“Are we making the right choice as parents?” my partner asked while I packed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a banana into our son’s dinosaur-themed backpack. On a gloomy Sunday morning, we decided to visit the Portland Art Museum, as it was the final day of “Everything Being Equal…” — a multi-media showcase by artist Hank Willis Thomas that explores the exploitation of Black individuals within the fabric of America’s consumer culture.
“It’ll be fine,” I reassured him. “It’ll be a great opportunity for us to engage with some art.”
Before we knew it, we found ourselves in the museum lobby, surrounded by a diverse mix of city dwellers—parents with moody teens, retirees, hip graduate students, and young mothers with babies in carriers. Everyone was decked out in their stylish Pacific Northwest attire, complete with upscale jackets, knit caps, and oversized glasses.
Our three-and-a-half-year-old held my left hand while his father grasped his right, captivated by the new experience. He beamed as we passed a reimagined version of Picasso’s “Guernica,” crafted from NBA jerseys and photographs linking professional sports to slavery. He hummed a catchy tune from Lego Movie 2 while we examined an image of “The Door of No Return,” shaped like an Absolut Vodka bottle.
Whenever my partner or I tried to let go of his hands to get a closer look at an artwork, our son protested loudly, “Where’s Daddy?!” or “Where’s Mommy?!” His desire to keep us together was heartwarming, but his exuberant voice in that setting made me feel a tad embarrassed.
As we delved deeper into Thomas’ exhibit, I couldn’t help but notice the oddity of the situation. Experiencing art that so pointedly addressed Black identity in a city known for its lack of diversity was a bit surreal. Sure, I saw more people of color at the exhibit than I typically do in Portland, but the numbers were still low, and our presence seemed to attract attention.
I caught the curious glances of onlookers shifting from my Black features to my partner’s White ones, then to our son’s Biracial face. Their expressions transformed as they processed our multiracial family dynamic, often ending in a condescending smile. Some visitors appeared irritated by our child’s presence, as if our little boy was an unwelcome distraction to the serious act of engaging with art created by a Black artist.
At times, I questioned whether bringing our preschooler to this exhibit was the right decision. I fondly recall my own childhood visits to art museums, particularly a memorable trip with my mother to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was 1998, and her excitement over seeing the Unicorn Tapestries was infectious. I didn’t know much about the tapestries but could feel the thrill radiating from her.
After a train and subway ride to the Upper East Side, we arrived at the vast Met, which houses thousands of works. Yet that day, my mother’s focus was solely on the seven Unicorn Tapestries. As we stood in the gallery, she revealed the hidden religious themes and pointed out the intricate details, strengthening our bond in the process.
Fast forward more than two decades, and I learned about Hank Willis Thomas’ exhibit after attending a talk by curator and activist Samantha Lane at the Portland Art Museum. I had been following Lane’s inspiring work on social media for some time. During her lecture, she emphasized the importance of making art accessible to those who don’t align with traditional representations in galleries (like Black and Brown individuals). It hit me that as a Black person, I’ve always believed I belong in every museum I’ve visited.
Am I lucky? Absolutely. Am I also a bit entitled? Perhaps. Is it pretentious to mention the museums I’ve explored around the world? Maybe. But I bring it up to illustrate a crucial point: my mother—an empowered Black woman—instilled in me that appreciating art was my birthright, and now it’s my son’s inheritance as well.
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In summary, taking my biracial child to a racially charged art exhibit opened my eyes to the complexities of cultural representation and the importance of instilling a sense of belonging in the art world. It reaffirmed the legacy of appreciation for art that I inherited from my mother, which I now pass on to my son.
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