“It was probably just a careless teenager,” my friend remarked. “They don’t really think things through.”
When I didn’t respond, she added, “Not that it excuses what he did.”
Just the day before, a young man in an old pickup truck drove by my house and shouted a racial slur at my children, who were joyfully riding their bikes in the driveway.
I immediately transformed into protective mama bear mode. First, I called the police to file a report, but without a license plate number, my complaint was virtually useless. Next, I reached out to local high school administrators to describe the vehicle and driver, but that yielded no results. In desperation, I called my friend, a seasoned parent, hoping for empathy and guidance. Instead, I was disappointed.
What I recognized as a racist attack, she dismissed as a “dumb” mistake.
Reflecting on our conversation, it dawned on me that the offender’s racism made her, a white woman, uncomfortable. Her defensiveness manifested as a way to minimize the incident’s impact, a classic example of white fragility.
I remember the joy our friends and family expressed when we welcomed our first daughter—a tiny six-pound baby with a full afro and brown skin. Two years later, we added another daughter. Two years after that, a son. Finally, four years later, we adopted another daughter. All of our children are black.
Our large, multiracial family attracts attention. We often receive questions, smiles, and curious glances. Interestingly, many people approach us proudly proclaiming their “color blindness.” Yet, they seem drawn to us precisely because of our family’s diversity.
My husband and I have been called white “heroes” for adopting children who “needed a loving home.” There’s an underlying assumption that my kids’ birth families were irresponsible, perpetuating harmful stereotypes about black individuals.
When strangers inquire about our children’s origins, their eyes light up with anticipation. Some even suggest, “Oh, you must have adopted from Africa?” No, our children were adopted from Missouri. The disappointment is visible when they learn the truth. They seek a narrative of rescue.
We’ve heard comments like “black babies are just the cutest,” which fetishizes our children of color. While yes, they are beautiful and their blackness is something to celebrate, their worth isn’t defined by the opinions of random white people.
These so-called compliments can be strange and uncomfortable, often rooted in stereotypes about adoption and race. However, the most distressing remarks arise during discussions about racism.
Many white individuals seem to assume that because we, the parents, are white, we don’t experience the same feelings about racism as black people do. We’re expected to remain loyal to our white privilege, not to “pull the race card,” and avoid discussing the harsh realities of being black in America.
Take the Black Lives Matter movement, for instance. Numerous black individuals have been unjustly killed by police, with many incidents captured on video. When twelve-year-old Tamir Rice was shot by an officer while playing with a toy gun, I couldn’t help but think of my own son, who is just six but appears older due to his height.
Tamir’s death haunted me. His only offense was being a child having fun in a park. Yet, when I saw social media comments from white individuals, many seemed to blame Tamir for his own death. They assumed he must have been doing something wrong, while their own white sons could loiter in parks without fear.
The white fragility backlash was loud and presumptuous. “Why wasn’t he supervised? Where was his mother?” they questioned. “He shouldn’t have been holding a gun in a park.” According to some, if black children would just be respectful and compliant, they would be safe. The implication is clear: black children can exist but only if they conform to white expectations of behavior.
For centuries, white people have established the rules that govern society, leading to a painful history in the U.S.: slavery, Jim Crow laws, and systemic racism that persists today. While many celebrate MLK Day as a day off work or school, they question why Black History Month exists, suggesting there should also be a month dedicated to white history (the answer is a resounding no, but that’s a discussion for another time).
I understand that conversations about race can be uncomfortable. But they are essential. We cannot hope to avoid repeating the same mistakes of the past without confronting them directly.
My family cannot afford the luxury of pretending racism doesn’t exist; we experience it daily simply by existing in public. The sight of brown skin makes many white individuals uneasy.
I long for the day when someone who admires my child’s latest braided hairstyle will also engage openly in discussions about race, affirming that black lives absolutely matter and recognizing that systemic racism exists. Every child, regardless of skin tone, deserves equal opportunities.
Until that day arrives, I will continue to talk about race, regardless of how uncomfortable it may make those around me. My children are observing and learning, and I refuse to shy away from affirming that they matter.
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Summary
The author reflects on the challenges of raising a multicultural family in a society that often minimizes discussions about race. She shares personal experiences with racism and emphasizes the importance of confronting uncomfortable topics for the sake of her children’s future.