I am white.  My husband is black.  Our daughter is…well…she’s like that great flavor of “World Class Chocolate” at Baskin-Robbins, which is a sweet, delectable combination of white and dark chocolate, blended to perfection. When the grocery store checker, or the dentist, or our insurance salesman, or the shoe store clerk, or one of my college students who sees her picture in my office asks where she gets her curly hair or if she’s “mixed,” I usually reply, “Yes, she’s biracial,” (for I’ve always thought “mixed” to be used only for dogs and cocktails).  I answer this question three or four times a day and often wonder if I should just stick a sign on her that reads “Yes, my father is black.”