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My daughter and I were in the produce section when it happened.
事情发生时，我和女儿正在农产品区。
"What a beautiful baby!" Pause. Eyes flick up. "Is she yours?" My jaw clenched. I felt awkward, angry and, weirdly, embarrassed. I was so floored that all I could say was, "Yes. Thank you," with a smile that didn't reach my eyes.
"多漂亮的宝宝啊！"停顿了一声，那个人眼睛向上翻起。"是你的孩子吗？"我紧抿着嘴巴。我十分尴尬、恼火，而且竟然有些局促不安。我诧异不已，只能假笑着说，"是的，谢谢你"。
My daughter and I do not look alike at first glance, so I guess it's a fair, albeit rude question. I'm mixed race* (black dad, white mom), with curly dark hair and brown eyes and skin. My husband, Mike, is a blue-eyed white man. Simone, 22 months, is fair-skinned with blue-grey eyes and straight hair, while our son, Theo, 4, is darker-skinned with big brown eyes and curly hair. Neither of my kids look black, and I do. I know this. But I never considered the question until that day in the grocery store.
乍一看，女儿和我并不相像，所以我想，这还算是一个公正的，虽然也有点粗鲁的问题。我是混血儿（黑人父亲、白人母亲），有着乌黑的卷发、棕色的眼睛、棕色的皮肤。我的丈夫迈克是白人，有着一双蓝色的眼睛。西蒙娜，22个月，皮肤白皙，有着一双蓝灰色的眼睛，直发。而我们的儿子西奥，今年4岁了，肤色较深、有着棕色的大眼睛、卷卷的头发。我的孩子都不是黑皮，但我是啊。我知道这一点。但直到那天在杂货店我才开始考虑这个问题。
My older brother and I were the only mixed-race kids I knew in our predominantly white, mid-size suburban town. My parents always told us, "You have the best of both worlds," and I took it to heart. I loved eating my Polish Babcia's perogies just as much as my Bajan dad's coconut bread. I danced polka around the living room and wined to calypso with my large Caribbean family.
在我们白人为主、中等规模的郊区小镇上，我和我哥是镇上唯一的混血儿。我的父母总是告诉我，"你拥有两个'世界'中最好的一切，"我听进去了。我喜欢吃波兰祖母做的菜，也喜欢巴巴多斯父亲做的椰子面包。我会在客厅跳波尔卡舞，也可以和我的加勒比大家庭一起听着瓦里布索音乐品酒。
Only one time do I recall anyone questioning if my mom was my birth mother, and it didn't bother me. I was about 9, changing out of my leotard in the stuffy dance studio dressing room. A white girl asked if I was adopted, if the woman who had dropped me off was my mom. She was genuinely curious. I distinctly recall shrugging and saying, "Maybe. Or maybe I'm a princess or a changeling. I could be anyone."
我只被质疑过一次：我的母亲是不是我的亲生母亲，但这并没有困扰我。我当时大概9岁，在舞蹈课的更衣室内换着我的紧身连衣裙。一个白人姑娘问我是不是被领养的，问那个送我来上课的人是不是我妈。她真的只是好奇。我清楚的记得我当时耸了耸肩说道："或许吧。但我也有可能是个公主、是被掉包的姑娘。我可以是任何人。"
My instinct was to embrace the difference between my mom and I, to turn it into a story, to make it enviable, even. I don't recall what the girl's response was, just that I felt totally OK and unsurprised in that moment. So why did a similar question almost 30 years later throw me so off kilter? I decided to talk to someone who had surely experienced the same thing, asked herself similar questions: my mom, Wanda.
我本能的接受了自己和母亲的差异，将其变成一个故事，甚至让人们羡慕我。我不记得那个女孩当时是什么反应，我只记得我当时没什么感觉、一点也不惊讶。所以，为什么同样的问题会在30年后让我震惊呢？我决定跟一位有着相同经历的人聊聊，问一些类似的问题，那个人就是我的妈妈--旺达。
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