At O’Hare, waiting to pay for lunch, and Anjali strikes up a conversation with a businessman in line behind us. He comments on her pretty dress, she shows him her nail polish, he enthuses over her nails, she preens, and twirls.
I pay, get the food, and take the kids over to our gate to wait for boarding. As I pass out slices of pizza, Anjali says, “He’s a nice man. He yiked my nail polish!”
me: “But he was a stranger. What are our rules about strangers?”
Anjali, extremely offended: “But he was WHITE! And he didn’t have a MEAN HOUSE!”
Me: “Anjali! I did not know that man. If I don’t know him, he is a STRANGER!”
Anjali, furious: “BUT HE WAS WHITE!”
Oh. My. God.
Me: “Anjali. He can be white. black. blue. yellow. green. I did not know him. So. He. is. a. Stranger.”
And turns away from me. And eats her pizza.
And I look up to see a black man across the aisle, and a white lady behind Anjali, both looking at me, both smiling, both giving me approving nods.
She definitely needs some more instruction in stranger-danger!