This man eludes me, because he doesn’t often exist.
Not because of the sweater vest or the antique book, but simply because there aren’t that many Biracial guys out there, and the few I do know aren’t with Biracial girls.
They’re a mirror of a different kind, and one that is intimately familiar.
But time and again, most White men see me as a wise confidant, someone who at most entices them with “exotic” features, while they go on to form relationships with their own romantic mirrors.
Another felt comfortable with anyone, anywhere, even though we lived in rural Oregon where confederate flags waved proudly on the backs of pickup trucks.