Jeepers, creepers

Jeepers, creepers....where’d ya get them peepers

Jeepers, creepers...where’d ya get those eyes

Gosh oh, git up....how’d they get so lit up

Gosh oh, gee oh....how’d they get that size

Jeepers, creepers....where’d ya get them peepers

Oh, those weepers....how they hypnotize

Just a few weeks after Harrison was born, I confessed to Kama that Doug isn't Harrison's real father—it's Brad Pitt, and now that he and Jen have finally broken up, I'm letting the cat out of the bag to the rest of the world.
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Like every other expectant couple on the planet, Doug and I often speculated and fantasized about what Minty (his fetal name) would look like. "He'll definitely have dark brown hair and olive skin," we decided. And either brown eyes, like me and Grandma H, or hazel, like Doug, Grandpa J, Grandpa H, and Great-Grandma Helen.

No way did we think we'd end up with Aryan Baby. Recessive Gene Boy.

Sometimes, this bothers me. Like the time Inga, Harrison, and I went out to eat and the intrusive waitress (aka The Space Invader) went on and on about how much Harrison looked like Inga! Or the fact that everyone, everyone, says, "He looks just like Doug!" Which isn't really true. It's just that he doesn't look Vietnamese. At all.

Certainly, I see bits and pieces of myself in Harrison. He has my almond-shaped eyes, my Hooper chin, and my Vietnamese nose. But overall, from his baby blues, to his golden brown hair, to his alabaster skin (the softest skin in the universe)—the whole baby package—Harrison looks nothing like me.

Like most American biracial children, I (and Val) am still dealing with issues of identity, and I wonder how race and ethnicity will shape Harrison. Like his father, he will always experience the benefits of white, male privilege, but I hope that Doug and I will also be successful in instilling in him a sense of pride in his Vietnamese-ness. I pray that he'll eat fish sauce.