what do you do when you don't look alike?

This evening I was driving home from a food exchange and was listening to public radio. The conversation was about race, the interview with an author who writes short stories based on everyday kinds of events, yet unravels and pulls apart the event to delve deeper into the race issues entwined within.

It got me thinking about something that happened a couple months ago. Elliott and I were out to lunch at a local coffee shop. We had finished eating and were leaving the shop and as we walked out the door, we ran into another mom and her child, who was riding in a stroller, as we were all trying to pass through the same door. I apologized since Elliott had sorta pushed the door open in her face and she said, "Wow. He's really good looking." I smiled and said, "Thanks." in a somewhat uncomfortable way. It isn't that I disagree, but I sometimes get uncomfortable when people, especially strangers, talk about how good looking he is. I was even more uncomfortable with the comment when she started to look a bit confused, looking back and forth between Elliott and I, and then she said, "Uh, is he... yours?" I know what was whirling through her mind: they are different colors. Their skin and hair are totally different. She looks so frumpy, he's so adorable. Is she Latina? Or Asian? Or what? Is she the nanny?

Since Elliott has been born I've experienced similar encounters. Sometimes they said, "Oh, he must have Daddy's coloring." Or "Oh, he must look like Dad." or "Dad must be a blond." Every time it is a reminder that people still see the differences in our skin colors and many (some do, but not many) can't see past the skin and hair color and see that Elliott and I share the same eye shape and have the same nose. Elliott does have his dad's skin and hair color, but he has my ability to tan. He has his dad's body, long and lean, and his dad's mouth. He has my eye color, but with his dad's hazel that makes them extra interesting. He has my Grandma Daphne's hair. Looking at photos of her as a young child, she has the same color and curls I see on my son. His beautiful long toes and fingers, says Grandma Daphne, come from her.

So there it is. I'm mixed race. My mother's side is Welsh and Scottish. My Father's side is Chippewa Cree/Sioux. I look very much like my father, the Native side, but I see parts of my white side in my own child. I see my Native side in him too with his nose (totally a Chippewa Cree nose) and his ability to tan beautifully.

So in that one confused question from this lady in the doorway of a coffee shop, I was reminded of what many people must be confused by everyday. Does this boy and woman belong together? Are they related, mom and son, nanny and child? It was a painful reminder to me that there are people that would not pair me with my son in a line up simply because we're different shades. And that hurts. I'm not sure I can exactly explain why, but it does.

I'm pretty used to being the minority in the room. Growing up as a minority in Montana, even as a Native, which as far as minorities go in Montana, is the most prevalent, I'm pretty used to looking different from everyone else. Very few times has it been a real issue. Other than one romantic relationship, I've ALWAYS been involved in mixed-race relationships. When Nate and I first realized together that we were a mixed race relationship we cracked up... it just seems stupid and minuscule in our lives, our differences in race and in our outer look. And it has never, ever bothered me as a couple that we look different. But with my child, well, it is just different.

So I don't know if I would call that other mom racist, or any of the others that have noticed the "differences" between Elliott and I, but the fact that they can't always see past the differences in our "shades" to see that we actually do look quite a bit alike, is always a bit jarring to me and is always a disappointing reminder that people want things to "fit" and make sense and that despite as far as we've come as a society, when things don't easily fit, it confuses. And that makes me sad and, unfortunately, it is a part of my everyday personal life.