A Wish for Ashley

I think it was on our third date that Boyfriend asked, “do you ski?” Before I could filter my un-PC response I heard myself say “black people don't ski.” A flash of confusion crossed his face (had I told him I was mixed race before that date? Don't think so... whoops) but he quickly recovered and moved on. Now, I know that generalizations are, generally, not good for society. Too many misconceptions, too much of a tendency for people to map the trait of one minority individual onto the entire minority group. But, truly, in the same way you could say 'white people don't use hair relaxer,' the skiing generalization fits for most- but, disclaimer: not all- African-American individuals.

Granted I'm mixed, but when it comes to hair, swimming, dancing and skiing, I think its fair to say I am culturally African-American.   My hair takes one hour, a quarter bottle of Morrocan oil, a blow dryer and a 450 degree flat iron to look half way tame, I can't swim (it's hard to when you're doing everything in your power to make sure that hair doesn't get wet), I will dance for hours, and I fear skis. Who in the world wants to stick two sleds onto their feet and throw themselves doing an icy hill while battling the elements?!   Well, Boyfriend, apparently. And Kayla's husband too. So after days of plotting, they convinced Kayla and I to come out with them to ski. An hour and a half in the car, a psych-up hot chocolate and a freezing cold trek across the Cannon Mountain parking lot later, Boyfriend, Boyfriend's brother and my braided into submission half-black head, met Greg and my sister's- coincidentally- braided half-black head at the base of a freezing cold mountain. Oh goody.

Kayla and I bid goodbye to the boys with their aspirations of going to the very top of the below zero mountain and trekked over to the building marked Rentals. The first employee we encountered handed us a rental form and asked us to “rate” the type of skier we were. Type I: Downhill, controlled, recreational skier. Type II: More aggressive recreational skier. Type III: Expert. Our half-black selves had one, obvious question for the employee. “Is there a Type Zero?"

Onto the boot rentals. Sixteen year old boys with nametags and, therefore, authority, measured our feet and asked about our preferences. “I prefer boots that, on their own, will know how to ski.” He raised an eyebrow, and clipped on generic gray ski boots. These better have auto pilot abilities, buddy. Onto the ski rentals. Nineteen year old boys with nametags and, therefore, expertise, asked if I had preferences. “I prefer skis that go slow. Really slow. And won't make me fail down.” He handed me a pair of skis that barely reached my waist. Perfect. “Come back if you're embarrassed that your skis are so short,” white boy joked as I hoisted them over my shoulder. Laugh all you want buddy, but me and my braided head would rather be laughed off the slope for short, slow skis than carried off the slope with life threatening injuries because she flung herself off a high hill with long, fast ones. Outfitted as true skiers, we hit the beginner slopes.

Now, credit where it is due, Kayla has some skiing experience under her belt. Greg lured her into it with the promise of cute ski clothes, hot chocolate, a pink helmet and goggles with bling. No seriously, they had serious rhinestones and could have blinded a passerby. Kayla can confidently ski down those beginner slopes and hold her own on intermediate ones. I, on the other hand, have negative ski experience. My one and only ski day prior to today was with my little sister, a 'first timer' lesson courtesy of the Big Sister Association of Greater Boston. Our instructor barked at us like a drill sergeant. “KEEP YOUR SKIS PARALLEL!” Buddy, if I knew how to make them parallel I wouldn't be here. Perhaps you could teach us how to get them parallel? Nope? Ok great. Thanks for the lesson.

Yet there we were, Ms. Pink Helmet and Rhinestone Goggles and Ms. Get Out of My Way Because I Can Go But I Can't Stop throwing ourselves down icy surfaces in below zero temperatures. Kayla laughing hysterically at my inability to properly board and exit a chair lift, and me wondering how anyone could possibly think that this is an enjoyable activity. Four and a half hours later the torture was over. The boys frozen, but beaming from the exhilarating experience. Kayla and I frozen, but beaming that the experience was done for the day.

There's a lot of stuff I do related to this search that, in my mind, is akin to electively choosing to strap sleds onto my feet and barrel down a freezing slope. Phone calls, blogs, interviews, follow ups that all go against my nature. Black people don't ski. Audra doesn't put herself out there. Like my day of skiing, when it's over I am usually beaming that I survived; I don't appreciate the experience but at the end of it I'm ok if I leads me to a given result. What was the result of skiing today? My amending the statement of 'black people don't ski' to 'mixed people don't ski without hoping that their white sides might momentarily become dominant and save them from a visit to the emergency room.' Moreover, the result was wracking up memories of Kayla and I doubling over as she attempted to haul me up a slope by her ski pole. What is the result of my uncomfortable Ashley activities to date? My amending the statement of 'finding her is going to be difficult' to 'finding her is going to be possible' since people keep looking on our behalf, helping us to narrow our efforts. Moreover, the result is me wracking up memories of the people I've met, corresponded with, talked to and walked with who attempt to keep me optimistic as they haul me up and along with their ideas and encouragement.

Ashley, I can't ski. I can't swim. But I can straighten unruly hair and dance. I don't expect that you can do any or all of the above, but I do expect that if we are reunited we can make lots of great memories. I hope to have that chance. I dream of having that opportunity.

We may not do it in 2009, but 2010 will bring the granting of this wish. I know it. You know it. Maybe, somewhere, Ash knows it too.

With love (and numb toes),
Audra