Certainly it was possible—somewhere in my parents' genes the recessive traits that might have given me a different look: not attached earlobes or my father's green eyes, but another hair color—gentleman-preferred, have-more-fun blond. And with my skin color, like a good tan—an even mix of my parents'— I could have passed for white. When on Christmas day I woke to find a blond wig, a pink sequined tutu, and a blond ballerina doll, nearly as tall as me, I didn't know to ask, nor that it mattered, if there'd been a brown version. This was years before my grandmother nestled the dark baby into our crèche, years before I'd understand it as primer for a Mississippi childhood.
Instead, I pranced around our living room in a whirl of possibility, my parents looking on at their suddenly strange child. In the photograph my mother took, my father—almost out of the frame—looks on as Joseph must have at the miraculous birth: I'm in the foreground— my blond wig a shining halo, a newborn likeness to the child that chance, the long odds, might have brought.
- SAN LUDOVICO DE CASORIA
- Salmo 66 (67)
- INTRODUCIDOS EN LA VIDA MISMA DE JESÚS
- Salmo 65 (66)
- BEATA JUANA MARÍA DE MAILLÉ
- SAN RUPERTO
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