"We are increasingly more different than we are the same. And if we can all acknowledge that reality, then maybe we can start solving some problems together."
So I'm a little late with this post. Or maybe I'm not. Maybe the timing is right. A couple of weeks after the results of one of our country's most heated and seemingly divided presidential elections to date might just be the right time to bring this up - a time when its still fresh and poignant, yet not so fresh that it still stings to those that did not celebrate victory and breathe a sigh of relief on November 6th.
I know, I know. You're over it. Regardless of which side you fell on, it was ugly for everyone. People actually lost friends over it. However, I urge you; no, I demand that you read this post. It's really not political, but it is a superb commentary on what this election meant for our country, for our children, for us, for our common psyche. There is no way I could say this any better (when its already been said so beautifully), so I am going to direct you to Foreigner in a Buckeye Nation by Liz Rose-Cohen. Go on, click on the link and relish in her words. Let them soak in. Celebrate what this means for everyone in our country.
"Our children will believe in and expect our plurality to spread broadly across the political spectrum and dig deep into solutions for the grave issues that threaten our planet and those who dwell here. There will be no room for those who cannot play with others. Those who cannot engage in constructive discourse. Those who cannot understand that their way is not the only way, their experience not the only experience, their view not the only view. This is the possibility that lies within the minds of our children. That's where we are headed. Because these last four years really have changed our brains. And in the next twenty, our brains may just change the world." - Liz Rose-Cohen
Showing posts with label A Conspicuous Family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A Conspicuous Family. Show all posts
Friday, November 16, 2012
Saturday, August 25, 2012
Token
In one week we have found Little Miss E's picture in two widespread media publications - the City's quarterly newsletter and recreation guide (yep, that's her front and center in yoga class above) and the front page of her school's newly updated website.
Yes, she LOVES to have her picture taken, and her radiant smile, beauty and bigger than life personality are quite photogenic. I can't resist taking pictures of her on a daily basis. However, the whole thing leaves Brent and me with small, but hard to ignore, pits in our stomachs. Let me show you another picture from Elsa's yoga camp:
Notice anything? Yeah, and her summer camp looked the same, except Ashagre and she jointly solely represented the African American race among upwards of one hundred kids in all but one session when one older brown-skinned girl, who became fast friends with Elsa, was also enrolled in the camp. Ashagre's lego camps looked identical to the photo above. He, of course, was the only, although you may have assumed differently prior to dropping him off if you would have looked at the City's summer camp guide. It featured a front and center picture of our friend E, one of the nine kids adopted from Ethiopia residing in our community, participating in lego camp last year.
Here's a screen shot of the kids' school's new webpage (can you find Elsa?):
Here's a shot from Elsa's classroom on the first day of school:
It's busy (this is what school looks like when parents, and in the first week younger siblings too, are fully integrated into the classroom), but the pattern is not lost. Elsa is the only. I don't have a picture of Ashagre's class, but Brent and I quietly celebrated that he is one of two brown-skinned kids in his class this year. One of two - something to celebrate. I'm not certain yet, but I would guess that while most have one, it's the only classroom with two. Yes, each kid's classroom also has at least one bi-racial child and a small handful of other non-white races represented. Regardless, both the kids and I know exactly how many other brown-skinned kids attend their small school: nine. Nine out of roughly 300, three percent.
Now the school would be quick to point out that three percent actually over-represents African Americans found in our community, who make up two percent of Ventura's population according to the 2010 census. When I arrived at a barely-attended meeting on diversity at the school late one night last year I was informed of this fact. The school is currently grappling with how to increase its hispanic population so that the school community more closely represents not only the largely hispanic neighborhood the school is located in, but the City and the County as a whole.
I remember when we first started exploring schools (back when all we knew of Elsa and Ashagre were their over-analyzed referral pictures). I was at first excited and then quickly a bit more guarded when I glimpsed their school's (old) webpage. It, even more so than the new one above featuring Elsa, prominently showcased a beautiful African American boy with a radiant smile front and center among a small handful of white children. Once the kids started attending, I often wondered how that boy's parents felt about his placement on the school's homepage. Now I know.*
As a white parent of two black kids I have become hyper-aware of the media that defines my kid's world. Brent and I are constantly trying to increase the number of opportunities our kids have to see a world that includes likenesses of themselves. But what about when it's not a likeness? What about when they are the token black kids in our community's media? On one hand, I'm glad they're not being ignored. People are noticing and including them in our world. But for what purpose? And how does/will it affect them? They are already acutely aware that the are often the only? How will seeing it in print or on a website magnify that experience? When will they realize what's going on and how will they feel about it then?
At the moment I don't really have any answers. Only questions.
*Note: this post might be interpreted as a criticism of our kids' school. That is not my intent (although I may question their choice in website cover pictures). We specifically chose their school because of its explicit efforts to build a community that truly sees and celebrates diversity. The fact of the matter is, Ventura does not have a large African American community, and our kids would likely be the only in any classroom we put them in. We feel that at least at their current school, the culture is one that doesn't ignore the fact and proudly includes all of its students and their families. Basically, if they are going to be the only (which Brent and I still need to think critically about), at least they are part of a community that recognizes it and celebrates them for their unique beauty and value.
Second Note: Brent and I are concretely aware that we are the members in the family with the power to make decisions that increase or decrease the chances of our kids being the only. We know we have a lot of work to do and possibly some big decisions to make.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
First Impressions
Last night's dinner was a hit and there wasn't enough to go around for everyone to have the seconds they wanted. Apparently I blew it by not buying a second bag of spinach. As Brent stood in the kitchen trying to make the last of our dinner stretch among four empty bowls, being the dad that is, he came up with an excellent solution.
"Hey guys. We don't have any more buffalo chicken salad, but I just talked to Mommy and she said we can go get ice cream instead!"
The kids raced to finish up the little bit of seconds they got and scurried to their room to find their birthday party favor gift cards for a chain ice cream shop that sells 31 ridiculously fake and heavily dyed flavors (so glad those gift cards are nearly empty). We piled in the car and headed up the street for some after dinner ice cream.
The kids chose their flavors, cup or cone, and toppings and settled in to one of the sticky tables to attempt to ingest more ice cream than they could smear all over their face and appendages (one kid was more successful at this than the other). Brent and I each found something to take us back to our childhoods (rainbow sherbet anyone?) and sat down next to them - keeping a good distance from the kid that was loosing the battle between ingesting and wearing her ice cream.
Shortly after we all got settled a teenage boy and his father walked in. Each had a shaved head and a detailed sleeve tattoo on their left arms. The father sized up our family with some intensity. Sensing the challenge, Brent stared back with confidence. Both of us instinctively and subconsciously scanned their tattoos for symbols indicating potential intolerance of our transracial family.
Just as quickly as this initial guarded, unspoken exchange occurred, the father's face softened into the sweetest grin, his eyes sparkling, as he waved at Elsa, who apparently, had noticed his stares and decided to wave. Hopping up to see if I could get some water to help Elsa remove some of the chocolate coating her mouth, cheeks, chin, nose, fingers and forearms (the ice cream was literally up her nose) I passed by the dad. He turned to me, and respectfully and quietly inquired, "Did you adopt them?"
The questions that followed were pretty routine for our family. "Where are they from?" "Are they siblings?" "Did they speak any English when they arrived in America?" "How has their adjustment been?" These questions can really get old, especially when it feels like the interrogator has forgotten that they're speaking about two kids who very well can hear and understand them and may not feel good about having their stories dissected by a stranger in an ice cream shop. However, with this man they were asked in a respectful and generally interested manner. He even answered his own question, "Are they siblings?" with my routine answer - they are now.
"Have you read Kisses From Katie? I just finished it. It's about this woman who travels to...to..oh I forgot. It's one of the bigger, more common African countries (as if a country can be more common than another). [I correctly guess Uganda]. She goes to teach, just for a year, and she's still there. And she's adopted 13 girls. 13! Girls only though. You should really read it. It really moved me and so does your family. It's just beautiful and your kids are amazing. Look at those smiles. I'm David, by the way."
After getting as much chocolate off of Elsa as possible with some very thin napkins and a cup of ice water we sauntered back out to our car. As the kids rattled on about something that happened at camp that day, Brent and I marveled at how we both, automatically and instinctively, suspected the worst from these two men, based solely on appearance and an initial gut feeling, only to be shown the opposite. We considered how parenting in a transracial family both routinely gives you the opportunity to challenge common perceptions and stereotypes while also forcing you to rely on them more heavily in an attempt to keep your family safe. On this night, we are reminded that what you see on the surface is often insignificant and its always better to test the waters with a friendly wave before drawing any concrete conclusions.
