Is that Me in the Mirror?

"Mommy! Is that me in the mirror?" My hyperactive five year old daughter, Kimberly squealed. She bounced around in my exhausted arms like a wet beach ball while I struggled, attempting to dry her slippery body off after her bath time.

I paused for a moment, squinting at the fogged mirror, barely making out our two reflections. Using a corner of the bath towel I swiped it down and peered at our images. With a hint of nagging exasperation I said, "Yes Kim, that's you," and sighed.

Kim continued to prance around. Her two feet still fit easily in the palms of my hands; but they still thudded painfully against my side as she fluttered around on the bathroom counter. She stooped, inquisitively pressing her face against the mirror.

"I'm so pretty Mommy. What color am I?" She asked, revealing no sense of fear towards my aggravated, previous verbal response.

Startled momentarily, I gazed into the mirror at her. "Why baby, you're black and Mommy's black too." I said.

She was a beautiful interracial child, with features resembling her Caucasian father but with skin a somewhat darker pigment, similar to mine. I considered her to be black; realizing the world probably would always take note of her coloring first, and label her a black child.

"No I'm not!" She squealed, leaping off the counter and racing her bare butt into my bedroom.

I caught up with her, finding her posing in front of the full length mirror, twirling around in small circles.

"I'm brown Mommy. Not black like my crayon. Why did you call me a black crayon?" She asked, continuing to prance around.

Peering at her image I observed her unique puzzled expression, lips twisted up into a small pout and both eyebrows raised. I realized this was a question I was expecting from her sooner or later. It just turned out to be sooner.

"Why are members of our race called black, when we happen to span a rainbow of hues? We're sunny golden tints to rich earthy browns, and also deep midnight black." I said, clarifying it out loud using descriptive adult words. Looking at her expression, I realized rather quickly I probably totally confused my young daughter.

For a long period of time when I was growing up, the color black was considered to be tragically dark, representing pure evil. It was the last broken crayon you reluctantly grabbed to use when all the others were used up. At that moment I shrugged chilling sensations off. Now seemed to be an appropriate time to share a story my mother once shared with me, when I was slightly older than my daughter was now.

"What Mommy?" She asked. Her lips pursed and her eyelids fluttered, giving me another puzzled expression.

"Kim, come over here and sit down. I want to tell you a story." I said, forced to grab her and wrap a towel around her damp body before sitting her down on my lap. It was time to pass on the story to the next generation. "Kim, when I was a little older than you are right now, I didn't like myself very much when I went to school. You see, I was always sitting in class and listening to sad stories about people who looked like me. And I didn't like to hear them. Sometimes I'd even slink low in my chair, hoping I'd turn invisible..."

Interrupting me, she giggled, "Like a ghost, Mommy?"

Laughing along, I hugged her tighter and continued, "Well, I guess sometimes I wished I was a ghost because then my classmates couldn't stare at me. Their eyes always watched me, waiting to see what I was going to do. Kim, when I went to school there wasn't anyone who looked like me. There wasn't anyone who had my color skin."

"What color were they? Pink crayons, Mommy?"

"Well I'm not sure about that, but sit down and let me tell you." I shifted her squirmy body over to the bed, deciding to kneel in front of her. I wanted to observe every subtle change in her dark brown, dove shaped eyes.

"O.K." She said with a bubbly giggle. Still she managed to wiggle rather quickly out of her towel.

"You see Kim, Mommy didn't like to hear stories about people who looked like her because they only reminded me about how different I felt I was from everyone else in my school. And I thought I wouldn't be liked because of my skin color, and I wanted friends. And I wanted to look like them. You have lots of friends in your class..."

"Yep! And they play with me and they're all different crayon colors, but no black crayons."

Another interruption from my jittery child, making me realize this storytelling was going to be tougher than what I originally assumed.

"Kim, when I came home from school one day I was so unhappy. I didn't want to go back to school. When Grandma saw me she knew something was wrong. She smiled at me and said, 'I think it's time for your dream.' I asked her, 'What dream?' But she only smiled at me and didn't say another word. That night I was so afraid to go to sleep, because I didn't know what she meant about the dream. But the sand-man came and made me close my eyes and I went to sleep and dreamed." I paused, realizing her expression was telling me she was about to interrupt me.

"The sand-man who makes my eyes glue together, so I stay in bed at night and let you and Daddy sleep." She giggled, rubbing her eyes with minuscule fists.

"Yes, that same nice sand-man." I smiled; pondering for a moment on the good old sand-man who understood parents needed a little quiet time. "Anyway I fell asleep and I started dreaming. In my dream I lived in a beautiful place called, Africa. My home was surrounded by thick green trees..."

