A Scottish DreamI was ten years old when my mother first told me that I was Scottish. We were living in Maine at the time, and I was too upset with school to think about my heritage. I remember I was sitting at our wooden table, boiling myself into a pile of steaming coals over an IXL assignment. My mom was next to me, grading her students' papers.
"Honey?" She said, softly. "I have a surprise for you."
I looked up, excitedly, hoping that she'd take out a laptop or maybe a kitten. But she just bit her lip and asked a question. "Can you do your Scottish accent?"
See, I'm really good at accents. I can do British, Scottish, Irish, Italian, French, Spanish, Arabian, and stereotypical Asian. But my mom never took much interest. So I sighed and put down my pencil. "Ya? Is this what ye want me to do, lass?" I said, all the while speaking in a thick Scottish accent. My mom smiled and nodded.
"May, my surprise comes in a few parts. The first part is the news that you have Scottish heritage." she told me. My mouth dropped open.
"Seriously?" I asked, and when she nodded, I pumped my fist into the air. "Awesome!" I said, grinning.
"That's not all..." she whispered. She then reached into her pocket and fished around in there for a while before handing me a rectangular piece of card stock with a scored edge. I gasped.
"We... we're going to Scotland?" I squealed. She nodded. "Oh my God!" I began running around in circles, my face stretched so tight in a smile that I was worried it'd split in half.
"Well... not really going." My mom said matter-of-factly. "We're moving there."