"Mom, I have football eyes."
I froze. I had been brushing her hair, getting Alana ready for school.
"Where did you hear that from?"
"Nowhere." She pointed to the mirror. "I saw in the mirror."
"You have my eyes."
"Oh, okay," she said, as she skipped off to breakfast, totally unaware of how much she had rocked my world.
I grew up hating my eyes. From either kids telling me I had "squinty eyes" to make up artists telling me everything I could do to make my eyes bigger, or every performing group I was part of designing makeup meant for Caucasians, I soon wished my eyes were bigger, a different colour, deeper set, anything but what they were.
This is my profile pic. I love this picture, and it wasn't until now I couldn't explain why. From a photography perspective, it's not that great. The lower half of my face is obscured by Alana's hands, my hair is escaping, and Alana looks oddly placed. But I realized that all that doesn't matter because I saw the look on Alana's face. She's looking at her mother's face, the same face she'll grow up to look like. And she's not criticizing my eyes, she loves them. And me? I'm looking back at the same face, finally able to love those eyes because they belong to my perfect daughter.
So Alana, my wonderful baby girl, soon enough we'll have the first of many talks about race and learning to love yourself, but until then, I'm glad you've noticed your football shaped eyes and accepted them without guilt or wish for change. I'm sorry I was too much of a coward to tell you that I love your eyes.
