To say that my previous neighborhood was diverse is an understatement. As a white, college educated, female in my thirties partnered with a white male in his thirties, both working full-time, both raised Catholic, we would have found ourselves securely rooted in the middle class majority in most neighborhoods, but I this was not the case in my transitional neighborhood in San Francisco, transitional not because of short stays, but because of a resurgence and redevelopment that occurred while we were living there.

My first clue was went I went to the local grocery store and marveled at all the “ethnic” choices – Michael and I realized that we would be able to shop at one place for the first time – no running down to different neighborhoods for “exotic” ingredients that were staples in our diet. Next door, a beauty supply store beckoned – it looked familiar on the outside, but as I ping ponged down the aisles I recognized little and marveled at the variety of relaxers, tonics and pomades. I found a small selection of products for white hair at the back, I never did find any face powder that matched, but did experiment with bolder lipstick created for darker skin over the years. I celebrated my first, second, third, fourth and fifth gay wedding while living in community with people from other countries, educated in the Ivy League or SF City College or in a couple of cases, not at all after high school, we shared little except the fact that we were all in about our 30’s and were first time home owners in a new loft in San Francisco. This one thing was enough for community that lead to what I have to assume will be life-long friendships. We still visit our old hood, not to check up on our tenants and fix minor issues, but to visit the unlikely cast of characters that made our community. Babies came, partners went, jobs changed a lot, but there was something to unify us.

Fast forward three years, my children are now old enough to benefit from the safety of Los Gatos, but also to experience a deficit in diversity. No longer is my white, heterosexualness my unique trait, now it is that I am a working mother of two toddlers. I weigh heavily the experiences that my children gather as they grow and develop in our new neighborhood where they are the most diverse ethnically – Michael has an Irish passport. Are we seeing enough of the real world, is the diverse daycare setting enough to bring awareness that all people don’t look like them, are the Kiva loans broadening their horizons to global economics? Don’t get me wrong, we love our neighbors, when the power goes out, I get a call and am invited over for dinner since otherwise, I would show up to a cold, dark, empty house with little options for feeding my hungry boys. We share wine, stories, laughter and cries. The kids play and one form of diversity, some gender exposure, is supported when my boys play at the princess house of the three neighbor girls or when the girls come play with our trains and trucks. (We do have dolls, but the obsession with trains and trucks is firmly genetically ingrained – I love them too.)

The first time my son saw an image of a light skinned black man on the wall in the AT&T store on Blossom Hill and said “ Look Mommy, Obama.” I was horrified; did he think every person with dark skin was Obama? Was anyone with dark skin the same? I quickly took advantage of the moment and said something like “Wow, good eyes, but not all photos of people with dark skin are Obama. Remember your Colors of Me book where the little girl paints all the colors of her neighbors? There are people with skin of all colors in the world.” He was done with the conversation before I gasped and then closed my mouth to started speaking

Then I realized a couple of things: 1. My son knows a fairly diverse group of people, much more diverse than I knew at his age. Uncle Doug is black, Lupe, from Peru is credited with his Spanish accent, a neighbor has a trach and feeding tube, but they can communicate with the sign language she teaches us, Marco is from Guatemala, Tiffany and Alice are both mommies – he knows these people better than he knows his uncles and aunts and 2. How amazing is it that a 3.5 year old sees a person with dark skin and immediately goes to him being the next President of the United States, not an athlete, musician or criminal. This election has been historic in so many ways and the publicity has engaged and enraged me. As an adolescent, I remember writing to Amy Carter, my running partner remembers identifying with Chelsea Clinton – I am excited about the children of today seeing two young, smart and black little girls in the Whitehouse. Maybe the times they are a changing.