I've just started dating a white boy.

I know what Ma will say, A white boy? Why not a Puerto Rican? I could handle one of those. A Puerto Rican I could handle. My Ma's old-fashioned. She doesn't believe in the whole interracial thing, and interracial in her vocabulary is anything more than two shades up or down from herself. That's why I'm keeping the news about my new sigh-guy top secret.

For now.

Ma's always said we can't quite pass 'the paper bag test'. The idea of holding a paper lunch bag up to myself to see if I qualify for membership in a golf club has always sounded ridiculous to me. I don't even like golf. Whenever Uncle Melvin falls into the easy chair in his living room to watch a nine-hour golf tournament on TV -- windows hitched open to catch a breeze from the loud street outside his building and glass of iced tea perspiring in his hand -- I grab my bag and out the door I go. Visiting family is one thing, golf is another.

I've never been good hiding things from Ma. I'll probably crack by Tuesday and tell her everything.

Todd is his name. My new guy. Todd. Todd. Todd. We're going to see each other for coffee this afternoon at a little place in the Village. I love those little sidewalk areas where you can sit and watch people stroll by. I'm a real people watcher. And not just beautiful men.

I've already changed my top three times and now I'm not sure if the rest of my outfit is right, either. Oh, why do I always do this?

Todd's a software designer. One of those little indie companies that create programs on demand. He told me about it on our first date, his floppy dark hair falling a little into his eyes as he sipped his herbal tea. His smile is a little crooked, he's shy with new people and generally a bit absentminded. He didn't even notice his T-shirt wasn't fully tucked in to his cargo pants. I did.

Swoon.

He's Vegan. I'm not. Yet. We met at an eco supermarket on 8th Street, both of us unsure if we should throw couscous or brown lentils into our baskets. Maybe he'll convert me. 

Oh Todd, convert me!

But tell me first which top I should put on! This one, or the blue one? Which one makes me look sexier?

I'll be seeing Ma on Sunday when I ride to Brooklyn for post-church brunch. Vinegary salt pork and collard greens, kale, black-eyed peas and yams with marshmallows for dessert. Ma'll be in the kitchen vigorously stirring in the pots on the stove, sucking on her teeth and humming along with the oldies music from the little pink kitchen radio.

I'll set the table and help serve. Later I'll wash up in the kitchen while Ma, Aunt Thel, and some of the cousins gossip and drink their cherry brandy in the living room, perched in a row like chirpy sparrows on the green velvet couch. And a few hours after that everybody will say good-bye and Ma and I'll be alone.

And she'll ask me how I'm doing.

Oh, Ma . . . I've met somebody. Somebody special. . .

And I already know what she'll say when I tell her he's white.

She'll shake her head and say A white boy? Why not a Puerto Rican? I could really handle one of those. Why not a Puerto Rican? Please, Nathan. 

Humor your Ma just this once.