Free Celluloid Memories by Sandra Kitt

I can talk the talk.”
    â€œWhat are you trying to say?” Kay asked.
    â€œIt’s not really about how you sound. It’s about how you look,” Donna said knowledgeably.
    Savannah nodded. “I wondered myself. Are you biracial?”
    â€œI’m African-American.” Dominique said, not hesitating for a second. “Most people don’t notice, or don’t ask. I don’t volunteer that I’m black, but I don’t deny it.”
    Savannah wondered what Dominique thought as she, Kay and Donna stared openly at her, fascinated by this little phenomenon of nature, genes and history.
    â€œI’m sorry. I know it’s rude to stare, but I just can’t get over it. I’ve never seen anyone like you, but I knew you had to be black,” Donna said.
    â€œHow?” Kay asked. “I can’t tell.”
    Donna shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just one of those things I felt. I kind of connected to the way you talked, and maybe how comfortable you seemed with us right from the start.”
    â€œYeah, that’s what I felt,” Kay nodded. “You just seem to fit right in.”
    â€œI wasn’t trying to put something over on you…”
    â€œNo, no. That’s not it,” Savannah spoke up. “But we all grew up hearing or reading about black men and women who are light enough to pass.”
    â€œBut I’m not trying to pass for white,” Dominique clarified. “I’m always myself, and I don’t pretend to be anything else but black. But people never ask. It’s all about the color of my skin, hair and eyes. Most people don’t see anything else.”
    â€œLook, forget the cappuccino,” Kay said, signaling for the waiter. “I’m ordering another bottle of wine.”
    They all burst out laughing.
    â€œI’m sorry if I put you on the spot,” Donna said earnestly.
    â€œYou didn’t, I promise. If I can’t handle what people think or believe about me, what they come to find out about me, then I’m in trouble and in the wrong business. Being an actress is all about becoming other people.”
    â€œBut how do you get work?” Savannah asked.
    â€œIt’s hard. I can play and pass for a lot of different ethnic types with makeup and wigs. But getting someone to believe I can play an African-American doesn’t fly. The audience wants to see someone who looks a lot like them. I don’t.
    â€œOne of my friends in high school used to tell me I’m a fake…”
    There was an audible gasp around the table.
    â€œShe used to say I didn’t have a clue what it was like being black, ’cause I wasn’t. “
    â€œYeah, and I bet she got on your case because all the boys flocked around you like bees to honey.”
    â€œI bet not,” Savannah conjectured. “I bet they were afraid of you.”
    â€œRight,” Dominique nodded firmly. “If they were seen with me they might be accused by their homeboys of preferring white girls. I don’t think I should have to explain or defend who I am.”
    â€œI hear that,” Donna nodded.
    â€œSo, how are you doing? Are you from L.A.?” Kay wanted to know.
    â€œI graduated Yale, but I was born in Texas. I’m okay. I work.”
    â€œDomino is also a wonderful fabric artist,” Savannah interjected, wanting to get away from the subject that seemed to be an interrogation of Dominique, even a friendly one.
    â€œReally?” Donna asked, surprise. “Like what?”
    â€œLike this shawl I brought with me,” Domino said, and pulled from her large tote bag one of her own creations.
    Savannah sat smiling, as Donna and Kay exclaimed over the fine woven cloth. Then she told them she had a shawl on layaway, and took out her checkbook to write a second payment to Domino.
    â€œYou have my card. You can come by my studio anytime to make the final payment and pick it up,”