First Racist Encounter (or how this white woman failed her daughter)

I knew from the outset of our adoption of a mixed race child that we would not look like a typical family.  And at my core, I am ever so thankful for this.  Our little family that God has woven together does a better job of reflecting God's glory than were we all the same color.  Even, in fact, than if both of my children were mine biologically.  God delights in diversity.  His passion is reconcilliation through adoption.  Our family is a reflection of the work He began at the cross of making all things new, drawing all peoples to Him, knitting us into one giant blended family that will feast together at the world's largest Church potluck.  A potluck where no one brings nasty jello salad or day old KFC buckets.  I relished in the fact that like most redemption stories in the Bible, ours started with an empty womb but is journeying through blessed bounty.  Does my heart still ache whenever a friend tells me she is pregnant?  Admittedly, yes.  But seconds after, I repent. My  life would be less without Grace.  Sloan's life would be less without Grace.  Henry's life would be less.  We would not be so aware of God' goodness to us, were it not for "The Sweetness".

Our adoption agency had us do transracial training that was moderately helpful.  I say moderately because a large portion of the books in this arena place a higher value on race than they do faith.  As in, they suggest I collect friends and playmates for my child that are of the same racial make-up to the point of moving houses, switching houses of worship, and family traditions.  Well, we're not moving.  And it is more important to me that you love my children well and love God than it is that you are black.  Do I intentionally drive my children to playgrounds outside of my neighborhood so they can play with a more diverse group of kids?  You betcha.  Did I take note of how many non-Caucasian kids were at Henry's preschool?  Yes.  I don't want Gracie to feel like she is a minority everywhere she turns, and I want Henry to have within his circle of friends kids with all sorts of backgrounds. 

People take note of us when we are out.  I don't consider this a bad thing.  Mostly there are just lots of double takes, sort of second glances to try and figure out what is going on. When I am out with just Gracie, I don't get these as often.  I've even been told she has my eyes and one woman asked me if Henry was the adopted one, as she just assumed my husband was African-American.  We also get attention for the simple fact that cute babies get attention.  And Gracie is all kinds of cute.  I mean, she is really, really, ridiculously good looking.  Black women love to come look at her adorable thighs and tell me she has great hair.  I have grown accustomed to people telling me she is beautiful.  I simply say "Thank you, we think so too!"

Occasionally, people will ask me where she is from.  It shocks them when I say, "Charlottesville."  Newsflash people--there are black people and hispanic people here in the States.  Why do I seem to be the only one who knows this?

This past Sunday at church, an older woman (after rubbing Grace's head and arms*), said, "My, she is lovely.  What is her story?"   I was distracted partly because I noticed that Henry had just peed in his pants,  but partly because I had no idea what she was talking about. I simply said, "Huh?"  The woman repeated herself, "I'm sure she has a great story." Still clueless, I said, "I'm sorry, I have no idea what you are talking about." Who are you, lady?  Do I know you?  "Well, I just assumed there was a story because she has such darker skin than you."  Dumbfounded, I simply said, "Oh, that.  Yes, there is a story," and then I proceeded to help Sloan pack up so we could get Henry in some dry pants.** 

Usually I'm all up to tell anyone the wonderful story of how Gracie came to be ours, but I really don't think I'm under any obligation to tell every Tom, Dick and Harry the whole story.  Particularly when my other child is covered with urine.

But my epic fail occurred this morning.  We were waiting in line to ride the train at the children's museum.  It took a particularly long time as Henry was adamant about wanting to ride in the Engine car.  And as we all know, if you are picky, you have to wait.  So here I am, Henry upset about having to wait again, chubby Gracie sitting on my hip, when the usual "Oh my, she is just beautiful" conversation began with the African-American women in front of me.  (And yes, it was her kids that shoved Henry out of the way to climb onto the Engine car, don't think I didn't notice.  Selfishness in children is an equal-opportunity offender.)  She asked me what product I used on Gracie's hair.  "Well, after baths, I use Pinks oil conditioner, but usually I just spray a comb with No More Tangles to brush it out several times a day."   Then she asked where she was from.  Again?  You are black, how can you not know there are black people in the States? 
"Charlottesville," I replied.  "Oh," she said, "so she's just mixed."  Does this really matter to you?  Is this really your business?  "Yes.  Her biological mother is Caucasian and Japanese and her biological father is Hispanic and African-American."  Usually people respond with a comment about Tiger Woods.  Which would be fine were he not such an adulterous dolt.  But this woman caught me unawares.  "Well now, she's a mutt."

Ummm....

I had nothing to come back with.  Nothing.  I just dropped my jaw and stared at the lady like a codfish.  Praise God it was suddenly our turn to board the train.  As we rode around on the train, Gracie bobbing on my knee, I started to cry.  I cried because I knew that this wouldn't be the last time someone said something hurtful.  I also knew that the woman had said it endearingly, as in, "My aren't you a pretty little mutt."  And I cried because I did nothing to be an advocate for my daughter, nor to make sure that my son knew this wasn't how you talked about people. 

I've been prepared to handle overt racism.  But this subtle racism, I don't know what to do with.  The racism that good people every day participate in when they say things like "Taye Diggs is good looking for a black guy."  Thereby inferring that as a whole, black men are unnatractive.  Umm, folks, Taye Diggs is a thing of beauty for all of mankind to enjoy.  Or when teenage boys lovingly call one another the 'N' word.  You may not mean anything negative by it, but you are are foolish to think it has no negative meaning.  And you and your friends should think better of yourselves.  The fact that you don't, simply means you've listened to the wrong people all of your lives.

As we exited the train, I was still a bit dumbstruck.  I wanted to have some witty zinger to shout back at the woman, but a) couldn't come up with one, and b) have been so convicted by last Sunday's sermon on not repaying evil for evil, that I basically can't talk to anyone.  Half of my time is thinking up hurtful things to say to people who hurt me.  Apparently, this is delighting in a broken relationship, and even if I keep my mouth shut, I'm still guilty.  But this time, I knew I should have said something. 

Thankfully, I was with my bestie Ann, who, in addition to being a wonderful fairy Godmother to my kiddos, is a very Godly woman.  When I told her what happened, she was livid.  "What is wrong with people?" she asked.  "You should have told her, I'm sorry, but that was very disrepectful.  She is my daughter and she is a child of God made in His image.  She is not a mutt."  I thanked her for the right words.  I intend to teach them to my children.

I don't want Gracie and Henry to always feel like they are in a fight.  I don't want them constantly on edge, feeling as though they need to be the Racism Rangers, out to pummel any offenders.  And yet, I want them to speak truth.  And here is what is true about both of my children...

They are loved.  By both of their parents, and more importantly, by their Maker.
They are not in our family by mistake, but by God's incredible plan. 
The way they have been made--tall, skinny, white, and with straight hair, and short, chunky, brown and with curly hair--is lovely. 
Both of them need Jesus equally, just as Mommy and Daddy do.  Just as the woman in the children's musuem does.  We have this, our deepest need, in common with all people. 
And this is why God has given Himself to all people--to rescue us from ourselves, the wrong things we believe, and the stupid things we say to each other.





*Why must strangers insist on touching babies?  Unless you are blind, this really isn't standard operating procedure upon meeting someone.  Can I rub up on you?  I don't even let my son touch people's dogs without asking their owners permission.  Could you kindly afford my child at least the same courtesy you would a pet?  Geez, people. 

**Note to self--when bringing activities to church for Henry to do quietly, remember that he is male.  And can be singularly focused.  The new Lego catelog is far too engrossing while he is strapped in his stroller to remember to be bothered with something as trivial as asking to be taken to the potty.