But we're outside in the sun. my big brother junior hunkered against the wall with his eyes shut. my little brother keeks running around in circles. maybe and most probably my little brother is imagining he's a flying feather dancer, like the ones we saw swinging high up from a pole on the virgin's birthday. i want to be a flying feather dancer too, but when he circles past me he shouts, “i’m a b-fifty-two bomber, you’re a german,” and shoots me with an invisible machine gun. i’d rather play flying feather dancers, but if i tell my brother this, he might not play with me at all.“girl. we can’t play with a  girl.”  girl. it's my brother's favorite insult now instead of “sissy.” “you  girl, they yell at each other. “you throw that ball like a  girl.”i've already made up my mind to be a german when keeks swoops past again, this time yelling, “i'm flash gordon. you’re ming the merciless and the mud people.” i don’t mind being ming the merciless, but i don't like being the mud people. something wants to come out of the corners of my eyes, but i don’t let it. crying is what  girls  do. i leave keeks running around in circles — i'm the lone ranger, you're tonto.” i leave junior squatting on his ankles and go look for the awful grandmother. why do churches smell like the inside of an ear? like incense and the dark and candles in blue glass? and why does holy water smell of tears? the awful grandmother makes me kneel and fold my hands. the ceiling high and everyone's prayers bumping up there like balloons. if i stare at the eyes of the saints long enough, they move and wink at me, which makes me a sort of saint too. when i get tired of winking saints, i count the awful grandmother's mustache hairs while she prays for uncle old, sick from the worm, and auntie cuca, suffering from a life of troubles that left half her face crooked and the other half sad. record any details that relate to the topic of american identity.