunch that it wasn’t the bottle or the scene inside of it that made the difference. The difference came from a force within those glass walls, which also dwelt in me!
The bottle itself was about six inches in length. It was crafted from heavy glass. Between the two legs of the stand was a tiny sign which read: “Place this souvenir away from hot places.” Although the bottle itself was beautiful, it was the souvenir’s contents that I remember best. In the bottle, there lay a tiny scene, A lone palm tree crafted of paper stood tall, although drooping with paper coconuts. In the center of the bottle, stood a straw hut which was raised above the rich, brown soil. Beside the hut, there stood two tiny people, wearing colorful clothes and straw hats. Sloppily pasted to the side of the hut was a minuscule sign which simply said, “Philippines.” It may seem silly to you, but it was this small bottle that I grew to love and cherish; it was this miniature scene which changed my life.
I received the bottle as a Christmas present from one of my friends. She had gone to the Philippines for two weeks, and she brought back the bottle for me as a souvenir. That was how I thought of it at the time, just a souvenir from some foreign country.
In fifth grade, a girl once asked me what I was. I told her proudly that I was half Filipina, quarter Italian, and quarter French. The girl nodded knowingly and informed me that I was a mutt. This remark made me horribly insecure. I tried to become more of each race by taking up each language, talking to relatives, studying books, and learning new recipes. This was too much. Being a mix was so tiring that I decided to forget it all together. I made up my mind to become American — and nothing else. I surrounded myself in American food, clothes, music and tradition. I pushed away my heritage, and slowly, I became ashamed of it. When people asked me what I was, I answered that I was simply American. If they persisted, I would tell them that I couldn’t remember what I ‘was’ specifically. The scary part is that I really was beginning to forget.
In sixth grade, I took a class called “Family Life”. In the first chapter of the textbook, the author described America as a melting pot. The book seemed to think this was wonderful, but I had different ideas. I imagined myself in a huge pot with thousands of other kids my age. We were all different, yet we were melting and blending together. Everyone was stripped of their uniqueness as it floated, like steam, out of the pot and evaporated. We all melted into a huge American kid with TV eyes, a smart mouth, and no culture of his own. This image frightened me so very much that I pushed it away and brought other aspects of my life to mind. One after another, stunning pictures ran through my thoughts, creating an eye-opening blur. The realization struck me right there and then — I was lost, for I had already melted!
I became very dejected in the month after I discovered the truth about myself . I was confused and torn. I felt like a nobody because I didn’t belong. It was on a gloomy day, while cleaning my room and drowning in self-pity, that I stumbled upon the bottle.
The moment I picked it up, I could swear that the souvenir conveyed a sense of belonging. I sat and studied it closely. I had never been to the Philippines, seen a house on stilts, or even seen a coconut tree, for that matter. Yet, there was a part of me in that scene. It was a part that I had long forgotten, and I was just beginning to remember again. This abandoned self had been trapped in that bottle, all the while I was trying to become someone else. Seeing that bottle, holding it in my hands, I could feel my true self surging back into me, banishing all that had tried to take its place. Day after day, I came back to observe the scene, for it made me feel whole; it made me feel like I belonged.
One night, I sat in my favorite chair, holding the bottle while I looked at the scene. No matter how many times I cast my eyes upon it, the scene still seemed to be new and exciting. No matter how many times I held the bottle in my hands, the smoothness of the glass seemed to conduct that lovely feeling of wholeness. I fell asleep that night to the comfort of belonging.
I was awakened by a sudden crash in the morning. It took me a minute to realize that the bottle was no longer clutched in my hands. There it lay, shattered at my feet. The house was smashed, along with the palm tree. The two people lay in tatters side by side. Most saddening of all was the little Philippines sign, which had broken into three pieces and now lay buried in shards of smashed glass. Despite the sharp edges, I laid down on top of the mess. I’m still not sure why I did this. I guess I was trying to soak up what little of the feeling that was left. Without even realizing it, I began to cry. I didn’t try to stop myself, as I usually do. I let the tears flow freely down my cheeks, giving me a weird sort of ticklish sensation, which helped to numb the pain and shock. I’m not sure how long I sobbed. I remember crying for the shattered bottle and the destroyed scene, but most of all, for my belonging, which had escaped yet again.
Unlike the last few times, I tried to find help as soon as I recovered. I ended up calling my grandma on the phone. She’s the smartest person I know. We’ve always been pretty close, so it wasn’t hard for me to talk about my problem. Before I knew it, I had blurted out my whole story and broke down crying again. After she had calmed me down, my grandma told me something I will never forget. This is what she said: ‘Nicole, America is a melting pot, but you must learn to accept this. No matter how much you think you may be melting, or how much you want to melt, there will always be Filipina, French, and Italian deep inside you. You can never get rid of this. It may seem a curse, being three races at once, but it is actually a gift. You will learn so much. Hmm, the bottle, the bottle. It seems to me that the bottle was your physical representation of belonging. Feeling the glass and gazing upon that scene was a way of getting in touch with your heritage. All you have to do now is learn to reach into your self to touch your culture because you have more belonging in yourself than a glass bottle could ever hold!’
I wish to finish my story simply. Pages upon pages could be written about my feelings and the hardships that took place after this conversation, but I don’t think that this is necessary. I will leave any questions for the imagination to answer. For now, I have a mere two sentences, which sum up everything I’ve just told you.
There was once a girl who was trapped inside herself. That girl was me, and a glass bottle set me free.
