Just Like Me

Christmas was for everyone. Decorations should be too.

- Molly Pennington Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

WHERE SHOULD I hang this one?” three-year-old Dari asked, talking to herself, a Christmas ball dangling from her finger. She took the job of decorating the tree very seriously. Much more so than her older brothers, who’d grown bored. Even her dad was engrossed in the football game on TV. That left me and Dari.

While she chose a spot for the ball, I picked up a little figure skater with pale skin and pink, rosy cheeks, a present from my grandmother when I was a little girl. It was definitely Dari’s favorite.

“It’s our very last ornament,” I told her. “Where should this one go?”

“Oooh!” Dari pulled her fists up under her chin the way she did when she couldn’t contain her excitement.

“Someplace special.”

Watching Dari scan the tree, I couldn’t help but notice the differences between her and the ice skater. Dari was black—unlike almost all the angels, elves, Santas and cherubs on our tree. I looked at our Nativity, at the nutcrackers on our mantel. All white.

We’re a biracial family. I’m white; my husband, Val, is black, like Dari, who we’d adopted at 18 months. Why couldn’t our decorations look more like my daughter?