by Loree Cook-Daniels

              My son, they say, will have to choose.
              Black. Or white. All the papers he will face
              will only offer those boxes. All his friends will
              want to know.

              To whom do you owe allegiance? Are you
              black or are you white? Are you with us or
              against us?

              The answers are both. And neither. More.
              And less. The boxes, the questions, leave
              no ground for honoring the Native American
              great-great-great- grandmother. They leave
              no space for a Jewish heritage gifted by a
              mother who did not also give him DNA. They
              do not admit the possibility of joining sperm
              from northern genepools with an egg from
              bloodstreams sourced in many soils.

              They do not acknowledge that we are all so
              much more than "race."

              They do not acknowledge my son.

              Choose, they all tell me. One chorus wants
              him successful: hard-driving, competitive
              achiever. One chorus wants him sensitive:
              privilege-renouncing supporter of women.
              One chorus wants him a warrior: fearless
              fighter for his people's rights. What future,
              they all demand of me, will you prepare this
              brown-skinned man-child for? Will he be one
              of us, or one of the "other"?

              Both, I say, and neither. I will not prepare
              my son for any war. Dead and wounded
              crowd the streets already. Someone must
              start the peace. Someone must stop
              teaching children the lines, pointing out who
              belongs on each side. Someone must start
              the listening, teach children to hear pain
              where others see anger. Someone must
              start showing children that every single one
              of us belongs. They say I am ignorant. They
              cannot imagine life without enemies.

              They cannot imagine my son.

              They will all tell my son to choose silence.
              Some will tell him his father could not have
              birthed him into the world. Some will tell him
              his parents turned traitor. None of them
              want him saying that men don't always have
              penises, that little girls don't always grow up
              to be women. They do not want to hear that
              his parents refuse to stay within any of
              others' lines. They will tell him he is
              confused.

              I will point out the confusion. I will show him:
              some people are afraid of what they do not
              know. I will tell him: some people believe
              different means dangerous, and become
              dangerous in the face of difference. I will
              teach him not to be what they expect, not to
              fear or condemn in return. I will teach him to
              trust his own truths. I will raise him to be all
              that the universe needs: teacher and
              student, healer and healed. I will teach him
              to be who he is.

              They will not know what to do with my son.