我是黑人,所以我的孩子也是,是嗎?

My daughter and I were in the produce section when it happened.

事情發生時，我和女兒正在農產品區。

"What a beautiful baby!" Pause. Eyes flick up. "Is she yours?" My jaw clenched. I felt awkward, angry and, weirdly, embarrassed. I was so floored that all I could say was, "Yes. Thank you," with a smile that didn't reach my eyes.

"多漂亮的寶寶啊！"停頓了一聲，那個人眼睛向上翻起。"是你的孩子嗎？"我緊抿着嘴巴。我十分尷尬、惱火，而且竟然有些侷促不安。我詫異不已，只能假笑着說，"是的，謝謝你"。

My daughter and I do not look alike at first glance, so I guess it's a fair, albeit rude question. I'm mixed race* (black dad, white mom), with curly dark hair and brown eyes and skin. My husband, Mike, is a blue-eyed white man. Simone, 22 months, is fair-skinned with blue-grey eyes and straight hair, while our son, Theo, 4, is darker-skinned with big brown eyes and curly hair. Neither of my kids look black, and I do. I know this. But I never considered the question until that day in the grocery store.

乍一看，女兒和我並不相像，所以我想，這還算是一個公正的，雖然也有點粗魯的問題。我是混血兒（黑人父親、白人母親），有着烏黑的捲髮、棕色的眼睛、棕色的皮膚。我的丈夫邁克是白人，有着一雙藍色的眼睛。西蒙娜，22個月，皮膚白皙，有着一雙藍灰色的眼睛，直髮。而我們的兒子西奧，今年4歲了，膚色較深、有着棕色的大眼睛、卷卷的頭髮。我的孩子都不是黑皮，但我是啊。我知道這一點。但直到那天在雜貨店我纔開始考慮這個問題。

My older brother and I were the only mixed-race kids I knew in our predominantly white, mid-size suburban town. My parents always told us, "You have the best of both worlds," and I took it to heart. I loved eating my Polish Babcia's perogies just as much as my Bajan dad's coconut bread. I danced polka around the living room and wined to calypso with my large Caribbean family.

在我們白人爲主、中等規模的郊區小鎮上，我和我哥是鎮上唯一的混血兒。我的父母總是告訴我，"你擁有兩個'世界'中最好的一切，"我聽進去了。我喜歡吃波蘭祖母做的菜，也喜歡巴巴多斯父親做的椰子麪包。我會在客廳跳波爾卡舞，也可以和我的加勒比大家庭一起聽着瓦里布索音樂品酒。

Only one time do I recall anyone questioning if my mom was my birth mother, and it didn't bother me. I was about 9, changing out of my leotard in the stuffy dance studio dressing room. A white girl asked if I was adopted, if the woman who had dropped me off was my mom. She was genuinely curious. I distinctly recall shrugging and saying, "Maybe. Or maybe I'm a princess or a changeling. I could be anyone."

我只被質疑過一次：我的母親是不是我的親生母親，但這並沒有困擾我。我當時大概9歲，在舞蹈課的更衣室內換着我的緊身連衣裙。一個白人姑娘問我是不是被領養的，問那個送我來上課的人是不是我媽。她真的只是好奇。我清楚的記得我當時聳了聳肩說道："或許吧。但我也有可能是個公主、是被掉包的姑娘。我可以是任何人。"

My instinct was to embrace the difference between my mom and I, to turn it into a story, to make it enviable, even. I don't recall what the girl's response was, just that I felt totally OK and unsurprised in that moment. So why did a similar question almost 30 years later throw me so off kilter? I decided to talk to someone who had surely experienced the same thing, asked herself similar questions: my mom, Wanda.

我本能的接受了自己和母親的差異，將其變成一個故事，甚至讓人們羨慕我。我不記得那個女孩當時是什麼反應，我只記得我當時沒什麼感覺、一點也不驚訝。所以，爲什麼同樣的問題會在30年後讓我震驚呢？我決定跟一位有着相同經歷的人聊聊，問一些類似的問題，那個人就是我的媽媽--旺達。