Average Joe

“Look at him, my golden boy,

even then taking care of his sister,”

my mother crows downstairs.

Someone has arrived for coffee.

-

She says these words

whenever someone new enters

the family home.

I sip my tea and listen.

-

I know she is pointing to me—five years old,

gripping my sister’s hand

the day we came to this country.

She mistook my need for comfort for bravery.

-

“I named him Pradeep because

he is the lantern of my heart,

light of my life.”

-

Always this pronouncement—

praise, I suppose,

but a weight on my shoulders,

nonetheless.

-

I did not ask for this name,

this title.

I wish she’d named me

Average Joe.

-

Average Joe’s family did not sacrifice everything

for him;

they simply

lived.

-

As Pradeep,

I do not have that luxury.

I must be the one to make their sacrifices

turn to gold.

-

So I learned to read with government forms,

maintained the perfect GPA,

went to college, medical school, residency,

bought them this house,

bought my own.

-

“Pradeep,” I think, bitterness on my tongue.

“The genie in the lantern.

When my name means only

the lantern itself.”

-

I have tried to do everything my mother expects,

and yet—

she is downstairs, wondering aloud

if her guest might have a daughter, a friend, a woman

of any kind,

to give her the grandbabies she needs from me.

-

Across town, the man I love is sleeping,

his hair sticking out

in all directions,

as if he had been electrocuted in his sleep.

-

This man I cannot tell my mother about,

because she does not believe

in people like me.

-

I cannot, will not,

tell my mother about him,

because I have spent my whole life striving

to live up to my name.

But I cannot, will not,

say 'yes' to the marriages

my mother continues to propose,

because of the man with electricity for hair.

-

I wish I could let his hundred-watt smile

light her world instead.

-

That would be the story,

if she had named me...

Average Joe.