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.
- SANTOS DOMINGO HENARES Y FRANCISCO DO MINH CHIEU
- LA NATIVIDAD DE SAN JUAN BAUTISTA
- SANTOS MÁRTIRES DE NICOMEDIA
- SAN JUAN FISHER
- SAN JOSÉ ISABEL FLORES VARELA
- SAN JUAN DE MATERA
Adviento Africa Alquimia Angeles Arte Aviones Católica Chicago ciencia Conspiracion cuaresma Ecuador educación España fantasmas Gatos Historia Illinois leyendas Maria Meditación misterio mitología mito mitos Musica Navidad Opinion Ortodoxos Paranormal Pascua Personajes pintura Poema Poesía psicología Religion SaintCharles Salud Santoral Santos Segunda Guerra Teología Top10 USA Virgen María