I’m pink. Or so says my daughter. She’s brown, mommy’s brown, and I’m pink. The realization of race sets in early: She’s not quite two and a half.
“Are you different?” she asked me the other day. She had just pronounced me pink again.
I stammered, briefly flummoxed. Thanks, fatherhood, for another one of these moments. “Yes, we’re all different in a little way,” I told her. “And that’s a good thing. Would you want everyone to be the same?”
She thought a second and quizzically cocked her head. Then she smiled and jabbed my knee with her little index finger.
“You’re pink,” she said, and giggled.