7th
On the matter of mixies
This morning I caught the subway into the city to get the ferry to Sandy Hook. After a few stops on the 3 train, I noticed that a little family had sat down near me, a man next to me, and his two grandchildren (I’m guessing) across from us, a boy and a girl, probably about 10 years old. They looked vaguely asian, like their grandfather, but also black and possibly hispanic. So yes, beautiful. And sweet: they sat in relative silence, but occasionally whispered between them. I asked the man if they were twins; no, a year apart, she’s a year older.
I studied them. Taken on their own individually they looked interesting. It was seeing them together that created the effect of, Holy crap, lookit.
I couldn’t stop staring at them. But I had to stop because of (obvious) reasons. I knew immediately it was because they were mixed siblings, and I’m a mixed sibling. When I see these kids—they’re all over Brooklyn now—I feel like an alien observer. They’re like me, only younger. To the point where I actually refer to the Prime Directive. I want to talk to their parents about hair care, but that would be wrong.
The urge to tell them that they will be fine is useless because they’re fine already.
And DUH, the President is mixed.
