No, it’s not how we flew today– we were in coach, in the very back of the 777, occupying an entire row– it’s a reference to Debra Dickerson’s piece in Slate on raising biracial children, and it is terrific.
I don’t think of my children as black or white, so I can’t take the world’s attempt to superimpose its silliness on them seriously, though I know that as they get older, I’ll have to…. I couldn’t care less what my kids look like. What I begrudge them is their privilege. Race schmace. The real issue is class.
Listening to my 3-year-old go on the other day about motor boats, preschool, lake houses, Vietnamese food, and skiing at Steamboat Springs, I felt a moment of vertigo followed by panic…. My kids are the ones that made poor kids like me embarrassed of our threadbare lives. My kids, God help me, are rich, that birth defect for which I have only begun to forgive a chosen few.