The moment she realized she was different

A month away from six.

Almost six years on this planet.

Six years in our little monochrome bubble called Portland—but a tiny spot, in a big world.

A segregated world.

An overwhelmingly white world.

A world that recognizes her as “other.”

Zora was almost six, when she looked around the room and realized she was the only one.

The only one with brown skin.

The only one who didn’t look like everyone else. Like all her friends.

Though the faces are smiling, friendly, welcoming, even—they are faces that exist in a space that is different than hers.

From this moment forth, she’ll never not carry this new awareness.

She’ll never enter a room and not take (unconscious or conscious) note of who in the room, if any, resembles her, or her people.

This awareness of her existence as a person of color—of mixed race— proudly of both whiteness and blackness will never be far from her mind. Because society doesn’t let one forget.

I’ve always viewed being multiracial as special—a gift. The best of both worlds. And powerful. Zora is both special AND powerful, and I’m personally touched that she recognizes the skin she’s in and is both proud of it, and happier for it. Both things can and are true—she (we) can be happy to exist, as others, and still feel moments of loneliness in this existence. 

White folks will read this and those who care will ask—what can I do? What can we do?

Be the face that smiles and welcomes. Be aware of the spaces you’re in and the privileges that come being surrounded by people who look like you. 

I’ll admit I’ve been low key dreading this moment of awareness of other—though I knew this day would come. And though my dread is valid, I’d be remiss to not acknowledge the privilege both myself and my daughters hold in the larger POC community because of this light, though othered, skin. Identity is a tricky mistress. I don’t claim to have all the answers, or politically perfect and correct thoughts. All I have to share is my heart. And my heart hurt just the tiniest bit upon hearing Zora share her observations about being the only one in her class. The slightly sad look on her face. The littlest loss of childhood pure-ness.

We talked about it. And we talked about what a gift it is to exist in this world as we are. 

So I’m sharing hers/ours/my experience here to ease my heart. I humbly ask that you recognize this practice of awareness in your day to day. Any day, every day, but most especially on this day.  Happy Black History month. Black people are magic, lest you forget 😉✨✌🏽