"Hey guys. We don't have any more buffalo chicken salad, but I just talked to Mommy and she said we can go get ice cream instead!"
The kids raced to finish up the little bit of seconds they got and scurried to their room to find their birthday party favor gift cards for a chain ice cream shop that sells 31 ridiculously fake and heavily dyed flavors (so glad those gift cards are nearly empty). We piled in the car and headed up the street for some after dinner ice cream.
The kids chose their flavors, cup or cone, and toppings and settled in to one of the sticky tables to attempt to ingest more ice cream than they could smear all over their face and appendages (one kid was more successful at this than the other). Brent and I each found something to take us back to our childhoods (rainbow sherbet anyone?) and sat down next to them - keeping a good distance from the kid that was loosing the battle between ingesting and wearing her ice cream.
Shortly after we all got settled a teenage boy and his father walked in. Each had a shaved head and a detailed sleeve tattoo on their left arms. The father sized up our family with some intensity. Sensing the challenge, Brent stared back with confidence. Both of us instinctively and subconsciously scanned their tattoos for symbols indicating potential intolerance of our transracial family.
Just as quickly as this initial guarded, unspoken exchange occurred, the father's face softened into the sweetest grin, his eyes sparkling, as he waved at Elsa, who apparently, had noticed his stares and decided to wave. Hopping up to see if I could get some water to help Elsa remove some of the chocolate coating her mouth, cheeks, chin, nose, fingers and forearms (the ice cream was literally up her nose) I passed by the dad. He turned to me, and respectfully and quietly inquired, "Did you adopt them?"
The questions that followed were pretty routine for our family. "Where are they from?" "Are they siblings?" "Did they speak any English when they arrived in America?" "How has their adjustment been?" These questions can really get old, especially when it feels like the interrogator has forgotten that they're speaking about two kids who very well can hear and understand them and may not feel good about having their stories dissected by a stranger in an ice cream shop. However, with this man they were asked in a respectful and generally interested manner. He even answered his own question, "Are they siblings?" with my routine answer - they are now.
"Have you read Kisses From Katie? I just finished it. It's about this woman who travels to...to..oh I forgot. It's one of the bigger, more common African countries (as if a country can be more common than another). [I correctly guess Uganda]. She goes to teach, just for a year, and she's still there. And she's adopted 13 girls. 13! Girls only though. You should really read it. It really moved me and so does your family. It's just beautiful and your kids are amazing. Look at those smiles. I'm David, by the way."
After getting as much chocolate off of Elsa as possible with some very thin napkins and a cup of ice water we sauntered back out to our car. As the kids rattled on about something that happened at camp that day, Brent and I marveled at how we both, automatically and instinctively, suspected the worst from these two men, based solely on appearance and an initial gut feeling, only to be shown the opposite. We considered how parenting in a transracial family both routinely gives you the opportunity to challenge common perceptions and stereotypes while also forcing you to rely on them more heavily in an attempt to keep your family safe. On this night, we are reminded that what you see on the surface is often insignificant and its always better to test the waters with a friendly wave before drawing any concrete conclusions.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Chance Encounters
All three of us spotted him the moment he slipped through the restaurant's back entrance. Fortunately, he made a detour to the bathroom prior to passing by our table, and the kids had a chance to get their excited observations out prior to him being in earshot (discreetness is a character trait my children may never have).
"That man! Did you see his dreadlocs Mommy? What he doing?"
"Two boys Mommy! Two. With dreadlocs!"
He emerged from the restroom at about the same time that our giant plate of vegetarian Ethiopian delicacies, side of doro wat, and mountain of injera appeared at our table and was able to pass with only momentary wide eyed stares from each of the kids due to the distraction only a coveted injera-filled lunch could bring. Our eyes caught each other's, smiled to match our faces and nodded a quick hello as he passed our table and disappeared into the adjacent market.
"Mommy his dreadlocs are just like mine! I want mine to be long like that someday."
Injera hypnosis overtook all three of us and we didn't notice as he approached our table again.
"Man, I can't help but ask. Do I know you from somewhere? You look so familiar."
The ice was broken (and for this I thank him).
"No, I doubt it. We live up north in Ventura. We only come here every few months. My son was admiring your locs. He wants his to grow long like yours someday."
"Oh yeah my little man? I've had these locs since I was a little boy in Jamaica. Littler than you even. You keep growing yours and I bet they'll be down to here (pointing toward the middle of his back) by next year. Come on boy, pass it on (holding out his fist for Ashagre to bump)."
Ashagre sat a little taller in his chair, his smiling eyes and beaming grin brightening our table in the darkness of the restaurant.
From there the conversation flowed for a good fifteen minutes or so. His name was Osai. He had never been to Ethiopia before, but was planning to go in November and stay through Christmas. He wanted to visit an Ethiopian Orthodox Church. Did we know that the first Orthodox Church in the western hemisphere was in Jamaica? He asked about the kids, patiently listening as they told him how old they were and where they were born. Neither kid felt inclined to resort to acts of shyness or socially awkward behavior and comfortably and politely carried on the conversation. When Elsa proudly exclaimed that she was born in Addis Abba, he immediately greeted her in Amharic. She was puzzled for a minute, but then finished my sentence, with a tint of sadness in her voice, as I explained that she had already forgotten her Amharic.
Finally, the conversation subsided and he headed back into the market as we continued our lunch. Passing through once more on his way out back to his car he stopped to say goodbye and give Ashagre a pat on the back. The other man, younger and with a more frenzied energy about him than Osai paused briefly to compliment Ashagre's locs.
Ashagre sat yet even taller, visibly more comfortable in his own skin. Proud. Validated.
*******************************
She showed up just as I had resigned myself to sitting quietly (slightly bored) as Brent napped on the bleachers and the kids splashed around in the pool at their regularly scheduled swim lessons. This week it was so much easier than last week. Last week I sat just behind her in the bleachers, for at least 30 minutes, trying to come up with a non-chalant way to break the ice until our kids finally got out of the pool and that look of absolute understanding melted her seemingly closed off demeanor as we both helped our brown-skinned kids get dried off and warmed up.
She sat down right next to me and struck up the conversation immediately.
"Don't you guys live up the street? I've seen you walking."
"Not any more. We moved. We bought a place over in Montalvo off Victoria."
"That little girl of yours. She's a fiery one. Just look in her eyes. Fiery."
The 30 remaining minutes flew by as we got to know one another. She grew up on the islands (Fiji) but had lived in Ventura for a long time. The boy with beautiful locs swimming with our kids was her grandson - eight years old and quite the little man.
As the conversation continued Elsa pulled herself up on the side of the pool, her eyes bright and comfortable curiosity written across her face. "Mom, who you talking to?"
********************************
They notice. Every. Single. Time. They need it. People, with beautiful brown skin just like theirs casually chatting with their mom at the side of the pool, complimenting them on their dreadlocs, actively making an effort to get to know them, to see them for all the beauty and promise they embody. For moments, they do not stand out as the only. They are validated.
And so I continue to reach out because what we're doing now is not enough. Even when it feels awkward or makes me uncomfortable. I remind myself it can't be as uncomfortable as moving from a country full of people just like you to a community where you are often the only.
I send emails to nice gentlemen met in the hallway of my office building. I make a conscious effort to visit the man at the bagel shop at least once a week and wrack my brain trying to come with a way to take our connection beyond my bagel order (and his adoration of my kids, which light up his sleepy face early in the morning and leave him asking where they're at when they're not with me). I visit the Starbucks that is on the way to nothing in hopes of chatting with the handsome young man with the big cubic zirconia earrings. I pass my phone number to the girl at the burrito shop with hair just like Elsa's and huge amounts of self-confidence to match. I hope daily that she will call me back like she promised.
I joke with my friends as I explain my efforts, "Hi! (said in my nerdiest nasal voice) I have black kids! Do you want to be my friend?" If only it were that easy...
Still it's not enough, and It's too important to mess up. So many studies have shown the importance of a strong sense of racial and cultural identity to a person's self-esteem. I have to work harder at it. I need more ideas.
"That man! Did you see his dreadlocs Mommy? What he doing?"
"Two boys Mommy! Two. With dreadlocs!"
He emerged from the restroom at about the same time that our giant plate of vegetarian Ethiopian delicacies, side of doro wat, and mountain of injera appeared at our table and was able to pass with only momentary wide eyed stares from each of the kids due to the distraction only a coveted injera-filled lunch could bring. Our eyes caught each other's, smiled to match our faces and nodded a quick hello as he passed our table and disappeared into the adjacent market.
"Mommy his dreadlocs are just like mine! I want mine to be long like that someday."
Injera hypnosis overtook all three of us and we didn't notice as he approached our table again.
