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I’m often asked, “What are you?” I could say, “I’m everything,” but it’s more fun to say, “I have ancestors from every region on Earth—except Antarctica.”

​          My mom is mestizo: half Filipino, half Spanish. When people meet her, I see the What are you? question forming in their eyes. When she explains her ancestry, they nod and say, "Oh, I see." But the truth is, they don't see. They overlook the subtle epicanthic folds at the corners of her eyes and the cadence of her English that carries whispers of Tagalog. What they see is a beautiful, dark-skinned woman from "somewhere." On her Filipino side, she's one-fourth East Indian from her grandfather.

          My father's heritage contributes to my unique mix, though I only know him from old, fading photographs and my mother's stories. He died in combat in 1944, fighting for a country that deplored his skin color and accent. Despite the ostracism, he was a patriot, proud of his ethnicity and proud to be a citizen of his new country.

          In Mom's pictures, he's a smiling man with the dark skin and kinky hair of an African, a Roman nose, and the almond-shaped eyes of the Miskito people of Mesoamerica. He immigrated here as a teenager from Nicaragua, where Amerindian, African, and European bloodlines intertwine.

          Then there's me. I have my father's Amerindian eyes and dark-brown skin. My hair is different from his—thick, black, and loosely curled. "Asian" seldom enters people's minds when they try to guess my background, despite it comprising a significant portion of my ancestry. Some assume I'm colored, though my only visible African feature is my skin color.

          I could answer the "What are you?" question by calling myself a genetic cocktail. But I don't. Instead, I give a more straightforward and meaningful answer:

          "I'm an American."

          Then I watch how they blink.

​          People say I'm smart, but that's not always true. Like the time I stepped into traffic without looking. Luckily, the driver slammed on his brakes, and I only suffered a broken wrist. But when it comes to school? Yeah, I'm dang smart. I've earned straight A's since first grade—not because I’m a workaholic, but because I listen and focus.

          My mother named me Socrates. She studied the Greek philosophers in college and hoped his name would inspire me to develop my intelligence. And it worked! I'm hopelessly in love with ideas. I read them, I study them, I marvel at their power. Despite my young age, my mind burns white-hot with ideas that would make the old Greek himself proud. If you label me an intellectual fanatic, I'll take it as a compliment.

          My friends call me Sock, which I like because it's distinctive. But when we're deep in discussion, they call me Socrates. The only thing I don't love about my name is the laughter it sometimes provokes, as if I were some sort of spectacle. But I remind myself that I could've been named Waldo, or Filbert, or Wilmer—names without a shred of gravitas.

          I start this journal as a day-by-day attempt to make sense of my slice of 1950s San Francisco life. Please bear with me if I sometimes seem like an oddball who has somehow swallowed a set of encyclopedias. My journal musings will follow no formula. Instead, they will present you with a parade of disparate thoughts in search of resolution. 

          The pursuit of self-knowledge is a confusing business at best. Maybe my journal will inspire you to reflect on your own life. We could become compatriots soaring through the cosmos, minds aflame with great ideas—intellectual gladiators navigating the fog of conformity that lies heavy upon the land.

          Oops! There I go, getting carried away again.

          Please join my fifteen-year-old self in this grand adolescent adventure.

          —Socrates Guevara