Blasian

I'm celebrating Mother's Day with my mom tomorrow.  She wants to go to the Pasadena Showcase House, then have lunch with my younger sister and me.

On the heels of another of my fun trips to the dermatologist, I imagine our conversation over lunch...

***

“I’m sorry, Lizzie.  I really am sorry.”  She’ll pause and hold my gaze for a moment, making sure I am more than listening to her, making sure I am feeling her every word.

She’ll give my hands a firm squeeze across the brunch table, then continue.

“I am sorry that I am not Black.  And that your father isn’t Asian…or the other way around, I suppose that could have worked, too, right?...I mean either way, you’re Asian-Black or Black-Asian…what did you call it?”

“Blasian, mom.”

“Blasian.”  She nods her head in understanding.  “Clever…” 

She'll sort of trail off for a moment, temporarily lost in her 40 year-old, middle child’s genetic fantasy-formula for perfect skin.

“And don’t apologize."  I'll tell her.  "I’m not blaming you.”

“Let me finish.  I want you to know, if I could go back, say, I don’t know, I guess several hundred years and make things different for you and your epidermis, I would,” she’ll continue.  “If I could somehow go back in time and give you skin with more UV-fighting melanin, I would.  I would do it in a heart-beat.”

She’ll pause again.  She’s great at dramatic effect. 

“Your father, on the other hand…I’m not so sure…” 

She’ll trail off again.

“I know, mom.  It’s not your fault you’re white…I mean, a little-jungle fever probably would have gone a long way for me but I know none of us can just go back in time and change certain things.  And I know you love dad.”

“Well, truthfully, I always did find a young Sidney Poitier attractive; but Lizzie, he’s fifteen years older than me.  And I never ran in those Hollywood circles, anyway.”

“I know, mom.”     

We’ll pause and go back to our menus and soon close them.  Each of us will take a sip of wine.

“And so you have a few scars on your face, so what?  You can barely see them.  And you have other great qualities.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

She'll look at me earnestly across the table.

"Like you've always been a terrific speller."

She'll take another sip of wine and swallow.

"And you've always been nice to old people."

Happy Mother's Day to one of the Greats!  Thanks, Mom!

My beautiful mother Carol and her brood circa '79.

I'd also like to give a shout-out to a friend who isn't a mom. Well, she's a mom to her animals, not in a weird, borderline-beastiality sorta-way; in a nurturing-soul sorta-way.  Anyway, she has started a blog!  And based on the amount of time I spent laughing with her in my early twenties, it’s a place you must visit, over and over:  

PainDoesNotExistInThisDojo