Changing Gray

I have two daughters.

L is eight. She has my complexion, but her features more closely resemble her father’s. She could easily pass for Indian. Her sister, E, is almost six. She has her father’s lighter skin color, and which of us she looks like is debatable. I say me. L is cautious, scary-smart, and very considerate of her sister, and everyone. E is also very bright, in a secret weapon way. She’s silly and cuddly and decidedly colors outside the lines.

Bedtime and dinnertime are family discussion times.

Sometimes skin color makes its way into our conversations. We all know people of all different colors, and E in particular likes to mention what color people are. Ever the observant artist. Her basic qualifiers are: superdark; mediumdark; lightish brownish; peachy white; superwhite. We all use these terms, as they’ve developed over time in casual family usage. L started it when she was little, innocently describing the difference between her skin and Daddy’s, and the similarity to mine. Which led to my describing the greater difference between my father’s skin color and my mother’s. You get it.

L suddenly started to use the term Black this year.

The topic of slavery came up at school, and brought Black and White with it.

Shortly thereafter, her best friend and classmate, who is black, asked my husband directly if he was white. To which he answered yes. This came up at dinnertime, and thus the shift from our insular code of color qualifiers toward mainstream race labeling. Innocence lost.

The other night at dinner, E declared that she was gray.

And she laughed and laughed. She caught us a little off guard, as her sense of humor often does. But I knew exactly what she meant. I had the same thought myself, when I was small. If my mother is white, and my father is black, that must make me gray.  But it didn’t strike me as hysterically funny at the time. It didn’t even feel like information I wanted to share. Gray seemed like a sad color. It was a washed out version of the two colors it came from. I do remember feeling gray, like that.

So I asked E what color I was. She thought a minute, then shrieked, “You’re gray too, Mommy. Like me! And so is L!” How could I not be happy to be in her gray club? My daughters and I shared a giggle. And my husband? “What about Daddy? What color is he?” I asked.  “Oh, he’s just peachy white,” said E. Her father pouted out his lower lip, dejected. An honorary member of our club.