I have six children, two of them are black.
They have been raised since their adoption at the tender age of 18 months, in a lily-white family. They have been wonderfully blessed to live in two countries that are inclusive in the last 8 1/2 years of their 10 years of life.
They were in a sheltered nest, until the day George Floyd was murdered.
Almost two years ago, when they were eight, my sons would walk in and see the protests on TV, they would overhear conversations they didn’t understand. One night at dinner, my one son asked me about the “people” who hurt a chocolate man.
We were unprepared as a family.
I had been putting this horrible day aside. I knew I had to discuss it, because of the world we live in, but for me it was too soon. My sons are innocent. They are sweet, gentle, kind and live in a world where everybody tells them they are cute and adorable. I had chosen an idyllic and sadly short-lived utopia for them to be raised in.
I was a coward who couldn’t stand to see them look at me in hurt confusion and ask me why?
I was sick with dread and filled with shame and fear.
I stumbled over my words; I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that he lived in a world where people may hate him based only on his skin color.
- The time had arrived to explain racism.
- The time had arrived to discuss slavery.
- I would now have to explain Apartheid, and my life growing up, where he wouldn’t be allowed to live in my home, let alone be my son.
I would have to tell this precious child, my son, that people who look like me, have hated, hurt, and killed people that look like him.
For no reason other than the skin he likes to call chocolate.
I think my son saw me struggling. He saw my tears and realized how his question hurt. Mostly, I think he saw my terror and shame.
He looked at his arm in comparison with mine and said, “Maybe they don’t know any chocolate people, maybe they are afraid. Maybe they need to meet us, and know that we are the same. Then they won’t be afraid anymore.”
I will tell him one day how he loosely quoted Martin Luther King, Jr.
“People fail to get along because they fear each other; they fear each other because they don’t know each other; they don’t know each other because they have not communicated with each other.”
Some people, who first heard I was adopting, expressed concerns about my boy’s color. They were afraid it would not work out. Afraid to be around children who looked different. They were scared I may not have made the right decision.
Today those same people love my boys and will passionately defend them. They confronted their inherited fears and cultural conditioning and brought about change in their lives and mine.
I looked up at the television that day, saw the protestors and suddenly felt a surge of gratitude and solidarity with those who will not tolerate racism.
I remember pointing at the TV, “Yes. A chocolate man was hurt and killed, but do you see those people shouting, do you see those ones with the signs? They are all fighting for chocolate people. They want them to be treated nicely. They want people to be kind to one another and not to be afraid or angry about the color of skin. Good white people today are not going to tolerate this anymore.”
Those protestors do not know what they did for me that day.
I am South African. I grew up in Apartheid. My forefathers are some of the monsters I will teach my sons about one day. But now, I will also be able to teach them about change.
I will teach them about shame and fear being turned into action and love by those who truly count.
It’s not perfect, but it’s something positive I can point out in the tragedy that is humanity’s shared history.
If you held a sign up during this time and chanted Black Lives Matter, maybe you think your voice wasn’t heard. But across the sea a child was watching, and he felt loved.
** And for the record, my boys know they are black, and they are proud, they just like the word chocolate. Its their skin and their choice. I am here to support and protect them fiercely.