Passing

So I have a step father-in-law that is a professor. Years ago when he was teaching African American studies, he wrote a chapter for some book. We were at the beach that summer, enjoying family and summertime. He asked me to read his chapter. I remember it was on “passing.” I had never heard that term before then. “Passing” refers to a person classified as a member of one racial group but attempting to be classified by another. In the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, some people of mixed race “passed” themselves off as solely white. While reading his chapter, I immediately thought of an old movie Imitation of Life. I had watched that movie sometime in my childhood. VCRs had just come out. My family had gotten one, and we found ourselves in the video store picking movies every Friday night. My mom directed me to all the classics. I watched all the Gidgets, Where the Boys Are, and…Imitation of Life. It was fun to see the old movies with my mom. I distinctly remember Imitation of Life. It was about a light-skinned daughter that spends her life trying to pass as white, much to her mom’s shame. I cried and cried during that movie. All of these memories- reading the chapter, the movie, the idea of passing- came back to me today. They came back to me with a huge wave of melancholy.

I am on my sixth month of living with cancer. Much of this time, I have concentrated my efforts on just showing up. The months after surgery and of the red devil, showing up took all I had, but the good news is that I am feeling better and better every day. This second round of chemo is much easier to handle. (I am done with the red devil and am now receiving a drug called Taxol.) Because I am feeling better, I have graduated to wanting more than to just show up.

Saturday, my kids were invited to go to a water park all day to celebrate their service as acolytes to the church. Temporarily forgetting myself, I committed my entire family to go. I want things to be normal. I want to celebrate my children. I want to see them laugh and run and come down a waterslide, but when I got there and faced a full day in a sunny, crowded water park, I had second thoughts. I probably spent an hour in the changing room. I had my bathing suit and rash guards and scarves and big floppy sun hat. I had my big sunglasses. I quickly found a chair in the shade, under an umbrella and I got through the entire day, trying to “pass” as someone healthy. I hoped that my big gigantic hat hid the fact that I have no hair. I slathered SPF100 on me with hopes that the sun wouldn’t react with the chemicals in my body. I tried not to rub my leaky, runny left eye and I let Ken and my sons fetch me multiple cups of water…and we had a fabulous day.

Sunday, we went to church. I put on a nice dress and I actually wore my wig. I hate the wig, but again, I was hoping to appear healthy. I was hoping that this Mother’s Day we could forget about this stupid sickness and its aftermath. I wish I had picked out a more subtle wig from the onset to be honest. (I bought two very red-haired wigs, one short and one long). In the beginning, I was thinking I’d be very Samantha-Sex-in-the-City with a pink wig and flamboyant scarves, but these days, I just want to go to the Olive Garden without everybody looking at me. I just want to pass. Every day for the last couple of weeks, I have just wanted to pass. I don’t want to appear tired. I don’t want to be bald. I don’t want to be late to things because I got tied up in the bathroom. No, I don’t want that.

I hated that girl in that movie. How dare she shame her mama like that. She should be proud of her race, proud of her mama. I feel like a hypocrite now. My hatred for pink ribbons is another way I am trying to pass for healthy. I lie to myself. I am a girl with breast cancer. This Friday, I will go with my son to Lakeland’s Relay for Life. His entire class is going. They have raised awareness and money for this disease. They have done this for me and others like me. On Friday, I will walk the laps and I will not hide. I am hoping I have the courage to go bald. The truth is that it is exhausting, this “passing”. It is exhausting and it makes cancer something shameful, and it isn’t shameful at all.