Identification

Don't leave home without it

I had it made just for them. A simple white rectangle measuring 3.375 inches by 2.125 inches.

We don't walk around our neighborhood without them.

On mine, a photo of a brown face. On theirs, a photo of a lighter face. I wouldn't want to get mistaken for the nanny.

I walk and talk too much. I want my perfect English to carry down the street to anyone who might be walking, driving, peeking at us from their window.

We don't linger anywhere too long. We walk, I talk, I teach my kid about cults and flags with one blue stripe.

I'm trusting two pieces of flimsy plastic to keep us together.

If we're caught and questioned, our guilt assumed:

Will they stop to notice how our hair curls in the same pattern,
Even if the curls are in vastly different shades of brown?

Will they look at the matching freckles on our arms, creating a map, a secret code that only we share,
Despite the contrast of our melanin?

Will they look into our eyes, identify the shared almond shape, the twinkle of mischief,
Though only one set is hazel?

Will they place their hands on our hearts, feel the whisper of identical cells, the trade of information made in utero,
Regardless of whose cells manifested with desirable traits?

Will they find our presence on this quiet, suburban street to be unlawful?
Will they punish my child for my crime of being born too dark?

I'm trusting two flimsy pieces of plastic to keep us together,

To protect us from blood-thirsty extremists,
To protect us from their passive counterparts,
To protect us from our neighbors.