Shiny eyes

I read this article  today about how parents of white children should start talking to their children differently about race and racism.   But, the interesting thing about the article is that it didn't given any real suggestions as to how to have these conversations, or what to say.  The article stated that most non-white families start talking to their kids about race when they are about 3, the average for white families is 13.  But the article also states that ALL kids start noticing racial differences around 3 or 4 but most white children are told, when inquiring about race that "we are all the same inside".  Which, it turns out, is not such a great answer.

I have a memory from when I was about 10 or 11 years old and we went on a family trip to the Virgin Islands with another family.   The other kids and I became friendly with the bartender from the bar on the beach and he would make us wonderful virgin cocktails and give us presents of beautiful conch shells.   I remember that his skin was the darkest brown of anyone I had ever met, and it fascinated me. One day, when he was serving us our "cocktails", I noticed that the insides of his hands were extremely pale compared to the rest of his skin, with a pink undertone that wasn't so different than my own skin.
So, I innocently asked him, "Why is the inside of your hand so white?"   He smiled at me but before he could answer I was pulled away by one of my parents and told,  "You don't ask questions like that!"

Why not?

I wasn't being racist, or mean, I just wanted to know.   Then I felt embarrassed and ashamed and never, ever asked a question about racial differences again.   Ever.

In biology class, many years later, I had a satisfying moment when I was learning about pigment and melanin and my question was finally answered.   Because, in truth, I still wanted to know.

The shame of this question lived with me for a long time.   I also always wanted to know, for example, why Asians had no eyelids.   But, even after I married an Asian, I was too ashamed to ask him this question.  Then a few years back, before the world had easy access to google, my father-in-law, the chronic professor, who likes to give academic lectures even when not in the classroom, offered the answer without me ever having to ask a thing.   One day at dinner he just sat back and explained that Asians have extra fat in their upper eyelids to protect their eyes from the harsh cold of the Mongolian climate that was the place of origin for most Asians.  Seriously?  I quickly looked at my husband's eyes and saw them in a new light.  He didn't LACK eyelids.   He had more eyelid! with extra fat!   Fascinating.  ( Please don't share this fact with any skinny, Asian models, they might try to come up with a new, eyelid diet :))

I remember when my kids were little, sometimes their friends would ask questions of a racial nature.  One of my personal favorites was when the son of a friend asked why my daughter (who was about three at the time) had Chinese eyes when I didn't.    He was satisfied when I explained that her father was Asian/Korean-American(not Chinese) and that she had his eyes.   He was five and he didn't need to know more.   Later my daughter asked why he thought she had "shiny" eyes.   She had misunderstood him.   For the longest time after that I would hear her tell people that she had "shiny" eyes and that she had gotten them from her father.   How cute is that?

I haven't even mentioned the two most important things about this story.  The first is that I was not mad at the boy's question.  It was a natural observation and he was curious.  There is nothing wrong with that.   The other thing was that the mother of the boy was SOOOO embarrassed at the question and shamed him in much the same way that I was shamed with the hand question.  Her embarrassment made everyone in the room feel more awkward than his question had.   He never asked another question about race again in our presence. It is possible he didn't have any, but if he did, would he have felt comfortable asking?   There is a happy ending though.   This boy is in college now and has an Asian girlfriend, so he must be a fan of "shiny" eyes.

You know, like the author of the article I mentioned above, I don't know how white parents should talk to white children about race and racism.   But, here's what I do know, many, many years ago, when a small island boy looked at his hands and observed that one side of his hand was a different color, he probably asked his mother or father "Why is this?" and I'm most confident that the answer was not "We don't ask questions like that!"

Note:  It is not my intention to be critical of my parents or my friend for their behavior in these situations.   At the time, they really believed they were doing the right thing for all parties involved.   Like all parents they were simply "doing their best".

The Moment of Truth

I remember quite clearly the moment that my daughter learned about racism.

She was six years old and was quietly reading a book on the couch in the family room while I prepared dinner.    The book she was reading was from the Babysitter Club chapter book series.  The series focuses on a group of young adolescent girls who run their own babysitting business.  Even though my precocious reader was a little younger than the age that the books were targeted for, the books seemed gentle enough in content that I didn't feel the need to censor them before she read each individual book.

On this fateful day, she was completely engrossed in one of the books, her eyes quickly darting back and forth as she devoured every word on the page.    I tended to my pasta sauce.    At some point I heard sniffles and I went to check on her.   The book was on the floor, she was curled up under a blanket, and she was crying.   I was perplexed.

"What's wrong?"  I asked.

"There is a family in that book that doesn't want Claudia to babysit for them, they don't want her to babysit for them because she is (long pause with some sobs for effect) Japanese."

"Oh." is all I can say.

Then she looked at me with big, tear-filled eyes and asked the awful, awful question, "Will people hate ME because of the way I look?"

Oh, how I wished at that moment I could just say "No."

I knew she already knew the answer, she just wanted confirmation from me.    Lying was not an option.  This was not Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.   This question begged an honest answer.  I knew I had to respect that.

I sat down on the couch and explained to my six year old child that there were some really stupid people in the world.  These people hated everybody, not just one person, but they were out there, and she might encounter them.  I must have said the word "stupid" about 100 times.   I hated having this conversation with my daughter.
I hated telling her that the world was less than perfect.
When our awful conversation was over, I picked up the book, and told her to finish it.   It was a book for children, so I knew it must have a happy ending, or at least a good moral lesson.  
She resisted, but being the avid reader that she was, she couldn't not finish it.
I went back to making dinner.   I heard a few more sniffles, but eventually they subsided.  By the time she finished the book her eyes were completely dry.

At dinner, I asked her to tell me how it all turned out.   She told me in her own six year old way that Claudia's friends all decided not to babysit for that family either.  So the "stupid" parents couldn't go out to their "stupid" dinner and had to spend their anniversary at home with their "stupid" kids.   She thought it was a great ending.   She also made it clear that it was the "stupidest" book she ever read and I couldn't argue with her.

Over the years, I have thought of that moment many times.   I have wished she had never picked up that book, I have wished I had read it first so I could have prepared her, and I have wished that I could have honestly told her that no one would ever hate her for the way that she looks.

But, in a strange way, I am also grateful for that day.   I am grateful that she was at home, with me, when she learned this harsh lesson.    Sadly, there was no way I could prevent her from coming face to face with racism at some point in her life, but at least I was there when the unsavory introduction was made.   I am also glad that I could tell her that it was the offenders who were "stupid" and not the other way around.

Now she is fifteen and reads books like "The Diary of Anne Frank" and "To Kill a Mockingbird" that deal with racism at a much deeper level, with endings that are not always happy.   Thankfully,  neither the untimely death of Miss Anne Frank nor the unjust death of Tom Robinson will ever have the impact on her that one simply written, elementary school chapter book did.  

Unfortunately, the lesson that the world can be a cruel and unkind place only needs to be learned once.
In my opinion, it's a pretty stupid lesson.