The first time a kid in my kindergarten class asked, “Is that your grandfather?” when my dad dropped me off at school, embarrassment consumed me. My dad didn’t look like the other dads; what little hair he had was silvering, and he had deep wrinkles that sank into his face.
I remember the stubborn certainty of being 6 years old and wanting to blend in.
“I don’t want you to walk me into school anymore,” I told my dad.
“Why not?” he asked.
I didn’t yet have the language for difference. I only understood sameness, who matched and who didn’t. I just wanted to fit in.
