Black female

Riding a school bus in the middle of July with 45 kids, coming back from the park, is not a fun experience.  I just want some water and air conditioning.  Hot, sticky, sweaty little bodies who want to touch me, hang on me, call out my name, tattle.  In the middle of the chaos, my mom calls to say hi.  "I'll call you back later, when I'm off this bus." 

Michael, a very active 4 year old is sitting by me, so I tell him "that was my mommy."  His face lights up, thinking about his teacher having a mommy too!  "What color is she?"  (my 'urban youth' black kids are curious about me being white).  -She's white.  "What color is your dad?"  -White.  Another student joined in.  "So your whole family is white?"  -Yep.  Except my husband, he's brown.  "BROWN?!  So...what about your son?"  -I don't have a son.  (my mind starts racing, realizing we're in dangerous territory).  "What about your  daughter?"  Pause. Pause.  Pause.    -I don't have any kids.  (I couldn't say "I don't have a daughter.")

I lied.  I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  I lied.  So this is how it's going to be?  I'm going to lie.  I'm so sorry.   


I realized I had lied, and turned towards the window as a few tears escaped, rolling down my cheeks.  It was windy, and Michael and his friend were already worried about poking the girls in front of them. They didn't notice.   How could I lie? But also, how could I tell the complete truth in that moment?

I lied.  Kayla.  She was my daughter.  She is my daughter.

And she was brown too.  But on her ID bracelet and autopsy report, she is labeled.  BF.  "Black Female."  It kind of surprised me when I looked at all of her things a few weeks after her death.  Who decided she was black?  The nurse?  It made me think about that label, and what it means, and would have meant if she had lived.  My husband is a light-skinned black man from Brazil, who identifies as black, but most Americans would say he is "Hispanic."  I am white.  I knew my child would not be white, but I hadn't really considered that she might be black, either.

And not that it matters, it's just another little piece of her identity that I can cling to, analyze, and eventually tuck away.  If she were alive, I would be really interested to see how her race and identity would play out, how our family would be "seen" by the world, as a bi-cultural, bi-racial family.  But she's not alive, so all I have is the label and an autopsy report.