The Middle Man

My Mother Looks

My mother looks at the boy who shares his crayons in kindergarten, and remarks to my father.

"Honey," She says, "They're creeping in." The boy is one of five in my class that is not as European as the rest of us- Hungary, England, Ireland, Austria- he is one of the five that is not part of the American melting pot.

My mother looks at the girl who stands next to me, smiling at our First Communion, pleasantly plump with rosy cheeks the size of apples, "This town," She sighs afterwards, handing me a bouquet, "is getting worse." She looks around, at the black and yellow, red and brown dots, that invade her precious white.

My mother looks at the boy who stands on our front porch, with eyebrows like caterpillars and coarse hair, traits of a heritage that are now rampant my school. "Sweetie," She says, "Don't end up with a man like that." His eyebrows are six hairs short of a unibrow, but his smile is as big as his heart.

My mother looks at the girl who reads my class' graduation speech, with her thick hair in a bun. Later, the blue and white colors of my school compliment her dark skin tone as she happily kisses the girl she loves, "Of course," My mother says, "They get handouts." The girl finishes her speech with a smile, and is met with a deafening roar of applause.

One day, I will look at the boy who shares his crayons, the girl at First Communion, the boy who stands on our front porch and the valedictorian of my daughter's generation, and I will link arms with my daughter's grandmother, and we will both smile at the beauty of the red and black, the white and brown and yellow.