wait what huh?
Well, I'm black and Hispanic too, but since March is developmental disability awareness month, which matters just as much as Black History month, I'll just share one of my black characters who is also disabled. I have more than one, but some of the others don't know they are disabled so I'll just let the readers figure it out themselves.
Andrew Palmero (my FL's little brother) is Mexican and Navajo with quite a bit of African in his Mexican mix, and he's AuDHD. His ADHD used to depress him a lot as a kid because he was always losing things and struggling to complete school projects. This excerpt is a flashback from when he was 5 years old.
“-Was once an ordinary chemistry teacher until one day she found a radioactive eraser-”
“Licita, have you seen my baseball card?” Andrew wanders into the living room, whining over the TV. “It’s gone, and Mami will be super mad if she knows I losed it again.”
“With this new power, she became ‘Miss Brain’ the mind-boggling brilliant superheroine of justice!”
“Which baseball card?” I raise my eyebrows, trying to pretend to listen to Andrew and actually listen to the TV at the same time. I fail at both.
‘My Sammy Sosa card that Anthony gave me.”
“Why is it always the Sammy Sosa one every time you lose a baseball card?” I laugh slightly, but the laugh feels like a sigh.
Andrew mumbles, digging his toes into the carpet like he’s trying to bore a hole through the floor, “Because it’s my favorite one, so it’s the one that runs away the most.”
I sigh again.
“Baseball cards don’t have legs, Andrew.”
“My baseball cards have legs,” he mutters stubbornly, and I just ignore him, leaning forward to turn up the volume.
Andrew stands rigidly beside the recliner, staring at the TV screen for about thirty seconds, before putting his little hand on the glossy armrest and tracing the floral pattern with his fingers over and over again until I think he’ll get a friction burn.
“I lost my baseball card,” he mumbles again after a minute, bending over and resting his cheek on my knee so his coppery-brown curls spill over my faded jeans. Lazily my fingers make their way to his hair and stroke the silky mass.
“You already said that.”
“You didn’t say it makes you sad,” he whispers. “It makes me sad.”
His voice has that sing-songy lilt in it like he’s going to start crying, and I force myself to be patient, leaning forward and kissing his squishy baby cheek.
“If it makes you sad then it makes me sad too. Sis will help you find your baseball card, so don’t cry, okay?”
