“It was probably just a clueless teenager,” my friend, Sarah, shrugged. “They just don’t think.” When I didn’t respond, she added, “Not that it justifies what he did.”
The day before, a young man in a rusty pickup truck had yelled a racial slur at my daughters as they rode their bikes in our driveway. I instantly switched to protective mama bear mode. First, I called the police to file a report, but without a license plate number, my report was essentially meaningless. I then reached out to local high school principals, describing the vehicle and driver, but that led to no resolution.
Feeling frustrated, I called Sarah, an experienced mom I thought would understand and empathize. I was mistaken. What I saw as a blatant act of racism, she dismissed as mere teenage stupidity.
Upon reflecting on our conversation, it struck me that the incident made Sarah, a white woman, uncomfortable. To cope, she minimized its significance to shield herself from the uncomfortable reality of racism. This reaction perfectly exemplified white fragility.
I remember the joy on the faces of our friends and family when we welcomed our first daughter, a six-pound bundle of joy with a full afro and beautiful brown skin. Two years later, we adopted another daughter, followed by a son two years after that and finally, another daughter four years later. All of our children are black.
Our vibrant, multiracial family often draws attention, eliciting questions, smiles, and curious glances. Strangely, we frequently encounter individuals who proudly claim they are “colorblind.” Yet, they approach us precisely because our family is diverse.
My husband and I have been labeled as white “superheroes” or “saviors” for adopting children who “needed a loving home.” Many people assume my kids’ birth families were irresponsible or involved in drugs, perpetuating harmful stereotypes about black individuals.
We often get asked where our kids are from, with eager eyes anticipating an exotic answer. Some even suggest, “Oh, you must have adopted from Africa?” In reality, our children were adopted from Missouri, and their disappointment is palpable when they hear the truth. They want a fairy tale of rescue.
We’ve also been told that people think “black babies are just the cutest,” which fetishizes our children of color. Yes, they are beautiful, and their blackness is extraordinary, but their worth isn’t defined by the compliments of strangers.
The most troubling comments arise when discussing racism. Many white individuals seem to believe that because we, as white parents, are raising black children, we don’t share the same feelings about racism as the black community does. We are expected to maintain allegiance to white privilege and should not “pull the race card” by acknowledging the harsh realities faced by black Americans.
Take the case of Tamir Rice, a twelve-year-old shot by police while playing with a toy gun in a park. As a mother of a six-year-old son who has always appeared older due to his height, Tamir’s death deeply affected me. His only wrongdoing was being a child.
When Tamir’s story spread on social media, I saw countless white individuals implying he must have done something wrong. Their own white sons can loiter in parks without fear of being shot or having police called on them.
The responses from some white commenters were defensive. They questioned why Tamir was unsupervised, where his mother was, and why he was holding a gun. To them, if black children would simply be respectful, they wouldn’t face danger. They suggested that if black kids didn’t sag their pants or wore “appropriate” hairstyles, they’d be safe. The underlying message is clear: black children can exist, but they must not be too black.
For centuries, white individuals have enforced the rules that govern society, leading to a dark history of slavery, Jim Crow laws, and systemic racism that persists today. We can celebrate Martin Luther King Jr. Day with ease, but when it comes to Black History Month, I’ve been asked why black people need an entire month. Shouldn’t there be a white history month too? (Spoiler: Absolutely not, but that’s a discussion for another time.)
I understand that conversations about race can be uncomfortable, but they are essential. We cannot avoid repeating history unless we confront it directly. My family doesn’t have the option of ignoring racism; we experience it daily. The sight of brown skin can unsettle many.
I hold onto the hope that one day, the same people who admire my kids’ hairstyles will also be willing to engage in discussions about race. They will affirm that black lives matter, acknowledge systemic racism, and advocate for equal opportunities for children of all skin tones.
Until that day comes, I will continue to speak about race, no matter how uncomfortable it makes those around me. My children are observing and learning, and I refuse to shy away from reinforcing that their lives matter.
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In summary, navigating conversations about race within a multicultural family can be challenging, but it is crucial for fostering understanding and combating racism. Our experiences highlight the need for open dialogue and awareness in society.
Keyphrase: embracing conversations about race
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