I shouldn’t have been surprised when my youngest daughter was born with White skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. She looks just like her Dadddy. But she doesn’t look like me. My eldest daughter has my brown skin, eyes, and hair. But I still shouldn’t have been surprised. I’m mixed race. My mother is of Russian Jewish decent and my father is West Indian. In America, that means Black, just like our “Black” president. Now that my youngest is nearly a year old, I know that her eyes aren’t going to change color, her skin isn’t going to tan, and her hair is going to stay the lovely amber that it is, for at least a while. When we are out at the park, or the grocery store, or any public place, I remember the story related to me by a Nicaraguan friend whose children look like her White husband. “They ask me if I’m the nanny.” They. Not- this crazy person that one time… They. Multiple people have asked her if she is the nanny. When will it happen to me? When will some “well-meaning” stranger ask me if the adorable little girl in my arms isn’t mine? So far, Oakland has done itself proud and none of its inhabitants have asked the dreaded, but I’m still waiting.