"Like in the, 'Lion King,' movie?"

"Yes, Kim. In my dream, my family sat around a big fire. The fire lit the night, making bright yellow and orange sunshine beams dance on our faces. I sat on the ground and leaned on my mom. Her arms were hugging me tight. We were listening closely to my grandfather speak as he squatted down in front of the fire. He was a very dark man, black like the darkest nights, but the dancing fire lights lit up his face."

"Like a pumpkin."

"No honey, but his face did have many wrinkles in his leathery skin. He had a curly black and gray beard. He squatted and we listened because he was talking about my daddy..."

"Was your daddy a ghost?" She asked, bouncing off the bed to mimic a squat.

"No, he wasn't a ghost. Listen quietly." I said with a sigh, determined to get through the story. "My grandfather told me a story about the day when my daddy and all the other young men in my house were kidnapped when they went hunting for food. They were taken to a big boat docked on the river. They marched in long lines through the jungles one after another, with chains on their hands and feet. Each chain was connected to another man in the long line. I didn't understand the reason why everyone was unhappy, because I was little like you. My mother cried all the time and she always hugged us tightly, afraid to let us out of her sight. My grandfather told this same story every night ever since my daddy was kidnapped."

"Kidnapped! Why did he go with the strangers? You told me not to go with strangers. And you said, 'Call a police man for help.' This isn't a good bedtime story." My daughter piped in.

"Yes Kim. It's a very important bedtime story. And my daddy couldn't stop the men from kidnapping him. Anyway my grandfather told us my daddy grew up and loved playing outside under the hot sun. The sun warmed his body and tanned his skin. My daddy rubbed plant oils all over his skin to make it shine. He grew up to be a proud man, and had many girlfriends because he painted his face with..."

"Like a clown?" Kimberly interjected.

"Well...not really." I paused." You see, my grandfather told me my daddy would take ashy wood out of the cold fire. The wood looked like charcoal, like the ashy coal your daddy uses when he barbecues hamburgers. My daddy used ashy wood to draw pictures all over his skin, because he wanted to look handsome. And the more pictures the more handsome he would be. The pictures he drew helped him hide from animals when he was out hunting. When my mom saw him, she liked him, and fell in love with him. All because of his handsome charcoal pictures. She married him and I was born."

"Icky!" Only one word, but Kim's face revealed pure disgust towards the mere mention of the word, love.

"One day you'll fall in love honey and you won't call it icky." I laughed, pulling her back into my lap and rocking her while I finished the story. "Anyway the color black was something we were very proud of in my home. My grandfather never wanted us to forget my daddy or the other men who were kidnapped. He wanted us to remember what they looked like. Sometimes I cried when I sat next to my mom by the fire, because I missed my daddy so much." I stopped noticing Kim's confused expression.

"What Mommy?"

"Honey, I know this story's confusing you, but one day I'll share it with you again. Next time you'll understand."

"You're not gonna cry Mommy, are you?" She frowned, placing miniscule hands on my lips, and forcing a wide grin out of me.

"Of course not, Kim." I kissed her tiny hands. "Anyway after the dream I woke up. I felt so happy, as if it was my birthday and I had a pile of presents. My grandmother looked at me closely and said, 'You had the family dream last night.' After that night I loved looking in the mirror, just like you do. When I went to school I sat really straight in my chair. I listened to teachers talk about all the good things people who looked like me did. I even took books from the library, and found out so many more wonderful things black people did. I was so happy to read about people who looked like me, and they were my heroes. I read and read and read. You like when I read to you?"

"Yep!"

"Well you get up and look in the mirror again, Kim. That's you honey. And you're my beautiful princess or whoever else you want to be."

I watched her prance around in front of the mirror, realizing she was way too young to understand the magnitude of our fable family dream. She was too young to understand the marvelous gifts that black people gave to our country. One day I'd hoped our family dream would find a warm place in her heart, helping her to grow up feeling proud of whoever she is. One far, far, day down the road, I also hoped she'd make me a proud grandmother. Then our family dream would be passed on to the next generation.

"Mommy, Daddy's not a black crayon. He looks like a faded crayon." Kimberly mumbled, with her lips pressed tightly against the mirror.

"You mean he looks like your tan crayon." I said, chuckling at her description. "Yes Kim, Daddy's not a black crayon, but that's all right. Mommy and Daddy love each other so much that we wanted to have you. And Kim, it's perfectly o.k. to like any color crayon in the box."

"O.K. Mommy." She smiled, as if she really understood my crayon analogy.

Gazing into the mirror at her beautiful reflection, I whispered a silent prayer. I prayed the world would be forever kind to my beautiful, blended crayon daughter.

The End