The writer in me has longed for a topic in which to undertake with the artistry of words. There was a time when writing was as second nature to me as brushing my teeth. I compiled lengthy emails and sent them to whomever would read them (or not). I only hoped my words would encourage, inspire, and comfort. That end result still envelops my desire to write, but the mechanisms have changed. I haven't published anything for four long years and thus my blog seems outdated. The templates and add-on gadgets have long changed. The professional bloggers and influencers have pages designed by actual website professionals and this SAHM in her busyness and life with two kiddos has been left in the dust on such developments. The fear of publishing on the Internet and social media is real. The intention to encourage can manifest in a full-on attack of epic proportions whether invited or not. Merely utilizing the freedom to speak can warrant uncomfortable conflict. All this considered, I debated to write an entry on this topic at all. Ultimately, I felt educating others and encouraging those floating in our same boat on angry seas was worth it. This post is not to incite debate, nor is it to condemn those who have made similar mistakes, but rather to share our story, to share a moment in time, the bad and the ugly and the good that came out on the other side.
In theory we signed up for it. Being a white couple adopting a black son sets you up for certain issues. Becoming a trans racial family in an especially white culture/state is not without risk. I wish it wasn't so, that the days of Martin Luther King Jr. would have been completely restorative and that people could see all skin colors as equal. I recently had a friend tell me, "Don't worry Kylie, racism is dying off. That generation is nearly gone." Oh, how I wish this were true, but sadly that is ignorance in its finest form. The racism is deeply ingrained in those we raise and teach. It becomes part of the fabric of our society and doesn't stand a chance to be eliminated until we actively and proactively teach against it.
I wish I could say that we haven't ever received dirty looks but it would be nothing but a lie. I'd be a rich woman if I had a dollar for every time we got a sideways glance, a smirk, a stare, or a snarl in the past four years with our beloved son. Of course, some looks are purely inquisitive. Once, I was approached by a mother and daughter in Target. They had been staring but I disregarded them and continued shopping with Levi. Soon, the mother approached and asked if she and her daughter could ask me questions about adoption. They proceeded to ask me about costs, the process and requirements. The teenage daughter told me she had always felt she should adopt a child internationally and I encouraged her to never give up on her dream. That sweet conversation is sadly not the norm. Most people choose to stare until I look at them, at which time they look away uncomfortably. I have noticed these instances occur more often when I am alone with my son, and almost never happen when our entire family is together. Most of the time I wonder if I have food in my teeth and then realize that I am being watched because my son's skin is different. I have largely learned to disregard such looks, but there are some instances I cannot overlook, which is the purpose of my post. If nothing more, I hope to incite awareness as to the daily living as a family who doesn't match.
Once while walking out of the gym, I was asked by an older white gentleman if I sleep with black men. I truly was frozen in shock and of course I realized a million responses I wish I would have said after the fact. In the moment I just said "Huh?" and left. Another time I was at the library looking up a book with an unruly toddler boy. A man at the computer next to me was clearly annoyed so I tried to hurry to finish while keeping Levi under control. As he got up and walked behind me, he uttered a racist and derogatory statement I choose not to give the dignity of repetition here. Sitting in shock, I wasn't sure how to respond. Finally, I prayed that if God wanted me to find the man that I would and He would give me the words to say. I walked the perimeter of the library and never saw him. I was shaking and in tears and thankful that my 2 1/2 year old son was oblivious to what had just happened.
Just a few weeks ago was another doozy. It was a situation that could have easily been ignored. Levi was at his safe, loving, and wonderful preschool and it was picture day. The photographer wasn't new, and he certainly knew Levi from years past. In a moment of frustration, he angrily called Levi "the colored." Although I was not present, the teachers, aides and parent helpers were appalled, shocked and horrified. I was immediately notified about what happened when I came to pick him up for the day. My first inclination was to ignore it, as I tried to justify it as ignorance and a term that is not as severe as others that could have been used. I came home, shrugged it off and tried to move on with my day.
But I couldn't. As much as I tried, I couldn't get over it. I knew in my heart of hearts it was a moment where I shouldn't be silent. It was a time for education and a moment that I needed to stand up for injustice. I knew it was a term once widely used by many of this man's generation. I had heard people in my family use it, but it never felt right. Sure it was a label once put on bathrooms and water fountains, but that didn't make it acceptable. It is a word used to highlight differences, to demean, and to segregate. Even more so, it is OUTDATED and now deemed offensive.
