Nineteenth Lovely

It was a calm Saturday, a break day for me. I had already spent a good part of the day drinking coffee and reading whatever young adult romance novels I could grab my hands on. Normally, I would've avoided these kinds of books seeing how old they made me feel. Everyone was younger than me by about a decade. It was a nice reminder that I was growing out of the life stage. Also, the romance was always something I'd never really understood. All their relationships worked out, and honestly, I needed a magic spell like that.
But I didn't have that. So here I was, a forty-one-year-old single dad searching for a second chance at love. I didn't necessarily pity myself. I married my one true love. Had two kids with her. Became an artist despite the whole family kicking me to the curb for it. And look, we still had a nice roof over our head. A small rowdy pup chasing his tail at my feet, a moody teenager upstairs in his room--blasting his music for Canada to hear, and a small child charging for me from the hall. "Daddy! I need help!"
Couro's tiny hands landed on my arm as she stopped for a breather. "Help...!"
"What is it?" Instead of just telling me, she proceeds to grab my hand and pull me up. I let my book slip out my hand--which page I was on wasn't too irrelevant--and hopped to my feet. We then rushed over to the kitchen where Couro's project was sprawled over the dining table. She climbed up into a chair while I explored the papers on the tabletop.
"We're doing this project at my school." Couro handed me the rubric. A bright purple paper with pencil scribbles over the borders. It was a chart--a checklist. "It's meant to be a presentation on your family's culture."
"Culture, huh?"
She nodded. "Just...I don't know where to start."
"Well..." I flipped the paper over and saw a poster with a few bullet points that looked like suggestions. One of them was 'food' in bold black. "Do you know what mechoui is?" I half smiled, remembering when Kutu and I would make mechoui together. She always made a big show of it in an effort to perfect it. She would invite her sister, a few friends, and had me bring out the grill for a day talking in the lamb roast smoke. Our grass would always smell of paprika and cumin the day after. I was more than excited to recreate that with Couro and Gora. I smiled at my daughter, "It's pretty tasty and should be a good place to go from."
Still, she made a face. "I kinda wanted to do a holiday."
"Oh." Disappointed, I sat down. I hadn't celebrated a Mauritaranian holiday in years. Honestly, I wasn't big on any of them and just made a show for family on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Kutu had been the exact opposite. Every holiday, down to St. Patrick's Day, she would wake up early and fill the day with joy. She was the one that got me to celebrate Mawlid al-Nabi again. "Did I ever tell you about Mawlid?"
She shook her head. "Does Gora know?"
"He should." I had a distinct memory of the three of us celebrating a couple years back. "Gora!" I waited a minute--no answer. "Gora!" Still nothing. I got up and marched over to the staircase. "Gora!" Absolutely nothing. Sighing, I looked back at Couro. "Guess we're going to his room." She slid out of her chair and followed me up the stairs.
Through his door, I could hear a faint beat of whatever music was playing. I knocked on the door a few times and waited. After a minute, I knocked a second time, much louder and somewhat irritated. "Come in!" As Couro and I filed in, Gora sat in his chair, fingers on his phone. The music's volume went down and his headphones came off. "Hey."
Leaning on the dresser by his bed, I crossed my arms. "Why didn't you answer?"
Unbothered, he glanced up at me, "Sorry, didn't hear you."
Before I could get anything else out, Couro spoke up, "What's Mawlid?" Immediately, his face scrunched up.
"Why?"
"So you do know."
"Mom taught me. We celebrated it." He paused then looked dead at me. "I haven't celebrated in forever."
"Me neither," I muttered.
Couro stood by his chair and tugged on Gora's hand. Breaking our eye contact, he looked over at her. "My project is to present my family's culture."
"Then why is Mawlid necessary?"
Taken aback, I refuted, "It's a part of Mauritaranian culture."
"So?" I looked back at me. "Call me rude, but that's not exactly our culture, now is it? Culture is a way of life, isn't it?"
"Well, yes--"
"Our way of life is the American way of life. Our culture is American culture. We grew up here. We eat burgers and fries once a week, hang up stars and stripes everywhere, and think personal space is the best thing since sliced bread."
"Personal space is nice," Couro nodded.
"I know it is. Not once has Mawlid been brought up in this household since Mom's death. You don't even celebrate anymore. Saying it's a part of how we live is a blatant lie."
Neither Couro or I responded for a few minutes. Eventually, I managed to sputter out, "I don't know what you want me to do."
"Nothing. I'm just saying. Couro and I, we're not Mauritaranian."
"It's in your blood, Gora. I was born in Moka and Kutu in Surinam. We're both Mauritaranian, so both our kids are."
"No. You were born and raised there, right? But you came to America almost thirty years ago. You can't tell me some of your 'pure African' hasn't worn off since then."
Ticked, I went over to his table and bent over him. "It doesn't 'wear off,' it's in me."
"Genetically, yes. Culturally, no."
"The difference?"
"I was raised in Little Rock. I am an Alabaman. Couro was born in Little Rock and was raised there. She is an Alabaman. You are a Mauritaranian Alabaman. If anything, our family culture should be Alabaman culture."
I looked him up and down, flabbergasted. "So you're rejecting your roots now?"
"No, my roots are in Mauritania."
"So what's your point?"
"I am in Alabama."
"You're in Georgia," I spat.
"Whatever." Gora waved his hand in my face as he got up from his chair. He fell onto the bed, glued to his phone. "Get out, would you."