You make me so proud, daughter. And yet, it hurts like that time we finished reading the picture book about Malcom X and Martin Luther King, Jr. You looked up at me with sober blue eyes “Mommy, Why?” I knew when I saw your eyes what you meant, I wiped away the tears rolling down my cheeks to keep your innocent face dry. Like that time that I told you the Neo-Nazi’s were coming and who they hate. You said: “But Amanda has brown skin” and I thought of you and Amanda squished together into the rotating recliner demanding “Spin us – make our ride go”. You decided to come to the counter demonstration wearing a pink sign void of political correctness: “My best friend has brown skin.”