"Man, I can't help but ask. Do I know you from somewhere? You look so familiar."
The ice was broken (and for this I thank him).
"No, I doubt it. We live up north in Ventura. We only come here every few months. My son was admiring your locs. He wants his to grow long like yours someday."
"Oh yeah my little man? I've had these locs since I was a little boy in Jamaica. Littler than you even. You keep growing yours and I bet they'll be down to here (pointing toward the middle of his back) by next year. Come on boy, pass it on (holding out his fist for Ashagre to bump)."
Ashagre sat a little taller in his chair, his smiling eyes and beaming grin brightening our table in the darkness of the restaurant.
From there the conversation flowed for a good fifteen minutes or so. His name was Osai. He had never been to Ethiopia before, but was planning to go in November and stay through Christmas. He wanted to visit an Ethiopian Orthodox Church. Did we know that the first Orthodox Church in the western hemisphere was in Jamaica? He asked about the kids, patiently listening as they told him how old they were and where they were born. Neither kid felt inclined to resort to acts of shyness or socially awkward behavior and comfortably and politely carried on the conversation. When Elsa proudly exclaimed that she was born in Addis Abba, he immediately greeted her in Amharic. She was puzzled for a minute, but then finished my sentence, with a tint of sadness in her voice, as I explained that she had already forgotten her Amharic.
Finally, the conversation subsided and he headed back into the market as we continued our lunch. Passing through once more on his way out back to his car he stopped to say goodbye and give Ashagre a pat on the back. The other man, younger and with a more frenzied energy about him than Osai paused briefly to compliment Ashagre's locs.
Ashagre sat yet even taller, visibly more comfortable in his own skin. Proud. Validated.
*******************************
She showed up just as I had resigned myself to sitting quietly (slightly bored) as Brent napped on the bleachers and the kids splashed around in the pool at their regularly scheduled swim lessons. This week it was so much easier than last week. Last week I sat just behind her in the bleachers, for at least 30 minutes, trying to come up with a non-chalant way to break the ice until our kids finally got out of the pool and that look of absolute understanding melted her seemingly closed off demeanor as we both helped our brown-skinned kids get dried off and warmed up.
She sat down right next to me and struck up the conversation immediately.
"Don't you guys live up the street? I've seen you walking."
"Not any more. We moved. We bought a place over in Montalvo off Victoria."
"That little girl of yours. She's a fiery one. Just look in her eyes. Fiery."
The 30 remaining minutes flew by as we got to know one another. She grew up on the islands (Fiji) but had lived in Ventura for a long time. The boy with beautiful locs swimming with our kids was her grandson - eight years old and quite the little man.
As the conversation continued Elsa pulled herself up on the side of the pool, her eyes bright and comfortable curiosity written across her face. "Mom, who you talking to?"
********************************
They notice. Every. Single. Time. They need it. People, with beautiful brown skin just like theirs casually chatting with their mom at the side of the pool, complimenting them on their dreadlocs, actively making an effort to get to know them, to see them for all the beauty and promise they embody. For moments, they do not stand out as the only. They are validated.
And so I continue to reach out because what we're doing now is not enough. Even when it feels awkward or makes me uncomfortable. I remind myself it can't be as uncomfortable as moving from a country full of people just like you to a community where you are often the only.
I send emails to nice gentlemen met in the hallway of my office building. I make a conscious effort to visit the man at the bagel shop at least once a week and wrack my brain trying to come with a way to take our connection beyond my bagel order (and his adoration of my kids, which light up his sleepy face early in the morning and leave him asking where they're at when they're not with me). I visit the Starbucks that is on the way to nothing in hopes of chatting with the handsome young man with the big cubic zirconia earrings. I pass my phone number to the girl at the burrito shop with hair just like Elsa's and huge amounts of self-confidence to match. I hope daily that she will call me back like she promised.
I joke with my friends as I explain my efforts, "Hi! (said in my nerdiest nasal voice) I have black kids! Do you want to be my friend?" If only it were that easy...
Still it's not enough, and It's too important to mess up. So many studies have shown the importance of a strong sense of racial and cultural identity to a person's self-esteem. I have to work harder at it. I need more ideas.
Friday, March 23, 2012
For Our Sons
It’s unlikely but possible that you could get killed today. Or any day. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. Black maleness is a potentially fatal condition. I tell you that not to scare you but because knowing that could save your life. There are people who will look at you and see a villain or a criminal or something fearsome. It’s possible they may act on their prejudice and insecurity. Being black could turn an ordinary situation into a life-or-death moment even if you’re doing nothing wrong.
-Written by Toure.
Ashagre has been my snuggler from day one. The very first night we slept together as a family of three - me, him, and his daddy - in Ethiopia he buried his face in my chest and fell quickly asleep while stroking my arm wrapped protectively around his little body. Lately our best snuggling takes place in the early morning, right after I wake him up for school and before I turn the light on. As soon as he hears my voice, his arms shoot out from underneath his warm comforter into the dark of the morning and start sweeping the air. I find his flailing arms and scoop up his warm, still sleepy and loose, much bigger than a year ago, body and hug him tight. He melts into me with the biggest hug a six year old boy can muster for his momma. If I let go and set him back down on his bed too early, his arms shoot out again demanding for me to pick him back up and hug him some more. I love this fleeting moment the two of us share each morning before the chaos of the day day begins. I feel like its my chance to fill him up for the day before sending him out into the big world to learn, love, and grow.
This week I haven't been able to hug him tight enough. This week, the terrifying reality that no hug or anything else I can give him is enough to protect him and keep him safe from this crazy world we live in is too close to the surface of my thoughts.
**********
We're running late for no particular reason other than we just didn't get out of the door on time. The kids burst out of the Prius (careful with your car doors please!) in the loud, frenzied ball of early-morning energy that marks our days. Elsa shrieks and sprints to the entrance of the coffee shop. Ashagre is doing that booty-shaking half swagger half skipping while hanging on your arm and singing/shouting gibberish thing that he does. I stop and muster my calmest voice. "Ashagre, take a few breaths with me. You're not ready to go into the coffee shop. No, real breaths. Deep from your belly. Slow." He makes a half-hearted attempt at this skill he used to outright refuse to do but has lately improved on after seeing his sister receive so much praise for using it so well. His breaths never really qualify as deep or calming, but he hears me and pulls it together, at least a little bit.
We go in and get in line - the same line we stand in every morning. The same line that passes right next to a counter with an abandoned scale of some sort sitting on top of it. It's been there for months. Today, Ashagre just can't stand the temptation and/or can't muster the self control. That scale has buttons - buttons he just has to push. My boy LOVES buttons. Beep! His hand darts back to his side. I give him my momma's serious look and send him to sit in a chair in a quiet corner of the coffee shop while Elsa and I wait to order. An over-reaction for a minor infraction, you say? Maybe. But recent headlines flood my frontal cortex.
How do I tell him, without robbing him of the beautiful confidence that has been slowly blossoming over the past year, that minor offenses such as the one he just committed (or less) could get him killed someday? How do I let him know that even if he is better behaved and better dressed and better spoken than his white peers someone might see him as a threat? How do I explain to him that as a black boy in America he always has to be aware of his surroundings? How to I tell him he should enjoy wearing his favorite hooded wetshirt now because in a few years he'll need to consider changing his look to something less threatening? How do I encourage him to no longer fear police men (a deep rooted fear he brought with him from Ethiopia) while explaining to him the potentially lethal consequences of running from those same men when he is just a little bit older? How do I, his white momma, teach him to survive in this country where his particular mix of sex and skin color are still a potentially deadly combination?
Trayvon Martin is dead because he was a black boy living in America. The person that pulled the trigger has not been arrested. Trayvon is not just someone's else's son from across the country that you see on the nightly news. Trayvon Martin is my son. Trayvon Martin is your son too.
If I can find one positive thing that has come out of this horrible crime it's that the internet has been flooded with a wealth of well written lessons for inexperienced mommas of black boys. For mommas in general. For all of us. Please take the time to read some of the links I've shared below. This isn't just Trayvon's family's loss; their issue. It's not just mine, and other mommas of black boys, either. Mull them around a bit. Keep the conversation going. Silence is the best perpetuator of this craziness. For Trayvon. For Ashagre. For our sons. For all of us.
Wise words from people with much more experience than I have. If you can't read all of them please at least read the first (I'm making this one mandatory):
Trayvon Martin, White Denial and the Unacceptable Burden of America (Stick with it. There's some important information in there. It might make your skin feel prickly. Sit with it and consider why. And, yes, I am completely aware that his last paragraph trivializes this post.)
-Written by Toure.
