I judged him based on the color of his skin

The other night I had a dream my new baby boy was born.  He came out with pale white skin, blue eyes & long pin-straight red hair.  He didn’t look like he belonged to me at all.  In my dream I kept looking at him feeling so sad & disappointed at his apparent whiteness.  In fact, the lingering sadness in my gut woke me up and I realized it was an awful dream on so many levels.  If you remember a few months back,  I blogged, “Giving Birth To the White Man,” about how emotionally difficult it is for me to consider the implications of giving birth to children who will be perceived as white men.

Even in my dreams, I judge  based on the color of skin.

The next day after the dream, Ran & I were in a crowded outdoor park.  There was an Asian kid & a white kid playing together.  They were about 10-12 years old.  All of a sudden the Asian kid -within earshot of both Ransom & I- starts this swearing tirade.  A big long line of cuss words thrown together that made no sense whatsoever.  It was if he was trying to show how cool he was by the sheer number of cuss words he could string together.  And do you know what this mom-of-the-year did?

Nothing.

I completely froze.  Why?  Because he was an Asian kid.  All I could think about was whether or not I should say something directly to him or not.  And if I did say something direct would that offend his parents?  I saw both of them nearby but they couldn’t hear.  They were both Asian and I wondered if I would be able to communicate in a way that didn’t offend them that I lovingly corrected their kid.

Meanwhile, while I’m contemplating the correct approach Ransom & other children are staring at them.  Finally, a white mother said in a very firm voice, “Hey! You better watch your mouth young man.”  The 2 kids laughed and ran off.

In my action, or in this case indecisive non-action, I judged how to handle the situation based on the color of his skin.

When I was growing up in a black neighborhood in Detroit, it was very common for me to be verbally disciplined by all the black parents on my block.  If any of the kids did anything they weren’t supposed to do, we heard about it from whatever parent was present.  I have always appreciated this about the black community.  Stretching way back to before slavery the old African proverb was (and still is) how many Africans lived: “it takes a village to raise a child.”  As slaves, this was forced upon blacks by the ways families were torn apart.  Children were simply reared and disciplined by whomever was available.

The other day at Target I overheard two young black males about 12-14 years old going into graphic detail of their sexual escapades last weekend.  Although I seriously doubt they were true, it was very offensive both in tone, content & language.

Because of the color of their skin, I felt comfortable enough to address it right away.

I looked dead at them and said, “you disrespect the women you are talking about.”  They both looked at each other seriously and back to me and became very apologetic very quickly, “we know, were sorry, Ma’m.”  And the other one, “yes, Ma’m, were very sorry.”

What I can tell you honestly is that if it had been two white boys I would have said:

nothing.

There is some sort of deep racism that exists so far under the surface it’s actually been quite difficult to unearth.  The racism that believes there is a certain recklessness innate in white men.  Instead of trust and a natural extension of trust there is fear.

Fear deep enough that I wouldn’t have addressed those kids had they been white unless they were my own white nephews.

This fear isn’t helped by the fact that my very own white brother is the epitome of reckless and blatantly unapologetic racist white boy behavior.

But then shouldn’t that get balanced out by my white husband who is the exact opposite?  The epitome of kind, thoughtful wonderfulness who embraces blacks, diversity and humans in general with compassion and love.  He may be the best and most upright person I’ve ever met in all humanity.

In fact, for every 50-100 white men I know and love trust and have relationship with, I may know 1 or 2 who represent to me the sins of the past & the present that so often haunt me.

Yet, is is any wonder a dream my sons will be perceived as white men is a bit troubling?

How and when exactly will I come to peace with the racism in my own heart so that it doesn’t get communicated to them in horribly unhelpful ways?

A lot of the white students Dave & I work with say the primary reason they hold stereotypes against blacks is because of what their parents didn’t say.  (And of course, the racism they spewed as well).

When you have time, read this  6-page lengthy article “See Baby Discriminate,” on why America’s kids are growing up racist.

Trust me, I’m not the only one struggling with this.  But maybe the only one you know willing to admit I don’t have it all together.

As I’ve thought & prayed about what my responsibility is to these two precious barely-biracial boys of mine, it is overwhelmingly about -though not exclusively- teaching them how to love themselves in the exact way God created them to look whether that brings them privilege or pain.

It’s about teaching them to love others in all of their diversity and craziness.

And it’s about teaching them to love their black heritage.

And top of all that, I have to teach them to hold all those things in tension while the world will tell them something entirely different.  (I.E. “I don’t notice skin color,” (uh-huh) or “blacks need to pull themselves up by their boot straps,” etc.)

And wouldn’t you know it, I’m guessing God has a lot for me to learn on this journey as well.  I’ll keep sharing as new insights come up.  Because of my dream, what happened at the park, and at Target I am reminded that if Dave & I are going to raise these boys racially healthy we have to keep dealing with and addressing whats in our own heart.

Hopefully you know this much is true, but it may be good to clarify: I love my boys! And I will love them if they look whiter than snow, pink, purple or polka-dot, deformed, leg-less or mentally ill.

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Yours for gabbing gracefully,

grace.