“Not everything is black and white.” My mother tells me this almost every day. But my piano begs to differ.

I am African-American, Caucasian, Jewish, and gay, and narrowly escaping the degradation of my ancestors: my great-great-great grand- father’s slavery, my grandmother’s persecution in the Holocaust, and the denial of gay identity.

Clear, hopeful melodies break the silence of the night. Playing a crudely fashioned bamboo pipe, in the midst of sullen inmates—this is how I envision my grandfather.

I beamed while leaping off stage, proud of overcoming my two largest hurdles— public speaking and spelling. I apprehensively anticipated applause to fill the faux “class-itorium,” but instead, my peers filled it with laughter.

What is love? A promise at the altar? The soft kiss of water on parched lips? A flash of his shadowed gray eyes, or the tender caress of pink pigment on her cheekbones?