Interracial Relationships: The art of Forgetting/Remembering our Colors

The first time we stood in front of a mirror I didn’t believe our reflection. We stood naked. He wrapped his arms around me, resting his head on my shoulder. He watched me watch us. I began to notice just how different we were. On a regular day I identify as a woman. But in that mirror, I was night leaning its back on the sun. His hair like silk waved and curled in the morning sun-rays shining through the window. My mane coiled and locked in last night’s heat and sweat. He was sculpted golden and strong. I was brown and shaped like a mother. His chest was made in the gym. My breasts were designed by my son, who depended on them for life a few years prior. His soul was bustling city. My soul was meadow and rivers. I asked him if we “looked right” to him. He told me he thought so. No hesitation. He seemed confused that I’d even thought to ask. This was the first time I noticed that he and I were different colors. We were shaded differently on countless levels. What was looking back at me in the mirror? Was this balance? Wasn’t balance supposed to be a good thing? I didn’t know what to make of it…because what I wanted to receive as balance in our reflection came off like a smack in the ass on a crowded bus in a town I had never been to. Just like that. The man who spent the whole night talking to me about the dance between galaxies, speaking my soul’s language and shit, was now someone I couldn’t remember connecting with. The man I spent the whole night prior with on the docks at the harbor became foreign land. Was I a product of mental conditioning? Yes…yes I was.  Continue reading

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