The manifestation of childish directness caught me in a semi-empty tram that took us home on a hot summer day.

At one of the stops in the transport appeared a couple of girls-representatives of the near abroad, each accompanied by two or three children.

When the seven sat down on the shops, the daughter carefully examined them and asked me a sacramental question:

Why are they black?

I asked again because I didn’t hear it, or if I was squeezed by surprise. The four-year-old boy repeated with a ringing voice:

Why are we white and they are black?? to

I started the ultra-tolerant talk that all people are different and the color of the skin, like the color of the eyes, can also be different. There are people who are black and even more white than us. What this affects is the country where people were born or their families and bla bla bla.

One of my moms started touching me. The shopper was uncomfortable. If I knew the cherry cake would come later.

My daughter asked me where black people came from and whites came from, and she seemed to be calm.

Already standing in the door, before leaving the tram, the daughter once again looked carefully at this companion and said:

How good that we are white, yes, Mom?