No puns intended.

Today, I saw my first “BLACK LIVES MATTER” shirt! A hoodie, no less. It was a coffee shop, famous chain.

I tried to make eye-contact with the “black” chick wearing the hoodie, but no luck.

I wondered what to do!?!?!?

I thought, do I matter?

According to the Father of an American girl with Northern European ancestry and with whom I had a serious romance while in late school-years, he told her daughter that she could “have black babies” with me, I being American of Southern European ancestry. This made me the perpetrator.

Does this mean I matter, too–even though the only race that I’m supposed to check on an application or survey is Caucasian? I would ask the black-looking chick, if I could…

I would, also, tell her the peculiar ending to this true story, which occurred 6 years later: When I was “playing house” with a woman who was half black, the other half Hawaiian and Puerto-Rican, a relative of mine told me that I could “have black babies” with her. In this story, I’m made me the victim.

I guffaw uncontrollably now when people call me “white”.

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