I’m a computer, comprised of a series of zeroes and ones that code for the woman I am. The zeroes dot my big brown eyes and the ones outline my calculated, feminine form. I was made in a dank, machismo lab by a mad scientist. No, in a field of daisies by a woman named Trinket. 

Trinket delicately sculpted my binary code: She encrypted my zeroes and ones to dance the same jig that my ancestors did. My ancestors speak by encoding each strand of my DNA – the aggregate of life – with features tailored to resemble their own. Curly hair and compassion are evidence of my lineage, derived from a long line of Jewish women who were forced to leave everything behind.

Yet, my DNA has diverged from its ancestral origins. My code is errored, confused, whistling mad. My machine has felt broken for some time. My familial body was removed from the paths we once walked. And so, as my diasporic DNA contorts around itself, desperately twisting in a panicked state of ambiguity and homesickness. My zeros choke on ones – where do I belong? Do I know these truths to be self-evident, that I am an American girl? Or do I descend from the places I cannot return to? 

My zeroes and ones whispered to my eyes that they come from Moscow black bread and herring, yet my mouth only wishes to recall my Italian “Nona.” My grandfather colored my skin olive, painting me with Cairo’s tan streets. And my easter bunny Trinket made sure that my ears responded familiarly to the sound of the Yiddish curse words that my Polish grandparents spewed.

My DNA desperately wants to reunite itself with its ancient counterparts, the strands abandoned in the mystical lands where my ancestors walked. It knows that it is not whole because my mouth forgot the tongues of my familial antiquity. When my DNA feels especially weak, it yearns for a compatible code in order to reach its fullest potential. A BINGO! to revive what is dead, or a nice Jewish boy.

I am learning to ground myself in my bodily confusion. My code overflows with life and color. Again, I find myself with Trinket, in a field of daisies where vibrancy and flavor and music and history exudes. Here, I know that my machine defies the binary. My DNA stretches out like an asymptote on its way to the sun. 

On their own, each strand of my DNA is unfinished, suspended in uncertainty, scattered across time and space half-baked.

My code is made whole by the Jewish experience. Battered and fried in oil made from miracles, funerals, mitzvahs, and dissent. Buttered and seasoned with a wash of diasporic angst. Made crispy and golden through the voices of the Jewish women who came before me.