Excerpt: I Hope You Find What You’re Looking For by Bsrat Mezghebe

March 26, 2026

Berekhet went straight to Lydia’s room and began removing books from her shelf. “So! This is what an American teenager reads, huh?”

Lydia watched from the doorway as he ruined her very thoughtful organization system. The Baby-Sitters Club series was on the top shelf, Nancy Drew on the next, and Sweet Valley High followed, sharing space with The Hardy Boys, which she read more out of obligation than interest. Farther down was nearly everything by Judy Blume and Roald Dahl, and on the last shelf were school binders and all the Bibles that Mama Zewdi had bought her, which included a few children’s versions, one written in Ge‘ez that Lydia couldn’t even read (“our Latin,” Mama Zewdi declared), and a large-print edition for sight-impaired readers since Lydia read too much in the dark.

“These books are for children. And it’s never too early to learn about Stalin’s Great Purge.” He waved a library book at her. “How else can you understand the Derg? They were copycats, all of them.”

Elsa appeared next to Lydia in the doorway. While she greeted them cheerfully, her eyes betrayed her fatigue.

“Do you see how much Lydia likes to read?” she said, resting her hands on Lydia’s shoulders. “She’s been crazy about it since she was a little girl, even before she started school. That’s why she has to wear glasses. It must run in the family . . . I know you like to read as well.”

“The man who does not read has no advantage over the man who cannot read. Mark Twain. One of this country’s greats,” he said while piling his books on the shelf.

Elsa shifted her attention to Lydia.

“Didn’t you read one of his books? You two should go to the library together.”

“We just did.” Lydia shrugged her mother’s hands off of her.

“Okay, okay.” Elsa threw up her hands defensively. “I’m going to take a shower and let you guys continue. Lydia, make Berekhet some tea,” she said as she walked out of the room.

“I don’t see any Mark Twain here,” he continued. “Aren’t you thirteen? You should be getting a real education, thinking about real ideas, not whether some boy is going to ask some girl to the dance.”

“This is what people my age read,” Lydia replied while making a silent pledge to never make him tea. “And I read more than anyone else I know.”

Berekhet sat on the floor and leaned back against the bed.

“Do you know that at age thirteen Renoir was painting flowers on plates? That Joan of Arc first heard the angels, and Jodie Foster had already written and directed a film? You are smart, okay, but your education should be preparing you to be great, not just literate.”

“Wait.” Lydia joined him on the floor, sitting cross-legged, and narrowed her eyes. “Say education.”

“I just did.”

“Say it again.”

“Edukayseeyon,” he said slowly.

“It’s edjukayshun.”

Berekhet pressed his lips and looked to the side, as if Lydia were looking for an issue that wasn’t there.

“Say ‘eh.’ Just say it. I’m trying to help you out.”

“Eh.”

“Dju.”

“Kay.”

“Shun.”

“Edjukayshun,” Lydia enunciated with great effort.

“Edukayseeyon. What’s so funny?”

“You can’t hear the difference?”

“Does it matter? The point of communication is to be understood, is it not? I might pronounce some words differently in English, but you still understand what I’m saying. And at least I can speak English. I speak three languages, which is two more than you.”

“English is the only one that counts.”

“Oh really?” Berekhet sat up straighter and rolled his shoulders back. “Everyone in the world should learn English. Go.”

“Go what?”

“We are going to have a debate. A formal presentation of two opposing sides.”

“I know what a debate is.”

“Then go!”

“Fine,” Lydia said, straightening herself as well. “Everyone in the world should learn English. The most powerful country in the world speaks English, and if you want to get ahead, you should know it.”

“Anything else?” Berekhet cupped his chin with his hand, making him look boyish. Lydia tried not to smile.

“If people know English, they can learn from the best books and become really smart and talented in their jobs. Like, you wouldn’t want a doctor who didn’t know English because he might not be able to understand really important information that could save your life. Go.”

“Are you sure you’ve made the strongest case you can?”

“Go!” Lydia snapped her fingers.

“I’ve been taught English since I was six years old. That’s thirteen years, my entire education in a language not my own. Edukayseeyon. Did I say it right?”

“Nope.”

Berekhet looked up at the ceiling and continued. “But isn’t how we’re taught to think more important than just the language we speak? Do you think you’re smarter just because you’re a native English-speaker? Shouldn’t we also be encouraged to think critically and develop our own theories? Has everything been discovered, proven true or false? If so, what’s the point of the whole educational system? The point is to conform, Lydia, which is the death of real knowledge and the rise of memorization.”

Lydia wasn’t following where Berekhet was going. Plus, spit was starting to collect in the corner of his mouth.

“Everyone wants me to be a doctor; there’s no higher status, right? But that’s just mastery of a certain skill set. I’m interested in creating new ideas, not just faithfully executing someone else’s.”

“Sooo, what exactly are you going to be studying?”

Berekhet rested his mouth on his clasped hands, as if he were posing for an author headshot in one of the books on the floor.

“The question, Lidu, is what am I going to be exploring? Maybe I’ll write a book . . . a big one . . . a sociological study of the United States . . . the same way these people traipsed around Africa and Asia, defining and categorizing and judging, but reversed. I can travel to all fifty states and put them under the microscope and chronicle how they live and eat and worship. Or I can do something else entirely, like invent a new color. The point is that I can dream bigger than what our family thinks is possible.”

Lydia snorted but stopped herself at the sight of Berekhet’s sober expression.

“You don’t think I can do it,” he said with some satisfaction. “It’s because we’re family. Einstein’s a genius because you never saw him in his pajamas.”

Lydia hadn’t thought about it that way before, but it made sense. Everyone called her parents heroes, and while she couldn’t imagine her mother as one, her father seemed a more likely candidate only because she didn’t know him.

“What do you want to know, Lydia? What have you been told is out of your reach?”

Berekhet was asking earnestly, as if her response was the most important thing in the world. No one had ever looked at her like that before. No one had ever asked what she wanted most.

Lydia left the room and retrieved the photo of her parents from Elsa’s room, grateful that her mother was occupied in the bathroom and therefore didn’t present an obstacle. She returned to Berekhet and took a deep breath before pressing it into her cousin’s hands.

“My dear Lidu,” he said, holding the photo like it was a precious artifact. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. You must be brave in your pursuit. And I will be right by your side.”

***

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