Mixed

Mixed

My name is Vivian, but no one calls me that. To everyone, I am just Viv (well, unless my mom is mad at me). I am on the special side. My dad is from Kenya and my mom was born here, in California, like me. In short my mom is white and my dad is, well, black. And me? Well I am a mix of the two . Why is this important, you ask? Well you are about to find out.

"It's absolutely, utterly, and completely unacceptable." said Cynthia, my best friend. She is black, if you were wondering. Not that it matters though.

Cynthia slammed the book and threw it down hard on the table.

"I mean, it's ridiculous, the way that they describe someone who is not white in books." she said in a flustered voice. " I'm glad that our project will expose these terrible things." The seventh grade at our school was doing a project on an issue somewhere in the world. Ours was civil injustice and stereotyping, hence the checking books.

" I know right," I replied angrily "Nesquik milk colored skin? That must be an all time low. I have nothing against the authors but really, you never see a description of a white person's skin in a book unless they are super pale or really tan. You don't see a 'band-aid' or 'adobe brick' colored skin anywhere !"

Cynthia chuckled but immediately resumed her state of anger and frustration. We were both very opinionated and spirited people, part of what makes us such great friends, and also the reason why we fight so much. This issue, however, is one that we agreed on.

"Okay Viv, it's getting late. I'm gonna walk home, see ya." said Cynthia with a smile as she got up to leave.

"Bye C. Catch ya later."

• • • • • • • • • • • •

" I'll have a medium coffee, please." I said to the cashier. I looked at Cynthia, urging her to order her coffee.

" May I have a medium latte, please?" She said in that annoying sweet voice of hers that she only used to make adults like her. For some crazy reason that no one knows, adults seem to love her when she talks to them in that voice.

"Okay, so just to make sure, it's: one medium coffee and a medium cafe latte?" said the cashier.

"Right you are! Thank you" I said matter- of- factly.

"What name should I put it under?"

"Uhhh." I looked at Cynthia for inspiration.

"Maddershinta." said Cynthia, barely containing her huge smile.

"Sorry, how do you spell that?" asked the cashier, looking slightly flustered.

"However you want." I said as I paid.

Cynthia and I walked away giggling so hard that our cheeks hurt and we clutched our

stomachs. When the other employee called our made-up name with difficulty, I went up to the counter to pick up our order.

"Here you go. Enjoy." said the man. I looked up and smiled and started to turn away.

"What's your ethnicity?" asked the man. Instantly, tens of snarky retorts popped up in my head. I hated that question. Why was he asking me that? It's not like it mattered and even if it did, I would never see him again most likely. I bit my lip right before I had an outburst and replied coolly.

"My dad is from Africa and my mom was born here."

"Oh, that's nice." he said condescendingly "What part of Africa?"

"Kenya." I said curtly, not wanting to waste anymore time on someone who clearly had very little common sense. I turned and stalked out of the coffee shop with an appalled Cynthia right behind me.

"The nerve of that guy, asking rude questions like that." she said hotly.

"I know, I don't even know why I deal with people like that, sometimes I just want to smack them."

"Next time, if there is one, you should say something Viv, talk some sense into them." Cynthia said knowingly. I smiled and slipped my hand into hers. She squeezed it and we sipped our coffees simultaneously.

• • • • • • • • • • • •

A few days later, I was walking to the park to meet up with some friends from school. I pressed the crosswalk button once, then again, and ten more times, but can you blame me? It's so fun!

Anyways, this older white woman was waiting next to me. She was half-gawking. As if I were some sort of mutant. I looked back at her and she quickly averted her gaze seeming a bit guilty. After a long awkward moment she finally asked:

"Your skin is so interesting, what is your mix?"

I was appalled. For real? Did she say my "mix"? Wow. Just wow. Faith in humanity lost. This time though, I was going to answer. I looked up at her.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand. Do you think I'm a dog? Because I prefer my title of mixed royalty " I said sharply. (It was true, I had royal family a few generations back in Kenya.)

She was so shocked that she didn't even say anything. The light turned green and I crossed the street, beaming, knowing that I had taught someone a lesson, in the best way. I couldn't wait to tell Cyn-cyn.

• • • • • •

"No way! For real?" Cynthia said in disbelief as I told her the story of earlier today. We were sitting on a blanket in the middle of the grassy park sipping lemonade and snacking on berries in the mid-spring heat. It was bliss. I wished I could stay there forever, giggling and snacking with my best friend.

In the end, we got an A+ on our project (partially because of the examples). I have learned to deal with people like that and I never feel bad for being different. No one should. In fact, they should love themselves more. That is a lesson that the whole world still has to learn, and I'm going to make it my mission that they learn it.