Reach for the Brown

I often marvel when I look around at my family—and realize that we all have unique DNA, completely different from each other. And yet, we are a family. There is no thicker blood than water here. Thick blood just means some bad blood pressure, and no one has time for that. We are united, pulled together into a family unit of some crazy-cool variety.

I wish you could see my fourteen-year-old daughter. She’s taller than my 5’2”—but it’s her coppery-auburn mixed-chick hair that curls into a tantalizing afro. You have to see it to believe it, and when you do see, you’ll want to touch it. And when you touch it, you will believe in the Almighty Creator God, for who else could design such incredible strands with such amazing creativity? I might be a little prejudice here. In the good way, guys. I like to think those artistic strands feed her own artistic abilities.

And then you’d look down at my petite, Brazilian milk-chocolate beauty of a gymnast who is ALL MUSCLE, complete with a cherry-on-top smile. Don’t let her size fool you, this kid is tough and spends hours in training. She’s strong and courageous too. My hero. Watch out world.

Next, my quickly growing son slides in sock feet down the hall to meet you. He’s losing his little boy face but fast. I can see a man emerging. A very black, very handsome man. Be warned: I’m not letting him out of the house until he’s forty. Stay away, girls. By the way, he did the dishes the other day, start to finish, without being asked. I never did that at his age.

You don’t even want to know what my husband and I look like. We’re over forty, so….Oh. you do want to know? Alright. White. All white people look alike, don’t we? Actually, I’m a white blonde mom. Or you could say a blonde white mom, either would be accurate. The kids tell me I’m turning into Elsa. I wish they were joking. They aren’t. My husband is whiter than me. I tan, he burns. But he’s far more handsome. There you have it, our variety. Add our black and white dog to the picture, and we really are the ultimate mix up. You should see the dust bunnies at our house—tangled hairy balls of red and yellow, black and white…

I’d love to meet your variety. Looking down at your dark bundle, did you ever imagine this is what your child would look like? Aren’t they beautiful? I can see you now, watching their darlin’ bodies wiggle in their onesies, their soft black hair tickling your chin. I can hear your toddler squealing in the other room, bless their hearts, they need a snack or a nap or something.

Or perhaps you’ve adopted an older child or your child has grown up some. This five, seven, or nine-year-old sits in front of the TV, wondering why all the families have to look all alike, and yours doesn’t. They start to notice the difference about then. It’s not their norm, but it seems to be the norm for most families. So they assume. (Oh, there’s so much to talk about on this one. We’ll get there!)

Recognizing these questions  and changes in your children will be a wake-up call. It certainly was for me. I made some assumptions. For example, I figured that parenting a black child required the same love for a biological child. That’s true, it does. A child is a child. But as with your biological children, the differences are there, just not as obvious. Skin color, by contrast, is stand-out obvious.

Kids notice colors—it’s why they are more attracted to cartoons and candy than anything else. It’s a basic, preschool pursuit that guides their eyes and guides their hands to the crayon box of eight mind-boggling choices to make their mark on the world. Literally.  My oldest chose a color, one wintry Christmas party day in kindergarten. I remember surprising her in her classroom filled with noisy, sticky five-year-olds snacking on candy canes and cookies. She sat quietly in her chair, working away on a snowman coloring page. Her snowman color of choice? Brown. If snowmen could be white, they most certainly could be brown. Hadn’t everyone enjoyed chocolate ice cream scoops? Made perfect sense to her.

Her innocent reach dipped right into my mamma heart. Color mattered. Her mixed heritage, her vanilla café au lait skin, her milk chocolate sister, and her dark chocolate brother—however normal—were absolutely real and recognized. I encourage you, Mama, to slip the colorblind shades off your eyes and reach for the brown.