I am standing in the post office, about to mail a package back to Minnesota, to my family. I am a Finn. My name is Kasteheimi (Dewdrop). Mikael Agricola (1510-1557) created the Finnish language. He knew Luther and translated the New Testament. When I stop by the Classé Café for a cheeseburger no one suspects that I am a Finn. I gaze at the dimestore reproductions of Lautrec on the greasy walls, at the punk lovers afraid to show their quivery emotions, secure in the knowledge that my grandparents really did emigrate from Finland in 1910—why is everybody leaving Finland, hundreds of thousands to Michigan and Minnesota, and now Australia? Eighty-six percent of Finnish men have blue or grey eyes. Today is Charlie Chaplin’s one hundredth birthday, though he is not Finnish or alive: ‘Thy blossom, in the bud laid low.’ The commonest fur-bearing animals are the red squirrel, musk-rat, pine-marten and fox. There are about 35,000 elk. But I should be studying for my exam. I wonder if Dean will celebrate with me tonight, assuming I pass. Finnish Literature really came alive in the 1860s. Here, in Cambridge, Massachusetts, no one cares that I am a Finn. They’ve never even heard of Frans Eemil Sillanpää, winner of the 1939 Nobel Prize in Literature. As a Finn, this infuriates me.