I am five when my mom and I join my elementary school's early morning running club. It's a cool fall morning, and crisp air washes over me. Mama jogs beside me, her curly blonde hair bouncing, pacing us on our laps along the chain-link fence that outlines the soccer field. Worn down from years of recess games, after-school playdates, and soccer matches, the field holds many long-since-graduated students’ memories. I am too young to know it will one day hold mine too. I started kindergarten a few weeks ago, and even though I already have some friends, elementary school doesn't quite fit yet. Mama says that running club will help me meet new people, but we're already three laps into the first day, and so far, no luck.

Somewhere between our third and fourth lap, I noticed an older boy jogging up behind us. I recognize him from the halls, but not well enough to know his name, what grade he's in, or why he's approaching me. His eyes shift between me and my mom, curious. I draw my attention to the ground. Maybe if I don't look at him, he won't look at me. Mama's strides are much bigger than mine, so I focus on making my little legs move as fast as they can to keep up. Right, left, right, left, right, left.

After what feels like an eternity, the boy opens his mouth to speak. Head tilted and finger pointing at me, he asks Mama, “Is that your daughter?”

She doesn't miss a beat, smiling with confidence. “Of course.”

His brows furrow in confusion. I should've known this was coming. “Is she adopted? She looks nothing like you.”

“No, she's not adopted. The funny thing about genetics is sometimes you only end up looking like one parent! Selma looks like her dad,” my mom answers, sure of herself. He isn't convinced. I look down again, hoping the ground will swallow me. It refuses. I've always known that Mama and I look different; she has deep hazel eyes and pale skin. Next to her, my caramel complexion and ethnic features stand out, loud and different. My dad looks just like me, with the same brown eyes but slightly darker skin and hair. He is mixed too—part Mexican, part white. He tells me and my sister that being mixed is like a superpower, that it's a gift to bridge two cultures. I want to believe him, but sometimes it's hard to shake the feeling that I don't belong to either part of myself.

My family calls me my dad’s "twinsie." They hope the nickname will help me embrace my identity as a woman of color in a world that favors white Barbies and Disney princesses. But here is this older boy, whose curiosity makes me question if I belong in my family. I know he means well, but even after he gives up asking and runs ahead, his words echo in my ears.

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