We’re in the car, driving across San Francisco. It’s Sunday afternoon.
Mommy? How did people make this world? GB asks.
What do you mean? I glance at him in his car seat over my shoulder.
The restaurants and stuff like that.
This is the conversation I've been preparing to have for four years. Maybe it’s not the conversation he’s asking for, but I see my opening. We’ve talked about skin color, racism, the police. He knows the names of some people: Malcolm. Frida. Maya. Langston. Martin. I’ve stocked our house with books about all kinds of people. But for the first time, my kid has asked a question.
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