My mom is a little thing. A little Caucasian thing.
When I hit 13, I officially became taller than her.
That summer, we went to visit her parents in Provincetown, Cape Cod. There we were, a caramel-colored teenager with a halo of midnight curly hair and a Mediterranean-skinned forty year old wearing work-out gear, walking down the street together, hand in hand… because moms and daughters do that.
At least we do…
…and we skip.
An adorable older woman stopped us and handed us a bright yellow flyer. I didn’t even bother to read it; I was too mortified by the words that came out of her mouth next:
“You two make the cutest couple ever. We have a lesbian cruise next week and we would love to see you there!”
Guess we looked more plausible as an interracial lesbian couple than as a mother-daughter duo who left their African American father at home.