“I hardly know anything about him. Never seen a picture or...

“I hardly know anything about him.  Never seen a picture or anything.  He was my mom’s Samba teacher.  His name was Benjamin.  He was Brazilian.  He had dreads.  Long dreads.  But that’s all I know.  My mom promised me that she’d tell me his last name when I turned eighteen, but I’m twenty now.  And I still don’t know.  I think part of her doesn’t want me to know.  He abandoned her when she was pregnant with twins.  And she’s a really proud woman.  She has like five degrees.  She’s at the top of her field.  Mother Theresa even gave her a medal for her philanthropy.  My father caused her a lot of trauma, and ever since then her life has been about moving forward.   And I don’t want to make her go back.  I don’t want to  dig up the past.  But he’s where I got my love of dancing.  And my skin.  And my hair.  As much as she tries, my mom can’t relate to being a black woman.  She can empathize, but she can’t relate.  All my relatives were white.  Almost all my classmates were white.  I’d get asked if I was adopted, and I’d repeat the same story: ‘I don’t know my dad.  I don’t know that side of me.’  Maybe ignorance is bliss.  Maybe I’ll just be disappointed.  But I’d love to know what talents came from him.  What features.  What qualities.  I just don’t know how to ask about the other part of me, without my mom feeling that her part isn’t enough.”