My grandfather's grandfather
was a doctor in Rangoon.
A legendary one,
according to the family.
Apparently,
a road was named after him.
I have never seen that road.
I don't know where it is,
what traffic passes over it,
or whether it still carries his name.
I don't know what his voice sounded like.
Whether he was kind to his patients.
Whether he was gentle with his children.
Whether he was difficult to live with.
The family remembers the doctor
better than the man.
I know what he was.
I have no idea who he was.
Still, I have used the story.
At gatherings,
when someone asks where we come from,
when the past is expected
to produce something impressive.
A doctor.
Rangoon.
A road named after him.
I have let the story speak for me.
I have never been asked to prove it.
The people who told me the story
believed it.
The people I tell it to
have no reason not to.
Somewhere between
their certainty and mine,
a man I never met
has become part of my credentials.
I sometimes wonder
what would happen
if the road were found
and it carried another name.
Would I correct the story?
Would I defend it?
Would I feel that something
had been stolen from me?
The next time someone asks
where we come from,
I will probably tell them
about my grandfather's grandfather.
I will tell them
he was a legendary doctor in Rangoon.
I will tell them
a road was named after him.
And I might forget
to say apparently.
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