Here’s a story of a biracial colony.
Writing is how I get to understanding. By understanding, I don’t mean a Paul McCartney-Michael Jackson moment side by side on a piano. I mean that writing is the way I hold something in my hand, look at it, turn it over, walk away from it and come back and look again. And somewhere in there, figure out at least one worthwhile thing. Six years into raising three biracial kids in a small New England town, I figured I should start a blog about what it means to be who we are in a place where llamas outnumber black people. This is that blog.
To protect the innocent, I’ve used only my kids’ middle names. My husband goes by his real name, Brian, because there is no universe in which he could be described as innocent.