Originally, I considered writing this type of fic using Blaine as my main character. In my head, he's mixed, and I figured there aren't a lot of fics out there that really touch on that and it'd be interesting to explore. I decided against it because I felt uncomfortable writing about the issues of being of Filipino descent/white passing. I still wanted to write a fic like that, though, so I picked Jake. I was inspired to tell the story from his mother's point of view by the fic A Long Road Ahead by smithie_speaks.
However, my story is about a black, single mother raising two children. One is mixed, the other is not. I tried to pull from things I remember from when I was little, and I tried to echo some concerns I've heard my dad express before to my mom. I did my best to do this story justice and I hope you guys like it.
Warnings: racism, including slurs.
Your son is five when he comes home with tears in his eyes and a bruise forming on his cheek. You try to ask what's wrong, but he crawls into your lap before you can speak, leaving you with an armful of sniffling boy. You stroke his back until he calms down, singing softly to him, and when you finally stop you realize that he has fallen asleep in your arms.
When the clock chimes eight you consider putting him in his bed and calling the babysitter. You have to work tonight, and it's supposed to be busy.
Eventually, you decide to stay on the couch, holding your child close.
It means you'll have to cancel your date with your mom for this weekend, but there's no way you can leave your son.
_
The next day, when you're making lunch while your children sit in the living room watching some weird cartoon, Jake wanders into the kitchen. He tugs nervously on his shirt as you move around him, chewing on his bottom lip.
"What's up, buttercup?" You ask when he doesn't say anything, turning away for a moment to start chopping up some apples.
He's quiet for so long you think that he's gone, but then he speaks in a voice that he always uses when he knows what he's about to say might get him in trouble.
"Mommy...what's a nigger?"
_
You wonder how elementary schoolers learned that word.
_
You want to hurt whoever taught it to them.
_
Sometimes, when you are out at stores with your children, people will stop by to smile at them. Their eyes are always kind (you pay close attention to people's eyes; you can tell so much about a person from them), mouths always turned up in a friendly smile as they look back and forth between your children. You know that some of them wonder how they can possibly be related with such differences in color. You know they don't understand how it all works out, but you never offer to teach them.
Whenever those people stop by, their eyes always rest on Jake, and their smiles grow wide.
"He's so cute," they all say. "He's gonna be a lady killer."
They never bother to speak to your daughter, and you're always tempted to push her forward.
"Look at her," you want to say. "Isn't she cute, too?"
But you know the answer, so you never do.
_
Your daughter is five, kneeling on the floor between your legs while you braid her hair when she lets out a sigh that sounds too big for her little body.
"Sigh like that again, Straudia, you'll blow yourself away," you tell her.
She doesn't laugh, like you wanted. Instead she twists her head around, and you're about to remind her to stay still for the fifteenth time when she says, "Jake's got nice hair. And Angeline, at school, she's got real pretty hair. When am I gonna get nice hair, Mama?"
_
"You need to get those kids out of that town," your sister tells you over your weekly coffee. "It's not good for them."
"Mary," you sigh, swinging your legs back under the table so you can face her head on. Leaning forward, you think of how to best put it, before deciding to just be honest. "I don't have anywhere to go."
She scoffs, waving her hand like it'll brush away the facts of your life. "Oh, shut up, Tanisha. You know you can stay with me."
"Wouldn't Junior mind?"
"Fuck Junior," Mary says with the sudden ferocity you've come to associate with your older sibling. "You're my sister. You're more important to me than some lazy ass man, okay? You wanna stay with me, you can stay. Junior can sleep on the fucking street corner."
In spite of yourself, you feel the corners of your mouth tug up in a small smile. "I'll think about it, okay?"
She snorts her disbelief, but thankfully stays quiet.
_
You really do think about it.
Truth is, there's nothing left for you in this town. Neither of your kid's fathers are in their lives, and it's not like you couldn't find a job waitressing somewhere else. Lord knows Mary would easily be able to find you a job with better hours, maybe even better pay.
Deep down, you know it'd be easier for your kids.
Maybe you would be poorer, if Mary couldn't help you find a new job, but you know that while your kids are picking up on the stares they get around town, they're not perceptive enough to notice money shortages.
You're too scared to move.
_
Mary is disappointed in you.
She never says it, but you have learned to read the harsh lines of your sister's face. You think of explaining to her why you can't move, but every reason you came up with now seems too flimsy when you linger on it.
Finally, you manage to choke out, "I just can't."
"Won't," Mary corrects softly, placing money on the table as she stands to go. "You won't."
_
When Straudia comes home crying because a group of girls called her dirty you feel disgusted with yourself.
_
You're busy, rushing to get you and your kids out the door, when Jake suddenly announces that he wants to get his hair cut. Pausing in what you're doing, you turn to look at your son, whose thick, black curls are hidden under a heavy hat.
Jake hates hats.
You stare at him for a few moments before forming your mouth around one simple word.
"Why?"
Part of you wants to point out that he's proud of his hair, and has always loved to flaunt it's height and difference when out of the house, but you don't.
"I just wanna cut it," Jake shrugs.
You bite your lip for a moment before quietly asking, "How short?"
"As short as I can."
_
When they cut Jake's hair, you pretend you don't see him watching each piece fall.
_
Your children are being crushed by this town.