Marisol MacDonald Doesn’t Match
My name is Marisol MacDonald, and I don’t match. At least, that’s what everyone tells me. I play soccer with my cousin Tato, and he says, Marisol, your skin is brown like mine, but your hair is the color of carrots.
You don’t match. Actually, my hair is the color of fire, I say, and kick the ball over Tato’s head and into the goal. My brother says, Marisol, those pants don’t match that shirt.
They clash. But I love green polka dots and purple stripes. I think they go great together.
Don’t you? Clash. Colors or patterns that clash look strange or ugly together. I also love peanut butter and jelly burritos, and speaking Spanish, English, and sometimes both.
Can I have a puppy? A furry, sweet perrito, I ask my parents. Por favor. Quizás, Mommy says.
Maybe, Dad says, smiling and winking. Winking. You are winking when you quickly blink one eye at someone because you share a joke or secret.
My teacher, Ms. Apple, doesn’t like the way I sign my name. Marisol MacDonald, she says. This doesn’t match.
At school, we learn to print and use cursive, but not at the same time. But I like the way Marisol MacDonald looks. At recess, Ollie and Emma want to play Pirates, and Noah wants to play soccer.
How about soccer playing Pirates, I suggest. No way, they say, so I run off to play on the swings by myself. After recess, we have art, my favorite subject.
I think my drawings surprise my friends. Suggest. If you suggest something, you give ideas or plans for someone to think about.
At lunch, Ollie walks over to me and scrunches his nose. A peanut butter and jelly burrito, he asks. I know, I know, I say, it doesn’t match, but it sure tastes good.
Marisol, you couldn’t match if you wanted to, Ollie says. Oh, yeah, I bet I can. Scrunches.
If something scrunches up, it is squeezed or crushed into a different shape. The next day, I wake up and decide that today I, Marisol MacDonald, will match. It’s a little hard to find clothes that are all the same color.
I play Pirates with Ollie at recess, but it’s not very fun. Why can’t Pirates play soccer anyway? I have a regular peanut butter and jelly sandwich at lunch, and the bread tastes mushy. Mushy.
Something that is mushy is soft and squishy. Even art class is a little bit boring. Marisol, Miss Apple says, what’s wrong? This doesn’t look like your usual work.
I’m trying to match, I say with a frown. Why? Asks Miss Apple. I can’t think of a single good reason.
Usual. The usual way to do something is the way that is done most often. At the end of the day, Miss Apple hands me a note.
I open it, and it says, Marisol, I want you to know that I like you just the way you are, because the Marisol MacDonald that I know is a creative, unique, bilingual, Peruvian-Scottish-American, soccer-playing artist, and simply marvelous. Miss Tamiko Apple. I skip all the way home.
Bilingual. People who are bilingual can speak two languages. When I wake up on Saturday, I put on my pink shirt, my polka dot skirt, and my favorite hat, the one my abuelita brought me from Peru.
At breakfast, I say, my name is Marisol MacDonald, and I don’t match because I don’t want to. Bravo, says Mommy. Good for you, says Dad.
Now let’s go to the pound and get a puppy. When we get to the pound, there are big dogs and little dogs. There are dogs with long noses and dogs with smushed faces.
There are chocolate-colored puppies and smoky gray puppies and puppies the color of caramel. How will I ever choose? Then I see him. He has one floppy ear and one pointy ear, one blue eye and one brown eye.
He is beautiful. I walk over, and he leaps into my lap. I cuddle him, and it sounds like he purrs.
I think we found just the right dog for you, Marisol, Mommy says. My puppy is perfect. He’s mismatched and simply marvelous, just like me.
I think I’ll name him Kitty. Mismatched. Things that are mismatched do not fit or belong together.