A Walk in the Park

This one has been hard to write. I started it back on the post date. I finally felt like I'd gotten my thoughts right today...

During a brief break in our continuing arctic freeze this week, I bundled the kids, loaded the triple and ventured out to our neighborhood park. It's a big park and the toddlers love to get down and run, a pleasure they have been denied for weeks because it is wet and cold and nasty and they refuse to stay out of the mud. With a bright, if not exactly warm, sun shining and most of the junk dried or frozen, I released them from the stroller so that they could burn off some of their boundless energy chasing squirrels (which are not as good as pigeons, but will do in a pinch).

Near the end of their free time, thankfully after I had already given the five minute warning, I noticed a man walking toward us from the trees. I'm not sure what set him apart, perhaps his slightly unkept outfit, maybe the plastic bag he carried, or the slight shift of his route when he saw us that put him on a path towards my running children. Whatever the trigger, my intuition buzzed a loud warning and as he approached, I hurried them back to the stoller and lifted them into their seats on either side of a sleeping Cue. The man continued toward us, staring intently, as I buckled straps, fixed loose mittens and fished sippy cups from the basket. I glanced around, noting two other adults pushing a stroller within shouting distance. He started to wave at the children in an exaggerated, childish way and said 'hi' over and over in a loud, over the top voice, like an excited kid with a puppy. My body relaxed, not dangerous then, just different, a little out of the ordinary. I smiled a small polite smile and greeted him directly, but he ignored me and continued to try and get a response from my toddlers. Then suddenly he frowned and, turning to me, said harshly and loudly, 'Your baby is filthy! Why don't you give her a bath? She's covered in dirt.' He walked on and, in moments, before I could even catch my breath to process his words and react, he was gone across the road that borders the park. It was a brief encounter, I doubt he remembered us that evening. I will remember him forever as the first. I wonder sadly how many like him my daughter will remember?

I wish I could tell you that I hadn't bathed my kids in weeks, that they were all covered in mud, filthy indeed. But, they weren't. He referred to the color of my beautiful daughter's skin. Maybe you are thinking, well he wasn't right, clearly mentally deficient in some way. The thought crossed my mind, but don't all feelings of superiority and hatred stem from a mental deficiency of a sort? And, isn't it even more sad and frightening that the thinking that underlied his words - that dark equals dirty, filthy, bad - is so pervasive in our society that it enters the understanding and lexicon of even the simplest souls, those that aren't 'all there,' those that are failing mentally from age or illness, young children?

What to say in that moment to my daughter? Had she noticed? Did she understand? Maybe not this time, but it doesn't matter because she will. She will receive this message loud and clear, subtlely and overtly, time and time again over the course of her life, chipping away at her self worth and her confidence. Each comment, suggestion, question a block in a wall of shame, inadequacy and anger that could easily rise between she and I, her white mother, standing where I stand on the protected side of the race divide. It made me think of all the small things that I notice these days, as the mother of a black child. The exaggerated comments about her beauty that often feel more like comments about her difference. The music teacher who always comments that Ess is clapping - look at Ess clap. (All the children are clapping, her clapping is not astounding in any way. Should she not be able to clap? Is it amazing in some way that she, a two year old in music class, claps along with seven other two year olds in music class?) The well meaning mothers all around us that ask if I do her hair and exclaim about how hard it must be. Are they less damaging for being subtle or more so because they are insidious and more acceptable suggestions about her appearance, her abilities and her worth?

I don't know the answers. I do know my responsibility. It is to equip her to live in this world, to handle ignorance without letting it touch her inner value, and to face prejudice and racism with strength born, hopefully, from knowing that she has a loving family that stands behind her and is willing to listen to her view of the world. How to do it is the toughest question. The starting point is to talk about it. With her. With my other children. With every one and any one who will listen. In an attempt to make it clear to her that while we can't make it stop, we can refuse to make it unseen. Judging by the difficulty of writing this essay, it isn't an easy road we are traveling. I will make absolutely certain that we travel it together.