Reasons I May or May Not Accidentally Be a Racist (Part Two)

2. Fatima.

Pretty much as soon as I pop out of the womb, my mom hires a babysitter. Because I don't remember the womb part, I harbor the secret infant belief that my mother is a slightly emaciated black woman from East Cleveland, and this pale woman who lets me suck milk out of her once in a while is just doing me a favor. Her name is Fatima, and I will remember literally nothing about her except my scalp burning the time she tried to give me cornrows before I had any real ostensible hair, and how goddamn much I scream when she leaves for her night classes at CSU. By the time I get old enough to talk she's not around anymore, but when my sister goes through her Naughty by Nature phase, I can call up half the words to O.P.P. as if from a past life. When I play barbies, Skipper always rides in the trunk of the Malibu Dream Car, and a small legion of Christies take shotgun, their pointed toes signaling north out of the convertible windows.