As a gay, white man who had adopted a biracial daughter, I was at a loss when it came to choosing her bathing suits. I once outfitted her in a red cotton two-piece crocheted by my mother — a stylish yet impractical choice, which I learned when it got soaking wet. The summer she turned 4, she said, “Papa, can we go to the pool park?” “Right away,” I said, and then regretted it.
Because we weren’t prepared. She was growing fast and needed new swimwear. Shopping on my own the next day at a discount department store, I puzzled over finding something she would like that would stay put, finally settling on a sturdy light blue wet-suit kind of thing that came down to her knees and elbows.
Walking my girl in her new full piece to the nearby Harlem pool, I saw a long line ahead. On our third attempt at a midsummer swim, I had come to expect what felt like multi-factor authentication for New York City public pool-goers. The first time we had shown up during an hourlong cleaning break.
The second time we hadn’t brought the right type of lock. As we joined the queue, I reread the posted rules. It seemed I was finally getting it right.
Teens rolled through the entrance, giving me hope. “Did she bring swimwear?” the guard asked me. “Yes, she’s wearing it,” I said.
“That’s a bathing suit?” she said. “I don’t know. I need to get my supervisor.” I felt for my child squirming under the attendant’s gaze.
Was I being implicated, too? Was our relationship on trial? With her brown skin next to my lighter complexion, we looked unrelated. Standing on the hot July pavement, nobody could see that our hearts were attached. We are having trouble retrieving the article content.Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.Thank you for your patience while we verify access.
Rights
blues
Pool
man
Gay
Department
Puzzle