“It was probably just a thoughtless kid,” my friend remarked dismissively. “They just don’t understand.” When I didn’t reply, she quickly added, “Not that it excuses what he did.” The day before, a young man in an old pickup truck drove by my house and shouted a racial slur at my daughters, who were enjoying a bike ride in our driveway.
I shifted into protective mode. I immediately contacted the police and filed a report, but without a license plate number, my report was essentially futile. Next, I called the local high school principals to describe the vehicle and driver, but that effort yielded no results. In desperation, I reached out to my friend, an experienced mother, expecting empathy and thoughtful advice. I was mistaken.
What I perceived as outright racism, she dismissed as mere “thoughtlessness.” Upon reflecting on our conversation, I realized that my friend, who is white, felt uncomfortable with the incident’s racial implications. To shield herself from the discomfort, she minimized the significance of what had happened. Her reaction epitomized white fragility.
I vividly recall the excitement our friends and family expressed when we welcomed our first daughter—a tiny, six-pound baby with a full head of curls and brown skin. Two years later, we adopted another daughter, followed by a son two years after that, and finally, another daughter four years later. All of our children are black.
Our large, multiracial family often attracts attention. We encounter curious questions, smiles, and lingering glances. Strangely, we frequently meet individuals who assert they are “colorblind” as they approach us, yet they are drawn to our multiracial family.
My husband and I have been labeled as white “heroes” or “saviors” for adopting children who “needed a loving home.” Many assume the birth families of our kids were young, irresponsible, or involved in drugs—stereotypes that unfairly tarnish black individuals.
We are often asked where our children are from, with strangers eagerly anticipating the answer. Some even suggest, “Oh, you adopted from Africa?” No, our children were adopted from Missouri. The disappointment is evident on their faces; they were hoping for a more dramatic backstory.
We’ve been told that they believe “black babies are just the cutest,” a statement that fetishizes our children of color. Yes, our kids are beautiful, and their blackness is extraordinary, but their worth is not defined by the opinions of random white individuals.
These comments can be disconcerting and are often steeped in stereotypes surrounding adoption and race. However, the most troubling remarks arise during discussions about racism.
Many white individuals assume that because we, as white parents, are not black, we cannot share the same feelings about racism that our children may experience. There’s an expectation for us to remain loyal to white privilege, and we are often discouraged from “playing the race card” by discussing the harsh realities faced by black individuals in America.
Take the Black Lives Matter movement, for instance. Numerous violent incidents involving the unjust killings of black individuals by police have surfaced, many captured on video. The murder of twelve-year-old Tamir Rice haunted me. He was simply playing with a toy gun in a park, engaging in typical childhood behavior.
When the news spread on social media, I was struck by the comments from white individuals, some suggesting that Tamir must have done something wrong. Meanwhile, their own white sons could linger in parks, acting silly until nightfall without the fear of being shot, or even having the police called on them.
The backlash from white fragility was loud and presumptive. Questions arose: Why wasn’t Tamir supervised? Where was his mother? Why was he holding a toy in the park? The assumptions were relentless. According to some commenters, if black children would just be more respectful and compliant, they’d be safe. If they would avoid sagging pants or “distracting” natural hairstyles, they would be alright. Just don’t behave like “those people,” who listen to loud rap or name their children unique names like Keisha or Jamal.
The underlying message was that black individuals should be quieter, smaller, and thus deemed safer—including my own children. They can be black, but not too black.
For centuries, white individuals have set the rules, which have led to a grim history in the U.S.—including slavery, Jim Crow laws, and systemic discrimination. While Martin Luther King Jr. Day may be an exception—a day off work and school, a moment to post about peace and harmony—questions arise about the legitimacy of Black History Month. I’ve often been asked why black individuals need an entire month dedicated to their history, as if a white history month should somehow be warranted. (Spoiler alert: it shouldn’t.)
I understand that discussions about race can be uncomfortable for everyone involved. Nevertheless, they are essential. We cannot avoid repeating the past unless we confront it directly.
My family cannot afford to ignore the existence of racism; it is part of our daily experience simply by being visible. Brown skin can be alarming to many white individuals. That is our reality.
I hold out hope for the day when the same person who admires my child’s latest braided hairstyle will also engage in conversations about race—unapologetically asserting that black lives matter, recognizing systemic racism, and advocating for equal opportunities for children of all skin tones.
Until that day arrives, I will continue to speak out about race, regardless of the discomfort it may cause those around me. My children are observing and learning, and I refuse to shy away from affirming that their lives matter.
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Summary
Navigating conversations about race can be challenging, especially within a multiracial family. Experiences of racism and white fragility often complicate these discussions, as well-meaning individuals may minimize the impact of racial incidents. It’s crucial to confront the uncomfortable realities of racism, advocate for black lives, and ensure that all children receive equal opportunities.