Frankly in Love

by David Yoon

“I do,” says Brit’s dad. “And you’re a quarter French, right?” says Brit. “So they tell me.” “Do you know every last detail about what goes into making a good chèvre?” “You’re saying so why should Frank know every last detail about all this,” says Brit’s dad. “Point taken. Excellent, excellent point.” He gives Brit’s hand a squeeze. And then, surprisingly, he squeezes mine too. He nods with this wistful sort of look that says, I learned something new today. People

As soon as I say these words, I realize I’ve discovered the point. The point is not about playing Food Tour Guide. It’s not about peppering Paul Olmo with questions. The point is being able to say I have no idea. Without apology. With confidence, even. The same confidence Brit’s dad would have before a marble slab of unlabeled cheeses.

“I started seeing all these articles about how to have The Talk with your kids. Meaning black parents, with black kids, who have no choice but to have The Talk.” “Q’s dad gave him The Talk when he was seven.” “My parents don’t even know that a thing like The Talk exists. Whenever yet another kid gets shot, all they do is shake their heads, yell about systemic racist policies and the prison industrial complex, and get all fired up about equal rights—but then it always ends with You should feel lucky you don’t have to ever worry about this.” I don’t