I’m resigned to the idea that I have freckles.

They aren’t anything that I’ve had all my life, and except for a very light dusting on my sister’s nose, which I think are cute, they aren’t a common feature in my family either. In fact, I didn’t think it was possible that I even could have freckles and thought at first I must be getting liver spots much earlier in life than anyone could possibly expect.

But aside from my southeast Asian and Spanish roots, there’s that bloodline still running through me, the one that comes with my mother’s family name, a name which originates from England and Germany and even has its own crest, blood that gives some of my cousins blue eyes or gray while everyone else in the family must settle for plain old brown.

That bloodline has manifested in me as very faint light brown dots on my skin. They’re so faint you can’t really see them.

That is, you can’t. But I can.

I, who examine the skin on the back of my hand like the compulsive little freak that I am, can see the random pattern of freckles just beneath my skin, like blushing pores or the telltale tiny pinpricks of a slap. They cover me from knuckles to wrists, and they rise up the inner arms where the skin is lighter, unable to hide the imperfections. The skin is still smooth and soft; a blind man would never know my shame. Yet I still remember the horror I felt when I first discovered them.

“Oh, my God, I have liver spots!”

H.E. quickly reassured me on that point. Not liver spots. So I must conclude that they are freckles. Freckles! I went from being Asian to Caucasian, just like that.

I now must go and dye my pigtails red, chew some nails, and call myself Pippi.

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