Blood Oranges were on sale this week. I never buy them. They’re ridiculously expensive, and you know, they’re only oranges. We live six hours from a major grove. Citrus is cheap. I tasted a sample, licked the sugary dew off my fingers, and tossed a two-pound bag into the cart. Why not take a few home?
Coco didn’t trust them. They weren’t orange. After the tiniest sliver, she took a pass. “Too sour.”
Cherry came in later smacking her lips. “These are awesome, Mom.”
I introduced myself to a woman at a local conference. She commented on my blog and professed to know me. She said, “I’m looking for another writer, who is supposed to meet me here. She’s Asian.” I swung my head around helping her search before I realized, she was looking for me. I post my children’s photos often. And we don’t look alike.
I’ve been hiding–not because I want you to think I’m Chinese–because I’ve been trying to be the orange you expect. Like the red flesh under the peel, I’ve cloaked behind an ambiguous avatar.