Gradually, as the week passed and the terror of going to school subsided, I began to notice something about my mother, that she looked nothing like the other kids' mothers. In fact, she looked more like my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Alexander, who was white
The Color of Water | Andrew McBride
When I was young, my parents didn't look like me. We would go places, and people would ask me where my mother was. She'd be standing right behind me, and I always confused by their question. Couldn't they see her?
It wasn't until years later that I realised their confusion. My parents didn't look like me. I knew that. I'd always known that, from the earliest years. It just wasn't something that was on my mind because it didn't matter—to me or to them. It really didn't matter at all.
My parents were my parents because they loved me, raised me, cared for me. They gave life to me, a very good life. What we looked like had nothing to do with it. We knew we looked different—it's not that we denied the fact or ignored it—it was just so insignificant that we didn't notice it. Other people noticed, but we didn't because, when we looked at each other, we saw love; we saw memories; we saw lives intricately and inextricably linked to each other in the amazing way
By age ten, I was coming into my own feelings about myself and my own impending manhood, and going out with Mommy, which had been a privilege and an honor at five, had become a dreaded event. I had reached a point where I was ashamed of her and didn't want the world to see my white mother
It didn't matter that my parents looked different, but a lot changes during adolescence. Our own appearance changes, as does our attitude about things. We're becoming our own people, discovering who we are as we're creating ourselves. But it's a long and complicated process.
I looked around and saw people who looked different from me. And I started noticing. And while I was noticing them, I was forgetting myself, losing myself. I felt lonely, separated by something as superficial as appearance, something I'd never experienced before. I found myself both drawn to and daunted by people who looked like me, feeling both an affinity for them and unfamiliar with them.
Eventually, my obsession with appearances receded, but it taught me something. Looks do matter. It's just that we're usually looking at the wrong things. It's only once we begin to know the person that we see them.
Appearances can be so deceiving. What we see is more about us than them. We'll find that we see people differently as we come to know them. It's not just their character that changes; our own sight does. Those we like seem more beautiful; those we dislike seem more distasteful, even if their beauty is undeniable. In the beginning, we're only seeing a picture, not a person. In the end, that person is someone
most interracial marriages did not last. That's what Dennis would say when we argued. I'd say, "I'm leaving," and he'd say, "Go ahead. Go ahead. That's what people want us to do. That's what they expect." And he was right.
See a marriage needs love. And God. And a little money. That's all. The rest you can deal with. It's not about black or white. It's about God and don't let anyone tell you different
Photo by Kevin Delvecchio on Unsplash