I parked the car in the crowded church parking lot, feeling like a contender for Mother of the Year. Besides, not every mother allows their kids to attend bible camps from other denominations - aren't I the epitome of tolerance?
With all three of my girls holding hands in a human chain we bounced along with four matching ponytails swaying. My middle daughter yells with overly healthy lungs, "My teacher's colored!"
I froze mid-step. What did you say?! I glanced around meeting the curious stares of the other parents.
"Ava, you can't say that," I whispered with my stroll now turning into a speed walking expedition. My youngest, at three years old, protested being the last and therefore the dragged child.
"It's black, not colored." My oldest daughter remarked - a little too loudly if you ask me.
"He's not black," my middle daughter barked. She'd now stopped, anchoring the human chain to the middle of the black asphalt. "He's colored!"
A Hispanic mother with four beautiful black haired children halted their walk. I felt my own olive complexion turn a few shades more pale with heated embarrassment. I mouthed, I'm so sorry.
A blue-eyed man with blonde hair walked by, waving at my frustrated daughter. He pulled a yarn from his neck, revealing a name tag, Mr. White.
"I told you he's colored!" said my exasperated child.