Ashagre has been my snuggler from day one. The very first night we slept together as a family of three - me, him, and his daddy - in Ethiopia he buried his face in my chest and fell quickly asleep while stroking my arm wrapped protectively around his little body. Lately our best snuggling takes place in the early morning, right after I wake him up for school and before I turn the light on. As soon as he hears my voice, his arms shoot out from underneath his warm comforter into the dark of the morning and start sweeping the air. I find his flailing arms and scoop up his warm, still sleepy and loose, much bigger than a year ago, body and hug him tight. He melts into me with the biggest hug a six year old boy can muster for his momma. If I let go and set him back down on his bed too early, his arms shoot out again demanding for me to pick him back up and hug him some more. I love this fleeting moment the two of us share each morning before the chaos of the day day begins. I feel like its my chance to fill him up for the day before sending him out into the big world to learn, love, and grow.
This week I haven't been able to hug him tight enough. This week, the terrifying reality that no hug or anything else I can give him is enough to protect him and keep him safe from this crazy world we live in is too close to the surface of my thoughts.
**********
We're running late for no particular reason other than we just didn't get out of the door on time. The kids burst out of the Prius (careful with your car doors please!) in the loud, frenzied ball of early-morning energy that marks our days. Elsa shrieks and sprints to the entrance of the coffee shop. Ashagre is doing that booty-shaking half swagger half skipping while hanging on your arm and singing/shouting gibberish thing that he does. I stop and muster my calmest voice. "Ashagre, take a few breaths with me. You're not ready to go into the coffee shop. No, real breaths. Deep from your belly. Slow." He makes a half-hearted attempt at this skill he used to outright refuse to do but has lately improved on after seeing his sister receive so much praise for using it so well. His breaths never really qualify as deep or calming, but he hears me and pulls it together, at least a little bit.
We go in and get in line - the same line we stand in every morning. The same line that passes right next to a counter with an abandoned scale of some sort sitting on top of it. It's been there for months. Today, Ashagre just can't stand the temptation and/or can't muster the self control. That scale has buttons - buttons he just has to push. My boy LOVES buttons. Beep! His hand darts back to his side. I give him my momma's serious look and send him to sit in a chair in a quiet corner of the coffee shop while Elsa and I wait to order. An over-reaction for a minor infraction, you say? Maybe. But recent headlines flood my frontal cortex.
How do I tell him, without robbing him of the beautiful confidence that has been slowly blossoming over the past year, that minor offenses such as the one he just committed (or less) could get him killed someday? How do I let him know that even if he is better behaved and better dressed and better spoken than his white peers someone might see him as a threat? How do I explain to him that as a black boy in America he always has to be aware of his surroundings? How to I tell him he should enjoy wearing his favorite hooded wetshirt now because in a few years he'll need to consider changing his look to something less threatening? How do I encourage him to no longer fear police men (a deep rooted fear he brought with him from Ethiopia) while explaining to him the potentially lethal consequences of running from those same men when he is just a little bit older? How do I, his white momma, teach him to survive in this country where his particular mix of sex and skin color are still a potentially deadly combination?
Trayvon Martin is dead because he was a black boy living in America. The person that pulled the trigger has not been arrested. Trayvon is not just someone's else's son from across the country that you see on the nightly news. Trayvon Martin is my son. Trayvon Martin is your son too.
If I can find one positive thing that has come out of this horrible crime it's that the internet has been flooded with a wealth of well written lessons for inexperienced mommas of black boys. For mommas in general. For all of us. Please take the time to read some of the links I've shared below. This isn't just Trayvon's family's loss; their issue. It's not just mine, and other mommas of black boys, either. Mull them around a bit. Keep the conversation going. Silence is the best perpetuator of this craziness. For Trayvon. For Ashagre. For our sons. For all of us.
Wise words from people with much more experience than I have. If you can't read all of them please at least read the first (I'm making this one mandatory):
Monday, March 5, 2012
Sticking With Shorts: Baseball, Values and Opportunity
Play Ball, A Family Tradition
This Saturday was Opening Day for the Foothill Baseball League. Our Saturday involved baseball, and nothing more.
Despite the fact that neither Brent nor I are even remotely passionate about baseball, the sport has been a part of our family since the first, maybe the second, day of becoming a foursome. Stuck an extra week in Ethiopia due to a hold up with the Embassy, not allowed to leave our guesthouse with our kids except to take care of adoption related business or frequent one of three approved restaurants, we made due with whatever was lying around the compound to keep everyone entertained, including a couple of plastic bats and some half inflated rubber balls. "Baseball?" was one of the first English words the kids learned. We played a lot at the guesthouse and the kids both developed accurate, if not a little tomahawk-like, swings.
Last year after only one month home, Ashagre joined the Tigers baseball team. It was something we never would have even considered signing him up for that early upon his arrival in America, but our friend Greg, who's son Izaak is the same age as our kids (and Elsa's highly competitive math partner at school), was coaching a team that was shy a few players. He suggested we bring the kids down to a practice to check it out. It was too overwhelming for Elsa, but Ashagre was hooked on that first day.
We decided to go with it, no pressure, and pull him out if it became too much. It never did. Knowing no English, he was an astute observer of the game. He learned the rules and objectives by carefully scrutinizing what was going on around him as it unfolded. His skills improved dramatically and his confidence soared. By the end of the season, Elsa, who had attended every practice and practiced in most of them, was quite the baseball player too. She even earned an honorary jersey and a place in the batting line up for the last game of the season.
When baseball season rolled around again this year there was no question. The kids just assumed they would be playing. Izaak had decided to do karate instead of baseball, and Greg therefore wasn't coaching, so we decided to sign the kids up in our neighborhood league rather than drive them across town to play in the league that they played in last year.
About 30 Minutes Before the Opening Day Ceremony Begins
Fidgeting with a piece of ribbon, attached to one of a bunch of many balloons, desperately trying to untangle it from all the others before the warm breeze that is blowing through the canyon on even a warmer day undoes my handiwork and tangles the ribbons up again.
Seriously? Balloons? Mylar balloons? I woke up an hour early and rushed my Saturday morning to come out here to tie mylar balloons to a fence? Mylar balloons that I will get to take down again in a few hours because, according to the umpire, they will distract the players during the first game of the season? Mylar balloons that a few kids will ask for, play with for a few minutes and then accidentally release to the warm breeze and deep blue sky above us so they can loose their helium and become yet another artifact of humanity's fascination with the frivolous floating around in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch? Mylar balloons that no one else will want that will be shoved into the back of a mini van only to be batted around your house by your kids before loosing their helium and ending up in the landfill? You needed four volunteers to help with opening day to tie mylar balloons to a fence? Elsa and Ashagre know this as unnecessary and wasteful. Elsa and Ashagre, who with no coaching from Mom or Dad, stop to pick up trash on the sidewalk or in the forest, so that it doesn't end up in the ocean and hurt dolphins (they love dolphins) understand that no one's life will be any richer because these balloons were tied to the fence for a few hours.
Fifteen Minutes into the Opening Day Ceremony
I gaze out across the well manicured field, enjoying the absolute adorableness that is little kids in baseball uniforms. We bought Elsa extra small baseball pants. They barely stay up on her. I wondered how the younger kids that played T-Ball would even be able to wear them until I saw them, drawstrings pulled tight around their tiny wastes, uniform shirts tucked in giving them a little extra girth, the extra pant leg fabric folded and bunched at their ankles like rolls of fat on a cartoon elephant. Elsa and Ashagre's team, the mighty Mud Hens, by far has the cutest hats.
New families arrive. I stay vigilant, keeping my eyes peeled. Please don't let them be the only ones. Wait, nope, there's an African American woman over there. Which team is her kid on? Ah, Kristopher. He looks like he's about their age. Maybe they'll play each other. Two out of three out of approximately 275. One percent. Next I scan for girls. The numbers aren't any better. Why am I surprised? We should have stuck with the league from last year - the one on the other side of town. Sure the fields are potholed and some seemingly shady characters (who usually turn out to be parents of players) lurk around grounds, but at least the makeup of the players is representative of the community we live in - about equal Caucasion to Hispanic with two percent African American mixed in there too. At least girls in those families are encouraged to play baseball rather than being pigeon-holded into ballet by age six. At least those families get to know each other on the bleachers as they cheer their kids on, united in their commonality as parents of the kid that picks dandelions as the ball flies by his head or the kid too busy spinning circles in the outfield to notice that her team has gone in and is now up to bat.
The other mom I am standing next to behind the t-shirt sales table and have been trying to engage for the past twenty minutes with absolutely no return effort on her part finally asks, "Where are your kids?" as I cheer for the Mud Hens while they ceremoniously run the bases to kick off the season. I pause, briefly, grinning to myself about the level of discomfort I would create if I answered with the most obvious answer of all, and, instead use my pointer finger to identify them. She says nothing in return.