Realizing full well there are two sides to every story, I drafted an email. My email was written as a concerned mother, worried about a similar instance happening in the future with a child of another race by the photographer whose website claimed he "specializes in preschools." I set out to educate him about proper terminology to be used today. My email was truly written in love, and not framed in an accusatory manner. It explained the conversation I had to have with my 5-year-old black son when he asked me why "the man called me 'colors' mama?" How I was forced to teach my children about discrimination based on skin color, and our countries horrible treatment of people with dark skin. I had to tell them about slavery, its history and Abraham Lincoln's fight to end it and the stigma it left behind resulting in the subsequent civil rights movement. When my sweet 7-year-old girl asked why anyone would hate someone because of their skin color it broke my heart. When my son asked why anyone would hate anyone different when God made us all the same underneath, I cried. In fact many tears were shed as I held my son and looked him in his big brown eyes and said "My love. You are beautiful! You are PERFECT! You are just how God made you and I don't want you to ever think differently!" I wept as I held him and realized that on that day, a part of his innocence was lost. I knew it was coming, but I sure wasn't ready.
My email was sent and after a few rounds of phone tag, I decided it best to not communicate with the man via phone lest I become angry. What proceeded was a long email filled with pictures holding black babies, and a lengthy litany about his work with villages in South Africa building wells. He proceeded to tell me he raised his children to love all people and all races. I had asked for my check for photos to be torn up and order to be cancelled, to which he responded that he would use my money for his mission work and give me a necklace made by his friend of the Zulu tribe "for your trouble."
My response stated that although I appreciated his humanitarian efforts, I would prefer to choose how my money be handled and I would like to use it towards the ministries I work with, or even better to purchase new pictures for Levi. I told him that as a Christian I forgave his mistake, but that the forgetting part would take much longer. When he told me that things got "completely blown out of proportion" I explained that anytime a family is hurting and traumatized, it was not blown out of proportion or exaggerated. Although I didn't feel like I got a valid apology, and felt like he bent over backwards with excuses, I knew I had said all I could say and had to be satisfied.
I also learned from others (though he never told me) that he found the word "colored" to be appropriate because in South Africa it is a common term used to describe a group of people. So, I decided to do my research. I contacted three friends I knew to have been raised in, currently living in, or had lived in South Africa. All three told me the same. While "colored" is a term used to describe a people group of mixed race individuals in South Africa, and though perfectly accepted, it is not a term that would have been used to describe Levi. He is of African descent, and thus, would be called "black." Thus, utilizing the term correctly wouldn't have included Levi and even more importantly, not be used at all in the states.
Ultimately, my goal was not to change this man and his ways. He is human and made a mistake. He should have known better, ESPECIALLY with his experiences in Africa. This situation was about my son seeing me stand up for him. It was good practice for the future when this will happen again and I'll be damned if I cower in fear of confrontation. I'll go to my grave fighting for that precious little boy who will one day be a grown black man in America. I'll take my last breath fighting this injustice!
After many tears, and an emotional family discussion the good came to light. One by one, mamas at our school reached out to me. They offered their condolences and shared their anger and frustration. Several moms cancelled their photo orders. Some even called the photographer to share their anger. They wouldn't stand for it either! They called me to cry with me, hugged me at school, and told me their son/daughter never considered Levi as anything but their friend. That meant the absolute world! I knew that our community was special but it took this awful day to see how truly tight we are. On that day, I found out who was truly in our corner. It was that afternoon, that through tears, my tribe rallied. That day, my tribe said "We love you. We love Levi. We are for you. We are with you!" I'll never forget it as long as I live.
Sadly, the photographer left Levi's photos at school for us. I looked at them and tossed them in the trash. I cannot bear to look at them and remember all that happened. It is just too painful.
In case you aren't sure what is the proper way to address our son (and that is ok), I'd love to help you. It is absolutely fine to ask someone how they prefer to be referred. I have done it myself. Levi is black. Calling him black or brown is perfectly acceptable. Better yet, call him the boy in the dinosaur shoes (as I told the photographer.) I am not sugar coating the fact that it is hard to describe people without some sort of label or descriptor. I am guilty of using inappropriate terms as well. That said, it is our duty to keep ourselves educated about what is most respectful. That is but one simple way we can love one another.
To my family and my tribe, we love you. We thank you from the very depths of our hearts. We need you. We will need to count on you down the road when the going gets tougher. We will need your daughters and sons to link arms with ours and stand up for what is right. We need them to show love and support with words and actions. Please keep educating them to appreciate our cultural differences while simultaneously promoting racial equality. May we break the cycle of racism in this nation. This experience will never be forgotten and will be forever etched into our minds and hearts as one integral to the fabric of our family.
