Oh. I'm white.

Sometimes I forget that the color of my skin is different than those around me. Sometimes I forget that my accent, my hair, eyes, well just about everything physical separates me from the people we are living amongst.

Like the other day. I ran to "my" fruit stand with Shane. Scooping off banana's and oranges the owners, two Muslim brother's, made space on a shelf for Shane to sit in his car seat while I browsed. Customers squeezing through the one small isle paused to give Shane a quick pat, or pinch, or coo-coo-coo. As I was picking through the oranges just a few piles of fruit away, I suddenly thought, I should stick close to Shane. Someone might not know he's with me. I don't want him to be mistaken to be with another mom."

I didn't realize the hilarity of this thought until much later. I'd forgotten for a moment that Shane couldn't possibly be mistaken for any one's baby but mine. White baby belongs to white woman. It's not rocket science. But I did forget.

Maybe it's because we've become friends, these two brothers and I, over the last 16 months. I don't feel like a stranger because they don't treat me like one. We exchange produce as well as conversation. When a bomb blast ripped through a mosque last month, I said "I'm sad it happened," and "Are your families okay?" "Yes, madam, but it's our people," they responded with a sad smile. I sad-smiled in return. They always ask how Shane is doing and I always tell them he's getting fat. I like my little fruit stand. But I like my friends even more.

Relationships. It makes me forget the separating factors, and reminds me that we're all breathing the same air.