The Girl from Ipanema

By W. F. Twyman, Jr.

Walking to my car and I noticed her.

Light brown skin somewhere between tan and olive and intriguing. Brown hair with flowing curls. I always look to hair to place someone. She refused to be labeled. Her voice could have been from anyway. Her features were indeterminate.

Caricatures and stereotypes lost their meaning. She was tall, slender with gazelle like legs. Combat shoes, an inspired accessory.

Our eyes met. In olden times and to this day, some black people nod to other black people as a reflective gesture.

She did not nod but she saw me, not a race but me.

She was of indeterminate ancestry, the wave of our racial future. She could have been black, Hispanic, North African, Arabic, Brazilian or mixed. I…could…not…tell.

She was trans racial and striding along the streets of San Diego. And I was just a person, an old individual man retired from Blackness.

There is hope for our racial future.