patches on the elbows. His gray hair matched his beard; his eyeglasses were perched on the tip of his nose. He sat in a black leather chair behind a desk, and held a pad and pen in his hand.
“You told me over the phone you adopted Iris when she was five. Is that right?”
“Yes,” answered Mom.
“Where is she from again?”
“Haiti,” Dad answered this time.
Dr. Connelly wrote on a yellow pad. “That’s where Papa Doc is, right?” He raised his head.
“Correct,” Dad said, nodding.
“Iris,” Dr. Connelly turned to me, “tell me how it feels to have a white family.”
I wondered why he needed to know, and I didn’t think it should be of any concern to him. So I offered no answer.
Turning to Mom and Dad, Dr. Connelly said, “It should be expected that a child would be traumatized when she’s taken away from her rudimentary living environment, put on an airplane, and brought to live with people who are different from her in every way.”
Mom straightened her back and pushed her hair behind her ear. “Iris has adjusted to her new life here,” she said, “and as you can see, she is fully Americanized.”
“Separation and loss may still be an issue,” Dr. Connelly explained. “I would like to speak with Iris alone. Please wait for her outside.” On their way out of the room, Mom smiled at me, and Dad touched my shoulder.
“Are you happy living with the Winstons?” Dr. Connelly asked.
“Yes.”
“What is it like to live with them?”
“Nice.”
“How old are you?”
“Eight.”
“Do you miss your Haitian mother?”
I swallowed hard to get rid of the lump in my throat that wouldn’t go away. I had been separated from my natural mother for three years and had learned to adjust to life without her. I didn’t like to think about her because I became sad whenever I did. I shrugged and looked away from Dr. Connelly, who raised his eyebrows and wrote again on his yellow pad.
“Can you draw a picture of your family for me?” he asked, handing me a piece of paper, a pencil, and a box of crayons.
A few minutes later, he examined the picture of the red house with four people standing in front of it. I had colored in all the faces.
“Who are these people?”
“Mom, Dad, Cynthia, and me.”
“Why does everyone have a beige face?”
I shrugged again.
“Think about it,” he said in a soft voice, leaning forward. Seconds went by, and I remained silent. “Tell me why,” he coaxed in an even softer voice.
“Because . . .” I uttered, thinking how I could get him to stop asking me questions.
“What’s that behind the house?”
“I don’t know.”
“It looks like a moon.”
“It is.”
“Why does it have two eyes, a nose, and a mouth?”
No answer.
“Do people in Haiti think the moon is a person?”
Annoyed and close to tears, I mumbled that I didn’t know.
Dr. Connelly looked at his watch. “That’s all for today. Think about what you want to tell me about Haiti on your next visit, okay?”
I walked out of his office relieved, wishing never to go back.
* * *
On the way home, I tried to understand why I had painted everyone’s face beige and figured it was probably because of an incident that occurred two weeks after the fight in the cafeteria. Determined not to be different from my new family, I was willing to do anything not to stand out.
Lighten up your skin!
Lighten up your life!
Be beautiful!
My heart jumped with joy when I read those words in a copy of Beautiful Black Teens magazine that I had picked up at the library. Thinking that I had found my salvation, I tore out the advertisement and carefully folded it before hiding it in my book bag. When I reached home, I looked at the ad again and again. Whatever it took, I decided, I had to look like the woman in the magazine. It was hard to tell whether she was white or black, and that was how I wanted to be. If people could not tell that my skin was dark, they would not reject me or single me out. After comparing the woman’s features to mine, I decided that I also needed to work on my nose.
Later that evening, as I helped Mom take the laundry out of the washing machine, an idea came to mind. Once I was sure Cynthia was asleep, I took out the clothespin I was hiding under my pillow. I clipped it on my nose, and though I could hardly breathe, I endured the pain and concentrated on breathing through my mouth. I woke up several times during the night, not only to breathe, but to rub my swollen nose and put the clothespin back on.
The following morning, when after a soft knock Mom entered the bedroom, I heard her say, “Jesus!” when she noticed the clothespin. “What are you doing?” Her voice was higher than usual and her widened eyes were gray. They seemed to change color depending on her mood. At times they were blue, and at other times green.
“I . . . I want a nose like yours,” I struggled to say. “Please buy this for me.” I handed her the ad that had been under my pillow.
Mom cocked her head. “Do you know what this is?”
“It will make my skin white. Buy it for me, please!”
Mom rested her apprehensive eyes on me. “No cream will ever change who you are.” She studied me for a few seconds, then asked why I needed to be white.
“To be like you, Dad, and Cynthia.”
At that moment Cynthia woke up, probably because she had heard her name. “What’s going on?” she asked, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“This doesn’t concern you,” Mom snapped, and turned back to me. “You are beautiful the way you are.” She ran the back of her hand across my face. “Put the clothespin back where it belongs. That ad goes in the garbage.” She shook her head as though she refused to believe what I had done. “Listen to me, Iris,” she said, sitting on the edge of my bed. “You need to look at yourself differently. Your smooth, tamarind-colored skin is beautiful. The warmth of your loving smile brings me
