It starts out as it usually does.  We are doing some seemingly benign activity that families typically do.  This time we are eating dinner at a fast food restaurant,  in Anytown, USA.

My son, Jason, is seven years old.  Biracial, he is cute as can be—a fine example of hybrid vigor with his soft, curly hair and caramel colored skin.  We are having an animated discussion about football, his favorite sport.  Jason is making sure that I know which teams are ranked in the top ten and who his favorite players are.    

Football is not my strong suit, so I get these quizzes often, my erroneous answers triggering the laughter I love to hear. So engrossed in our conversation, we do not notice that a middle aged, Caucasian male, looking like an ad for Eddie Bauer, has approached our table. 

“That’s a handsome young man,” he interrupts, smiling at Jason.

“Thank you,” I respond, unable to keep the pride out of my voice.

“Are you babysitting for him?”

“No, he’s mine.”

“A foster child?”

“No.”   Not again, I groan. 

“Did you adopt him?”

“No, I went through twenty-one hours of labor and gave birth to him.  He’s mine,”  I answer with a voice that surely conveys my desire for this conversation to be over.

“Why doesn’t he look like you?”

Seriously?  What gives a total stranger the right to disrupt my treasured time with Jason, only to satisfy their curiosity?   “My son looks more like his father” I explain, “who is African-American.”

The face of our uninvited visitor turns as pale as the white button-down shirt he wears.   There is blessed silence while he gathers himself. Shooting me a look of condemning censure he walks away, finally speechless.

Jason has been quiet through the conversation, intently looking at a speck on the floor, food forgotten.  Wise beyond his years, he raises his head and looks at me lovingly.  “It’s Okay Mom,” he says.

But it’s not.    

Fast forward three months to a beautiful summer day in the park.  We’re enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon all stretched out on a big blanket.  I’m reading the paper, and my husband Oscar and Jason are talking about…what else?  Sports. 

Oscar leaves to go to the bathroom—a man dressed in military uniform approaches our blanket.

“Is that your boyfriend?”  he asks.

“No, he’s my husband.”

“But you’re such a pretty girl.  Surely you could have had your pick of anyone.”

Really?  Are you kidding?“ Is this actually happening?   Yes,” I answer, fighting to keep my voice pleasant.  “That’s a good thing about being attractive.  I got my pick.  I picked my husband and I would pick him again today and….”

Before I can finish, the military man turns on his heel as if he is in formation and walks away.

Once again, it seems as if my choices for my life have threatened another’s view of how the world should be.

This time Jason says nothing.

Jason, now 25 voted for Barak Obama, never believing he would be elected.

But he was, and there will be a new conversation.