As My Brain Wanders in the Days Leading Up to Their First Game
Maybe I'll cornrow her hair and get beads or cute barrettes that match her uniform to put on the ends of her braids. Maybe I should sew some sort of bow onto her hat. Maybe she can wear a headband so they'll know when she takes her hat off.
Sitting in the bleachers a little boy confirms my suspicions. Mommy, is that a girl or a boy? They have a pink mitt. As Elsa swings the bat and sends the ball hopping past the catcher I clear up his inquiry. "Go Elsa! Run girl!"
Why? She doesn't care. Why do I? Elsa is fascinated by gender roles in America. Things aren't as clear cut as they were for her at her orphanage where everyone had a shaved head and girls exclusively wore dresses while boys exclusively wore pants (poor thing, I can't imagine how awkward she felt when we put her in a pair of shorts the first day we met her). "Mommy! I saw police! Girl in police car! Girl driving police car!" "Mommy, boys no wear barrettes." Brent and I are constantly explaining that, in America, girls can do anything boys can do and boys can do anything girls can do, except, of course have babies. The whole thing tickles her. "Mommy, four boys, two girls." She counts the ratio of boys to girls everywhere we go. I still can't quite understand the motivation for this counting, but am certainly no longer surprised to hear it.
Despite her fascination with gender roles and despite the fact that she is a girly girl at heart learning to live with her far from girly momma, she, herself is not concerned about other's interpretation of her sex whatsoever. As hard as we're working to grow it out, her hair remains relatively short. Other kids, the masters of asking legitimately innocent yet socially unspoken questions, ask their moms all the time if she is a boy or a girl plenty loud enough that we can both hear it. It doesn't even phase her.
Why do I care that Foothill Little League knows she's a girl? Why do I, the mom that is fine being an additional five minutes late for school as I explain in the parking lot that the woman we saw in the coffee shop is not pretty just because she has a Macy's counter full of make up on. That makeup doesn't make someone pretty. That their heart and the love they show others is what makes them pretty. That while, yes, many very pretty people wear makeup some would actually be prettier without it. That, no, Mommy doesn't wear makeup and won't be anytime soon. That she (Elsa) doesn't need makeup to be pretty. That she is already the prettiest girl in the world with her huge brown eyes, radiant smile and tender and loving heart that erupts with explosive sobs at the happy part of Disney movies. That she is pretty because she is who she is, because she's Ethiopian, because she just is. Why?
The Day After Opening Day
Our car speeds up the 33 through the other side of town, the west side, home to the Pony Baseball League, the other league we used to be a part of. The kids are strapped safely in their booster seats. Each one sings some repetitive ditty or another just a little bit louder than the other. Brent and I steal a moment to discuss our housing options.
We could continue to live in our current bungalow. The cute one in the great neighborhood with great neighbors. The one with a slumlord landlord, mold on the bathroom walls, and only two bedrooms. We can continue to sleep with one kid in between us in bed at night (alternating kids so as not to make anyone feel excluded) or we can look for something else. We can rent a new place like the one we are quickly approaching in Oak View. One with three bedrooms, another bathroom and a dishwasher (A dishwasher! Sign me up! I don't even need to see the house!). Or we can look into buying one that our realtor neighbor has in mind for us. One of the houses on the other side of town - the only side of town we currently have the ability to possibly afford in our overpriced beachside community. The side of town that has been "up and coming" for thirty years, but still remains to be considered a good place to invest in housing, unless, of course, you're another slumlord landlord. The sole destination of all the City's redevelopment funds.
I remember a conversation overheard at opening day. Another mom, hair bleached blond, well sculpted body, designer work out clothes and a large diamond ring on her finger marvels at how great Foothill Little League is. "We had to play in the Pony League for a few weeks last year. It was awful. The fields are a wreck, and how can you keep track of the kid's stats with no score board?" She shutters. I shutter, remembering the first morning in a long time where I have felt like the other in our community. Brent and I decide to keep our options open. We take an application for the place in Oak View. We invite our neighbor over later in the evening to discuss the houses she knows of on the west side. I quietly wonder if even west side will offer enough otherness for our family.
This Saturday was Opening Day for the Foothill Baseball League. Our Saturday involved baseball, and nothing more.
Despite the fact that neither Brent nor I are even remotely passionate about baseball, the sport has been a part of our family since the first, maybe the second, day of becoming a foursome. Stuck an extra week in Ethiopia due to a hold up with the Embassy, not allowed to leave our guesthouse with our kids except to take care of adoption related business or frequent one of three approved restaurants, we made due with whatever was lying around the compound to keep everyone entertained, including a couple of plastic bats and some half inflated rubber balls. "Baseball?" was one of the first English words the kids learned. We played a lot at the guesthouse and the kids both developed accurate, if not a little tomahawk-like, swings.
Last year after only one month home, Ashagre joined the Tigers baseball team. It was something we never would have even considered signing him up for that early upon his arrival in America, but our friend Greg, who's son Izaak is the same age as our kids (and Elsa's highly competitive math partner at school), was coaching a team that was shy a few players. He suggested we bring the kids down to a practice to check it out. It was too overwhelming for Elsa, but Ashagre was hooked on that first day.
 |
| Warming up playing catch with Izaak. First day of baseball practice. |
 |
| Slugger in the making. |
We decided to go with it, no pressure, and pull him out if it became too much. It never did. Knowing no English, he was an astute observer of the game. He learned the rules and objectives by carefully scrutinizing what was going on around him as it unfolded. His skills improved dramatically and his confidence soared. By the end of the season, Elsa, who had attended every practice and practiced in most of them, was quite the baseball player too. She even earned an honorary jersey and a place in the batting line up for the last game of the season.
 |
| This girl knows how to keep her eye on the ball. |
When baseball season rolled around again this year there was no question. The kids just assumed they would be playing. Izaak had decided to do karate instead of baseball, and Greg therefore wasn't coaching, so we decided to sign the kids up in our neighborhood league rather than drive them across town to play in the league that they played in last year.
About 30 Minutes Before the Opening Day Ceremony Begins
Fidgeting with a piece of ribbon, attached to one of a bunch of many balloons, desperately trying to untangle it from all the others before the warm breeze that is blowing through the canyon on even a warmer day undoes my handiwork and tangles the ribbons up again.
Seriously? Balloons? Mylar balloons? I woke up an hour early and rushed my Saturday morning to come out here to tie mylar balloons to a fence? Mylar balloons that I will get to take down again in a few hours because, according to the umpire, they will distract the players during the first game of the season? Mylar balloons that a few kids will ask for, play with for a few minutes and then accidentally release to the warm breeze and deep blue sky above us so they can loose their helium and become yet another artifact of humanity's fascination with the frivolous floating around in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch? Mylar balloons that no one else will want that will be shoved into the back of a mini van only to be batted around your house by your kids before loosing their helium and ending up in the landfill? You needed four volunteers to help with opening day to tie mylar balloons to a fence? Elsa and Ashagre know this as unnecessary and wasteful. Elsa and Ashagre, who with no coaching from Mom or Dad, stop to pick up trash on the sidewalk or in the forest, so that it doesn't end up in the ocean and hurt dolphins (they love dolphins) understand that no one's life will be any richer because these balloons were tied to the fence for a few hours.
Fifteen Minutes into the Opening Day Ceremony
I gaze out across the well manicured field, enjoying the absolute adorableness that is little kids in baseball uniforms. We bought Elsa extra small baseball pants. They barely stay up on her. I wondered how the younger kids that played T-Ball would even be able to wear them until I saw them, drawstrings pulled tight around their tiny wastes, uniform shirts tucked in giving them a little extra girth, the extra pant leg fabric folded and bunched at their ankles like rolls of fat on a cartoon elephant. Elsa and Ashagre's team, the mighty Mud Hens, by far has the cutest hats.
New families arrive. I stay vigilant, keeping my eyes peeled. Please don't let them be the only ones. Wait, nope, there's an African American woman over there. Which team is her kid on? Ah, Kristopher. He looks like he's about their age. Maybe they'll play each other. Two out of three out of approximately 275. One percent. Next I scan for girls. The numbers aren't any better. Why am I surprised? We should have stuck with the league from last year - the one on the other side of town. Sure the fields are potholed and some seemingly shady characters (who usually turn out to be parents of players) lurk around grounds, but at least the makeup of the players is representative of the community we live in - about equal Caucasion to Hispanic with two percent African American mixed in there too. At least girls in those families are encouraged to play baseball rather than being pigeon-holded into ballet by age six. At least those families get to know each other on the bleachers as they cheer their kids on, united in their commonality as parents of the kid that picks dandelions as the ball flies by his head or the kid too busy spinning circles in the outfield to notice that her team has gone in and is now up to bat.
