beautiful, exotic
when i was nine years old, a boy at school pointed at my mustache and laughed. he followed me around the playground asking if my "real" parents got rid of me because they're actually monkeys. i went home with his laughter ringing in my ears, begging my mom to help me. she said that if it would make me feel better, we could try to shave my face. as my mother ran a razor over the tender shadows, she began the complicated process of molding the cruelty of others into some kind of teachable moment. it was a conversation that her research on adoption probably hadn't prepared her for. the unwritten chapter: what to do when your mixed race child becomes aware of their own ethnicity. "when a girl is white, it makes the hair on her lip almost invisible if it’s blond. see? it’s just.. different for you.” she points to her own pale face. i nod as she swipes a finger full of vaseline across my mouth. different, with hair just a little too dark for a mostl