The other weekend, I went to a party with my husband. It was the day before my daughter’s 20th birthday, and I hoped to buy her present in a more exotic mall than here in town.

Grand Rapids had just such a mall.

I was dressed for the party, and had even been made up by my personal beauty expert. I was looking together, is what I’m saying, and excited for the evening to begin.

A salesgirl planted herself by my side as soon as I stepped in the store. She was young, with pierced dimples and her hair was shaved and curled to precision.

This young sister leaned in close to me and asked, “What are you mixed with?”

I did not just hear this. I didn’t say anything.

“Are you mixed?” She insisted.
“No,” I said.
“You’re just black?”
“Yes.”
“You’re very pretty,” she said. “Thank you,” I responded, stunned by the whole exchange.

I thought of what my father would have said. He would have said, “We’re all mixed with something…”

And he has a point, but that’s not what the girl asked me. Mixed has come to mean, ‘do you have parents of different races?’, rather than ‘do you have some Indian in you?’ or some such refrain from the past.

My mother was quite the genealogist. She was able to trace my father’s family back to Africa. My mother’s family had more tangled roots in its tree.

I know I’m pale. I fade in the winter. This is not due to a white parent, though, or grandparent. The closest white relative we’ve hunted down was my father’s paternal great-grandfather. My mother came from generations of light skinned black folks intermarrying.

She was dark in her family. My father was light in his. Guess what? My parents were the same complexion.

Go figure.

My oldest daughter has been called exotic, and she gets the mixed question. My oldest son? No. I’ve noticed that people who know my younger children don’t connect my older son to them or me. They know my son, but they don’t know he’s my son.

I didn’t think anything of this, but my husband tells me that everyone knows he’s Xavier’s father. Even if they see Curtis without Xay, people know he’s his father.

Is it a complexion thing? My oldest two are darker than the younger children. Number 6 seems to be following in their footsteps. I think it’s great.

My husband would have asked the salesgirl what she was mixed with. He would have said, “You’re just black?” “You’re really pretty.”

I wish I’d said that.