The other mom I am standing next to behind the t-shirt sales table and have been trying to engage for the past twenty minutes with absolutely no return effort on her part finally asks, "Where are your kids?" as I cheer for the Mud Hens while they ceremoniously run the bases to kick off the season. I pause, briefly, grinning to myself about the level of discomfort I would create if I answered with the most obvious answer of all, and, instead use my pointer finger to identify them. She says nothing in return.
As My Brain Wanders in the Days Leading Up to Their First Game
Maybe I'll cornrow her hair and get beads or cute barrettes that match her uniform to put on the ends of her braids. Maybe I should sew some sort of bow onto her hat. Maybe she can wear a headband so they'll know when she takes her hat off.
Sitting in the bleachers a little boy confirms my suspicions. Mommy, is that a girl or a boy? They have a pink mitt. As Elsa swings the bat and sends the ball hopping past the catcher I clear up his inquiry. "Go Elsa! Run girl!"
Why? She doesn't care. Why do I? Elsa is fascinated by gender roles in America. Things aren't as clear cut as they were for her at her orphanage where everyone had a shaved head and girls exclusively wore dresses while boys exclusively wore pants (poor thing, I can't imagine how awkward she felt when we put her in a pair of shorts the first day we met her). "Mommy! I saw police! Girl in police car! Girl driving police car!" "Mommy, boys no wear barrettes." Brent and I are constantly explaining that, in America, girls can do anything boys can do and boys can do anything girls can do, except, of course have babies. The whole thing tickles her. "Mommy, four boys, two girls." She counts the ratio of boys to girls everywhere we go. I still can't quite understand the motivation for this counting, but am certainly no longer surprised to hear it.
Despite her fascination with gender roles and despite the fact that she is a girly girl at heart learning to live with her far from girly momma, she, herself is not concerned about other's interpretation of her sex whatsoever. As hard as we're working to grow it out, her hair remains relatively short. Other kids, the masters of asking legitimately innocent yet socially unspoken questions, ask their moms all the time if she is a boy or a girl plenty loud enough that we can both hear it. It doesn't even phase her.
Why do I care that Foothill Little League knows she's a girl? Why do I, the mom that is fine being an additional five minutes late for school as I explain in the parking lot that the woman we saw in the coffee shop is not pretty just because she has a Macy's counter full of make up on. That makeup doesn't make someone pretty. That their heart and the love they show others is what makes them pretty. That while, yes, many very pretty people wear makeup some would actually be prettier without it. That, no, Mommy doesn't wear makeup and won't be anytime soon. That she (Elsa) doesn't need makeup to be pretty. That she is already the prettiest girl in the world with her huge brown eyes, radiant smile and tender and loving heart that erupts with explosive sobs at the happy part of Disney movies. That she is pretty because she is who she is, because she's Ethiopian, because she just is. Why?
The Day After Opening Day
Our car speeds up the 33 through the other side of town, the west side, home to the Pony Baseball League, the other league we used to be a part of. The kids are strapped safely in their booster seats. Each one sings some repetitive ditty or another just a little bit louder than the other. Brent and I steal a moment to discuss our housing options.
We could continue to live in our current bungalow. The cute one in the great neighborhood with great neighbors. The one with a slumlord landlord, mold on the bathroom walls, and only two bedrooms. We can continue to sleep with one kid in between us in bed at night (alternating kids so as not to make anyone feel excluded) or we can look for something else. We can rent a new place like the one we are quickly approaching in Oak View. One with three bedrooms, another bathroom and a dishwasher (A dishwasher! Sign me up! I don't even need to see the house!). Or we can look into buying one that our realtor neighbor has in mind for us. One of the houses on the other side of town - the only side of town we currently have the ability to possibly afford in our overpriced beachside community. The side of town that has been "up and coming" for thirty years, but still remains to be considered a good place to invest in housing, unless, of course, you're another slumlord landlord. The sole destination of all the City's redevelopment funds.
I remember a conversation overheard at opening day. Another mom, hair bleached blond, well sculpted body, designer work out clothes and a large diamond ring on her finger marvels at how great Foothill Little League is. "We had to play in the Pony League for a few weeks last year. It was awful. The fields are a wreck, and how can you keep track of the kid's stats with no score board?" She shutters. I shutter, remembering the first morning in a long time where I have felt like the other in our community. Brent and I decide to keep our options open. We take an application for the place in Oak View. We invite our neighbor over later in the evening to discuss the houses she knows of on the west side. I quietly wonder if even west side will offer enough otherness for our family.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Telling Our Ethiopian Kids About America's Racist Past - Part 1
After reading this post over at Rage Against the Mini Van and taking a quick glance at the calendar - Martin Luther King Jr. Day is only a week away - I emailed Ashagre's and Elsa's teachers to see if they would be teaching about MLK this week. I'm glad I did.
You see, Brent and I as of this morning, had not discussed America's racist past with the kids. It is one of those topics, like so many others, that requires a certain level of shared language. While we would have certainly been open to such a conversation if the kids had brought it up earlier, we weren't ready to initiate the discussion without feeling like the kids had the tools they needed to express their thoughts the way they might like to and to understand what we were trying to tell them the way we would like them to. Until just recently, the kind of introductory discussion we would have liked to have with them would have been pretty tough due to the kids' burgeoning and amazing, but not entirely complex, English language skills.
When Ashagre's teacher replied back that, yes, she would be discussing MLK and the segregation and racism he fought so passionately to inspire our country to overcome, Brent and I knew the time had come to tell the kids that, with no choice of their own, when they landed on U.S. soil and instantly became American citizens they inherited a history of racism that will affect them for the rest of their lives. To quote an explanation I provided to the kids' very open and understanding teachers as our email discussion progressed:
In all reality, while racism is a collective part of our history as Americans that Ashagre and Elsa now get to inherit and live with, it is not their history as Africans, especially as Ethiopians, which was the only country in Africa that was never colonized by Europeans (something Ethiopians are VERY proud of). I try to imagine how it must feel to realize that your new home, which is already unfamiliar and scary in so many ways, also has a history of treating people that look like you badly, and it makes me feel awful for putting A and E through it.
Don't worry, we kept it simpler and lighter than that when we discussed it with the kids, but we did have a good discussion.
We first told the kids about the MLK holiday and why it was important that our country honored Dr. King. We talked about segregated schools and drinking fountains and the fact that people were mean (no details or descriptions of violence yet) to people with brown skin just like theirs. We talked about how things have changed. We talked about how they haven't. One of our kids shared a story about being made fun of at their orphanage in Ethiopia because their skin was darker brown than some of the other kids'. The kids both confirmed that, yes, they had experienced someone being mean to them because of the color of their skin. Ashagre was quick to point out, on his own accord, that this had NOT happened at his current school. We talked about how sometimes people are afraid of what is different and what they don't know and they act meanly out of fear.
We let the conversation run its course, following the kids' lead on when to let it fizzle out. They never seemed too alarmed and maybe even seemed a bit relieved to have this discussion with their pink-skinned mom and dad. We made sure to emphasize that this conversation was one we would not shy away from and would openly discuss freely, over eggs at the breakfast table.
I felt relieved to have gotten started. I am glad to know that they will have had the discussion at least once before with their mom and dad before learning about it in school. I know that there is a lot Brent and I have to learn as we continue down the road as a transracial family. I know there are things we aren't doing now that we need to make a priority. I know that we won't always get it right. I am committed to keeping things open and following the kids' lead to try and figure out how we can best support them. I am sure there will be more parts to this post in the future.
You see, Brent and I as of this morning, had not discussed America's racist past with the kids. It is one of those topics, like so many others, that requires a certain level of shared language. While we would have certainly been open to such a conversation if the kids had brought it up earlier, we weren't ready to initiate the discussion without feeling like the kids had the tools they needed to express their thoughts the way they might like to and to understand what we were trying to tell them the way we would like them to. Until just recently, the kind of introductory discussion we would have liked to have with them would have been pretty tough due to the kids' burgeoning and amazing, but not entirely complex, English language skills.
When Ashagre's teacher replied back that, yes, she would be discussing MLK and the segregation and racism he fought so passionately to inspire our country to overcome, Brent and I knew the time had come to tell the kids that, with no choice of their own, when they landed on U.S. soil and instantly became American citizens they inherited a history of racism that will affect them for the rest of their lives. To quote an explanation I provided to the kids' very open and understanding teachers as our email discussion progressed:
In all reality, while racism is a collective part of our history as Americans that Ashagre and Elsa now get to inherit and live with, it is not their history as Africans, especially as Ethiopians, which was the only country in Africa that was never colonized by Europeans (something Ethiopians are VERY proud of). I try to imagine how it must feel to realize that your new home, which is already unfamiliar and scary in so many ways, also has a history of treating people that look like you badly, and it makes me feel awful for putting A and E through it.
