I took my 11-year-old daughter to the Cheetah Girls concert a week after Election Day. Stood in line for 20 minutes with other moms to buy her overpriced popcorn and soda. Forked over the rest of the money in my pocket for a poster and some laminated thing dangling from a lanyard. Sat through throngs of tweens screaming “girl power” in upper octaves.
It wasn’t until five o’clock the next morning, when the caffeine in the value-sized soda jolted me awake, that I realized I had forgotten during the concert that my daughter and I don’t share the same skin color. I am White, and she is Black.