By the time Avery is two her skin holds a tint of tan so subtle you might mistake it for sun exposure, while Sawyer, now four, looks much more like me. Avery’s soft, curly locks have given way to the wavy, tangle-free stuff of a new Barbie doll, neither too thin nor too thick, almost synthetically sleek. She gets frustrated because it won’t hold a braid without a hair tie, and barrettes won’t stay in place; mine, on the other hand, ties itself in knots that only certain products, not available at white markets, can untangle.
I sit behind her at the dresser, as my mother did with me, staring at us both in the mirror, as my mother did with me. Slowly I brush through her long brown hair, thinking I’m glad for her that she has what we call good hair. I’m glad she’ll have an easy time. But I end every brushstroke with a twirl of the lock around my index finger, trying to tease out a ringlet or two, trying to force a resemblance to me. Trying to bring out the Black.
White parents slather their kids with sunblock, but it isn’t cancer I worry about. I hold Avery up to the strong California sun. Darken her. Make her mine.
How will she identify?
How will others see her?
Will she feel the swift kick in the gut when someone says the N-word?
Will she stand up for me?
I brace for some white person to ask if I am her nanny.