Don't worry, we kept it simpler and lighter than that when we discussed it with the kids, but we did have a good discussion.
We first told the kids about the MLK holiday and why it was important that our country honored Dr. King. We talked about segregated schools and drinking fountains and the fact that people were mean (no details or descriptions of violence yet) to people with brown skin just like theirs. We talked about how things have changed. We talked about how they haven't. One of our kids shared a story about being made fun of at their orphanage in Ethiopia because their skin was darker brown than some of the other kids'. The kids both confirmed that, yes, they had experienced someone being mean to them because of the color of their skin. Ashagre was quick to point out, on his own accord, that this had NOT happened at his current school. We talked about how sometimes people are afraid of what is different and what they don't know and they act meanly out of fear.
We let the conversation run its course, following the kids' lead on when to let it fizzle out. They never seemed too alarmed and maybe even seemed a bit relieved to have this discussion with their pink-skinned mom and dad. We made sure to emphasize that this conversation was one we would not shy away from and would openly discuss freely, over eggs at the breakfast table.
I felt relieved to have gotten started. I am glad to know that they will have had the discussion at least once before with their mom and dad before learning about it in school. I know that there is a lot Brent and I have to learn as we continue down the road as a transracial family. I know there are things we aren't doing now that we need to make a priority. I know that we won't always get it right. I am committed to keeping things open and following the kids' lead to try and figure out how we can best support them. I am sure there will be more parts to this post in the future.
Friday, April 22, 2011
It's the Subtle Things
When Barack Obama was elected the first black President of the United States some said that we had finally entered a post-racial era in this country. Many begged to differ. They argued that while the overt racism that existed in our country a few decades ago was largely, but not totally, gone there was still a subtle yet strong current of racism alive and flowing throughout our communities.
As new parents of two black children, Brent and I are learning a little bit about what it means to be black in America as first hand as someone with white skin can - through the eyes of our children.
Today Brent took the kids to fly kites and play at the playground at one of our favorite parks up the road. Kite flying was a bit of a disaster as the kids weren't their most patient; however, the trip was still a large success as the kids ventured over to the playground to play with some of the other kids. This is a big deal in our family right now because both Ashagre and Elsa have thus far had a hard time interacting with their peers.
[An aside example: The other day, when I took the kids to visit their new school a little boy in the classroom asked me if Ashagre's name was Eh-Stop because whenever he asked him what his name was he said, "Eh-stop," (Ashagre's pronunciation for Stop) as in "stop talking to me." Fortunately he didn't yell at the kid to go or go lay down (a command for the dogs that has been generalized) as he has done to other kids in past interactions.]
Back to the playground. So, this particular playground has sand for the playing surface. When they began playing at the playground, Brent explained to the kids that it was fine if they carried the sand around or dug in the sand, but they weren't allowed to throw the sand. Both kids understood and agreed. As Ashagre engaged in a game of transporting sand around the playground with 5 or 6 other kids, things started to get a little chaotic. Sand started flying. Ashagre, however, were NOT throwing sand. Brent was watching.
Another adult addressed the group of kids saying, "Ok everyone, this is getting out of hand. We don't throw sand. It's dangerous. It could get in someone's eyes." Of course, this was a good message for all of the kids to hear. However, as the lecture when on, she stopped addressing the group and zeroed in on Ashagre. Her eyes no longer addressed the group; they were fixed on our son, as if he was the worst (and only?) offender.
It took a minute for Brent to realize what was happening and yet another moment to deduce why it might be happening. When it clicked, he was furious and unsure of what to do. In the end, he did the most important thing. He reassured Ashagre that he was ok. When Ashagre looked to him with a puzzled look on his face, his dad let him know that it was ok and that he knew that he had not been throwing sand as he had promised.
But should he have done more? Should he have confronted the woman? Most likely she would not consider herself a racist. I'm sure she isn't a racist in the most overt sense of the word. I'm sure she would have been shocked to hear someone suggest that she had (unconsciously?) singled out the only black boy in the group for a large portion of her lecture. How could the conversation been constructed so as not to put her on the defensive right away and possibly allow her a chance to safely reflect on her behavior? By not starting that conversation, are we perpetuating the subtle yet prevalent racism that exists in our community, in our country, today?
Readers, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this one. I'm sure this won't be the last time we encounter this type of situation and we want to do what's best for our kids and the community they're growing up in.
As new parents of two black children, Brent and I are learning a little bit about what it means to be black in America as first hand as someone with white skin can - through the eyes of our children.
Today Brent took the kids to fly kites and play at the playground at one of our favorite parks up the road. Kite flying was a bit of a disaster as the kids weren't their most patient; however, the trip was still a large success as the kids ventured over to the playground to play with some of the other kids. This is a big deal in our family right now because both Ashagre and Elsa have thus far had a hard time interacting with their peers.
[An aside example: The other day, when I took the kids to visit their new school a little boy in the classroom asked me if Ashagre's name was Eh-Stop because whenever he asked him what his name was he said, "Eh-stop," (Ashagre's pronunciation for Stop) as in "stop talking to me." Fortunately he didn't yell at the kid to go or go lay down (a command for the dogs that has been generalized) as he has done to other kids in past interactions.]
Back to the playground. So, this particular playground has sand for the playing surface. When they began playing at the playground, Brent explained to the kids that it was fine if they carried the sand around or dug in the sand, but they weren't allowed to throw the sand. Both kids understood and agreed. As Ashagre engaged in a game of transporting sand around the playground with 5 or 6 other kids, things started to get a little chaotic. Sand started flying. Ashagre, however, were NOT throwing sand. Brent was watching.
Another adult addressed the group of kids saying, "Ok everyone, this is getting out of hand. We don't throw sand. It's dangerous. It could get in someone's eyes." Of course, this was a good message for all of the kids to hear. However, as the lecture when on, she stopped addressing the group and zeroed in on Ashagre. Her eyes no longer addressed the group; they were fixed on our son, as if he was the worst (and only?) offender.
It took a minute for Brent to realize what was happening and yet another moment to deduce why it might be happening. When it clicked, he was furious and unsure of what to do. In the end, he did the most important thing. He reassured Ashagre that he was ok. When Ashagre looked to him with a puzzled look on his face, his dad let him know that it was ok and that he knew that he had not been throwing sand as he had promised.
But should he have done more? Should he have confronted the woman? Most likely she would not consider herself a racist. I'm sure she isn't a racist in the most overt sense of the word. I'm sure she would have been shocked to hear someone suggest that she had (unconsciously?) singled out the only black boy in the group for a large portion of her lecture. How could the conversation been constructed so as not to put her on the defensive right away and possibly allow her a chance to safely reflect on her behavior? By not starting that conversation, are we perpetuating the subtle yet prevalent racism that exists in our community, in our country, today?
Readers, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this one. I'm sure this won't be the last time we encounter this type of situation and we want to do what's best for our kids and the community they're growing up in.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Burger Joint Commentary
Middle Aged African American Man: "He played baseball today?" (nodding toward Ashagre).
Middle aged African American Man: "Is that his name?" (nodding toward Safranski printed on the back of Ashagre's baseball uniform).
Me: "Yes, that's his last name."
Middle Aged African American Man: "Hmm." "What's his first name?"
Me: "Ashagre."
Middle Aged African American Man: "Hmm." (pleasant, yet not entirely convinced grin).
[End of Conversation]
The funny thing about this exchange was that Brent was commenting a few hours earlier that it was a bit funny to see a little black boy playing baseball with the name Safranski on his jersey. Just a cute mix of cultures: an Ethiopian child with a Polish last name in a uniform for that primarily American sport, baseball, playing alongside mostly hispanic teammates. But that's what the American dream is all about, right?
(Side note for those blog readers that don't know. As if our family isn't confusing enough as is, I didn't take Brent's last name when we got married for a variety of reasons, one being that Dakota Safranski is a bit of a mouthful. Now that the kids are here, I may change it (or I may not) once we finalize their re-adoption.)
I spoke with the man's wife for several minutes a little later. She was very curious about the kids, but so respectful of them and warm as she asked her questions. At the end of the conversation, she smiled a been-there-done-that smile and said, "There a lot of fun, huh?...and a lot of work."
Me: "Yep, he had a game. It was a bit chilly out there."
Middle aged African American Man: "Is that his name?" (nodding toward Safranski printed on the back of Ashagre's baseball uniform).
