"There are notes between notes, you know." -- Sarah Vaughan

Tuesday, December 9, 2008

Guest post: Black, white and ho

As I noted yesterday, today's post is by someone who is considering starting their own blog, so I invited them to guest blog** here to test it out.

Now, let's all put our hands together for today's featured guest, Shades of Reality. :::applause and whistles:::




I was taking the girls out of their car seats when a black woman in the car beside me rolled up with her two children and a cart full groceries.

“They are so pretty,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said, continuing to unbuckle the oldest.

“Are they mixed?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well, they sure are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Tell me,” said the woman, tapping into my friendliness, “what are they mixed with?"

“White,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Really?” she asked, looking like she didn’t believe me. “Because they don't look white.”

“Oh, we get that all the time,” I tried to reassure her. “Some people think they are Asian.”

Four years ago, when my oldest daughter was born, this conversation would not have been possible. I would have shuttled my girls into the discount store long ago, thinking that woman was beyond rude. Today, I’m willing to give folks the benefit of the doubt.

“Black children who are mixed with white usually have sandy hair,” the woman said, as if she were some kind of expert.

“Well, their father’s hair is brown and my hair is brown, so they have brown hair.”

The woman didn’t respond and I took the opportunity to tell my girls to say bye-bye. They waved their hands, and we went inside.

Translation:

I was taking the girls out of their car seats when a black woman in the car beside me rolled up with her two children and a cart full groceries.

“Look at those high-yellow girls. They are so pretty,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said, continuing to unbuckle the oldest.

“Those kids look exotic and they don't look like they belong to you. Are they mixed?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

“Well, I knew that. They are beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I said again.

“Their father must be fine. Tell me,” said the woman, tapping into my friendliness, “what are they mixed with?”

“White,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Well, they sure don't look white. Are you sure you know who the father of your children is because I've seen white and black kids and these kids don't look like they are mixed with white, you ho.”

“Oh, we get that all the time,” I tried to reassure her. “Some people think they are Asian.”

“Yeah, because you laid down with a few folks, didn't you? Perhaps you should have a paternity test.”

“Black children who are mixed with white usually have sandy hair,” the woman said, as if she were some kind of expert.

“Well, their father’s hair is brown and my hair is brown, so they have brown hair.”

“Look, you can say that all you want to, but I ain't buying it. You got with someone Asian and you know it, passing these kids off as black and white when they are clearly black and Asian. You should be ashamed of yourself. Hmmpfff.

I’m the mother of biracial children, and that’s the way I see it. -- Shades of Reality




**I am always open to guest bloggers so if you are interested, submit your post to me at singlikesassy at yahoo dotcom. Keep it clean, keep it short and keep it sassy.

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Use your inside voice ... or I'll put you outside. -- SingLikeSassy