Then she learned that Mama, too, was half-and-half.

At the time, Mama’s lungs were so bad that she was spending most of the day wrapped in the brown and red plaid shawl and huddled in the rocking chair. When she spoke, she had to strain for mouthfuls of air between words. Hanna recalled what Mama had said without those painful gaps.

“China is big, very big. Chinese people are all different, north, south, mountain people, river people, rice people, noodle people. Americans don’t know this. They think all Chinese are the same.”

Mama told Hanna stories about China. About temples and palaces with roofs of gold. About rice that grew in water up to its knees, the greenest green you could ever imagine. About dragons and phoenixes, emperors and princesses, jade and pearls.

Family stories, too. Hanna learned about her grandmother, Mama’s mother, who could embroider flowers and butterflies that you would swear were alive. And her grandfather, a merchant who traveled hundreds of miles every year to gather and sell a precious plant.

“Yansam,” Mama said. She asked for paper and pencil, then wrote a Chinese word and showed it to Hanna. “It looks like a man, head, arms, legs. Grows like a potato.”

“In the ground?” Hanna asked. “Like a root?”

“Root, yes. For medicine.”

Mama pulled the shawl more tightly around her. “Listen,” she said. “I never told you this. My papa? He was not Chinese. He came to China from another place. A beautiful place, a secret place. Called Korea. Americans don’t know that place.”

Hanna frowned, thinking hard. “It’s another country?”

“Yes.”

“So your mama was Chinese, but your papa—”

“Yes. Korean.” Mama smiled at her. “I’m half-half too. Just like you.”

Then she told Hanna some Korean stories. About the rabbit who lived in the moon, the turtle in the Sea King’s palace. How it was Koreans who had invented chopsticks and made the most beautiful pottery in the world. Mama didn’t know very many Korean words; she had spoken Chinese with her parents. But she was still proud of being half-Korean.

“Your name is Hanna because of your grandmother,” Mama said, “your white grandmother.”

Hanna knew that. Papa’s mother, who lived in Tennessee—her name was Hannah.

“But for another reason, too. In Korean, ha-na means one.” Mama held up her index finger. “First daughter. Best, number-one daughter.”

She wrote another Chinese character. “Girl, like me. Half-half, like me. This character means ‘double happiness.’ That’s you. You are my double happiness.”

That memory was an enormous comfort to Hanna—one that she would take with her to school the next day.

When Hanna approached the schoolhouse in the morning, the oldest boys were playing catch in the yard while the younger pupils watched. The biggest girls were likely inside already.

I’m one of the big girls. So I ought to go in.