Since marrying a black man, I’ve developed a habit of noticing the racial makeup of people in any given space. This practice falls outside the norms of whiteness that I learned, and I feel pressure to conform to these norms when I’m with other white people.
Yet here I am at a funeral with my white family, observing the many mourners as they pass, and noting that only five people aren’t obviously white. As I sit in this space, I can’t help but think about how my black husband and brown kids might feel if they were here with me. I also can’t help but wonder if someone will ask me where my husband and kids are.