Me: "Yes, that's his last name."
Middle Aged African American Man: "Hmm." "What's his first name?"
Me: "Ashagre."
Middle Aged African American Man: "Hmm." (pleasant, yet not entirely convinced grin).
[End of Conversation]
The funny thing about this exchange was that Brent was commenting a few hours earlier that it was a bit funny to see a little black boy playing baseball with the name Safranski on his jersey. Just a cute mix of cultures: an Ethiopian child with a Polish last name in a uniform for that primarily American sport, baseball, playing alongside mostly hispanic teammates. But that's what the American dream is all about, right?
(Side note for those blog readers that don't know. As if our family isn't confusing enough as is, I didn't take Brent's last name when we got married for a variety of reasons, one being that Dakota Safranski is a bit of a mouthful. Now that the kids are here, I may change it (or I may not) once we finalize their re-adoption.)
I spoke with the man's wife for several minutes a little later. She was very curious about the kids, but so respectful of them and warm as she asked her questions. At the end of the conversation, she smiled a been-there-done-that smile and said, "There a lot of fun, huh?...and a lot of work."
Saturday, March 5, 2011
If Only I Could Think Faster On My Feet...
...I would have told the older lady at the drug store yesterday that said in a very snarky tone, "Well EVERYONE knows how to say hi," in response to my explanation that Ashagre doesn't speak English yet (he had shrugged his shoulders and turned his back to her when she said hi to him):
Do you know how to say hello in Sidamenga?
How about Amharic?
Because Amharic is his second language in 5 years and now he is learning his third, English. I think we'll give him a few weeks to figure it out.
Yes, his behavior was rude and I will expect a different response once he feels more comfortable in this crazy country where few people look like him and no one sounds like him, but for now a bit of understanding and an open mind would be appreciated.
(End of Rant, Thanks).
Do you know how to say hello in Sidamenga?
How about Amharic?
Because Amharic is his second language in 5 years and now he is learning his third, English. I think we'll give him a few weeks to figure it out.
Yes, his behavior was rude and I will expect a different response once he feels more comfortable in this crazy country where few people look like him and no one sounds like him, but for now a bit of understanding and an open mind would be appreciated.
(End of Rant, Thanks).
Monday, October 11, 2010
Layers - Part I: Race
While waiting for any piece of information about our adoption whatsoever Brent and I have been doing a good deal of reading lately. We have been reading some great, really informative stuff. Books about adoption from the adopted child's perspective. Practical guides about attachment and what adoptive parents can do to foster it even when their kids have been through serious trauma prior to coming home, and my favorite, adoption blogs. Blogs written by other adoptive parents that are doing it - raising well adjusted, gorgeous, fun, and loving adopted children and those written by parents that are raising kids that aren't quite there yet (or not even close) but are committed to helping them get there nonetheless. There is so much to be learned from people that are doing it everyday.
Anyway, all of this reading of various pieces of information has gotten me thinking a lot about all of the layers our adopted kids will be bringing with them as they enter our family. There's the adoption layer. No, kids that have been adopted are NOT like every other kid. Their separation from their birthmom, even if it occurred immediately after birth, is an integral part - many would say challenging part - of who they are for the rest of their lives. There's the attachment layer. Most kids that are adopted have some degree of attachment challenges. They generally don't ever totally go away, and instead ebb and flow with life's different events. One of our kids will be bringing yet one more layer - one that we probably won't be discussing on this blog yet. There's the normal kid layer. You know, the normal trials and tribulations of childhood. The need to fit in, to belong, to have friends, to meet expectations and figure out who you are. There's the race layer. We will be raising black kids in a predominantly White/Hispanic community from the perspective of adults that have experienced white privilege our entire lives. How do we teach our kids the lessons they need to learn about navigating the inevitable racism they will face in their lives?
The race layer is one that I thought I would highlight tonight. While reading a new blog that I just found (and absolutely love) of an adoptive family that currently includes twin brothers, age 6, from Haiti (check out the link for Never a Dull Moment on the sidebar of this blog if you want to peek into the life of this wonderful family), I came across this New York Times article copied in its entirety below:
THE NEW YORK TIMES
Anyway, all of this reading of various pieces of information has gotten me thinking a lot about all of the layers our adopted kids will be bringing with them as they enter our family. There's the adoption layer. No, kids that have been adopted are NOT like every other kid. Their separation from their birthmom, even if it occurred immediately after birth, is an integral part - many would say challenging part - of who they are for the rest of their lives. There's the attachment layer. Most kids that are adopted have some degree of attachment challenges. They generally don't ever totally go away, and instead ebb and flow with life's different events. One of our kids will be bringing yet one more layer - one that we probably won't be discussing on this blog yet. There's the normal kid layer. You know, the normal trials and tribulations of childhood. The need to fit in, to belong, to have friends, to meet expectations and figure out who you are. There's the race layer. We will be raising black kids in a predominantly White/Hispanic community from the perspective of adults that have experienced white privilege our entire lives. How do we teach our kids the lessons they need to learn about navigating the inevitable racism they will face in their lives?
The race layer is one that I thought I would highlight tonight. While reading a new blog that I just found (and absolutely love) of an adoptive family that currently includes twin brothers, age 6, from Haiti (check out the link for Never a Dull Moment on the sidebar of this blog if you want to peek into the life of this wonderful family), I came across this New York Times article copied in its entirety below:
THE NEW YORK TIMES
October 6, 2010
The Seat Not Taken
By JOHN EDGAR WIDEMAN
At least twice a week I ride Amtrak’s high-speed Acela train from my home in New York City to my teaching job in Providence, R.I. The route passes through a region of the country populated by, statistics tell us, a significant segment of its most educated, affluent, sophisticated and enlightened citizens.
Over the last four years, excluding summers, I have conducted a casual sociological experiment in which I am both participant and observer. It’s a survey I began not because I had some specific point to prove by gathering data to support it, but because I couldn’t avoid becoming aware of an obvious, disquieting truth.
Almost invariably, after I have hustled aboard early and occupied one half of a vacant double seat in the usually crowded quiet car, the empty place next to me will remain empty for the entire trip.
I’m a man of color, one of the few on the train and often the only one in the quiet car, and I’ve concluded that color explains a lot about my experience. Unless the car is nearly full, color will determine, even if it doesn’t exactly clarify, why 9 times out of 10 people will shun a free seat if it means sitting beside me.
Giving them and myself the benefit of the doubt, I can rule out excessive body odor or bad breath; a hateful, intimidating scowl; hip-hop clothing; or a hideous deformity as possible objections to my person. Considering also the cost of an Acela ticket, the fact that I display no visible indications of religious preference and, finally, the numerous external signs of middle-class membership I share with the majority of the passengers, color appears to be a sufficient reason for the behavior I have recorded.
Of course, I’m not registering a complaint about the privilege, conferred upon me by color, to enjoy the luxury of an extra seat to myself. I relish the opportunity to spread out, savor the privacy and quiet and work or gaze at the scenic New England woods and coast. It’s a particularly appealing perk if I compare the train to air travel or any other mode of transportation, besides walking or bicycling, for negotiating the mercilessly congested Northeast Corridor. Still, in the year 2010, with an African-descended, brown president in the White House and a nation confidently asserting its passage into a postracial era, it strikes me as odd to ride beside a vacant seat, just about every time I embark on a three-hour journey each way, from home to work and back.
I admit I look forward to the moment when other passengers, searching for a good seat, or any seat at all on the busiest days, stop anxiously prowling the quiet-car aisle, the moment when they have all settled elsewhere, including the ones who willfully blinded themselves to the open seat beside me or were unconvinced of its availability when they passed by. I savor that precise moment when the train sighs and begins to glide away from Penn or Providence Station, and I’m able to say to myself, with relative assurance, that the vacant place beside me is free, free at last, or at least free until the next station. I can relax, prop open my briefcase or rest papers, snacks or my arm in the unoccupied seat.
But the very pleasing moment of anticipation casts a shadow, because I can’t accept the bounty of an extra seat without remembering why it’s empty, without wondering if its emptiness isn’t something quite sad. And quite dangerous, also, if left unexamined. Posters in the train, the station, the subway warn: if you see something, say something.
John Edgar Wideman is a professor of Africana studies and literary arts at Brown and the author, most recently, of “Briefs.”
Brent and I often discuss how we'll deal with blatant racism directed toward our kids. That is a tough enough thing to prepare for. But what about this kind of racism? The covert kind. The kind its easy to ignore, especially when you have had the privilege to ignore it your whole life, until you realize how widespread it is. The kind that subconsciously or not so subconsciously can shape someone's entire experience of this world - our world - our kids world. How do we help them navigate that?
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