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Date: 6/10/2020
Some time ago, my wife and I were foster parents to a black baby boy.
Even when we welcomed him to our home at 11 days old, he already had a huge mop of curly black hair – big, soft, floppy curls. It was the very first thing we noticed when the social worker got him out of the car.
One day, a person close to me was running their hands through his hair as I was holding him and said matter of factly, “It’s really nice that he doesn’t have that n***** hair.”
I was taken aback. I didn’t say anything, but the look on my face apparently illustrated my shock.
“No, I meant that’s a GOOD thing,” the person clarified, as if possible criticism of his hair would have been the actual reason for my disgust.
I removed myself and my foster son from the conversation, but I still said nothing.
While my foster son no longer lives with us, it’s a conversation that has remained in my consciousness ever since and has been at the forefront of my thoughts over the past few weeks as our country and our communities struggle on the world stage to grapple with racism.
Since he had arrived in our home, and even before when we first learned we would be taking him in, the question of how I, as a white man, could successfully raise our foster son to be a strong, proud black man had been one I wrestled with on the regular. The only conclusion I could come up with was that I would raise him to be a good man, a loving man, a fair man and the color of his skin didn’t matter.
But that conversation about hair revealed something I was always aware of but didn’t really want to acknowledge – it doesn’t matter how good a man he might be; before anything else, people would see a black man.
My reaction was to try to hide him from the problem, to shield him.
In addition to being an unrealistic proposition, it also doesn’t get to the root of the problem. Having an umbrella doesn’t stop the rain.
Throughout this period of turmoil in our country, the phrases “Black Lives Matter” and “white privilege” have once again become a battleground. I once was part of the refrain that wondered why it wasn’t “All Lives Matter.” At that time, a black friend explained it to me simply: “Because no one has ever questioned whether yours matters or thought it matters less because of your race.” It was an explanation I was not willing to accept at the time. I had experienced hardships in life. I certainly didn’t consider myself privileged. My parents had fought hard and endured for me to have the life that I had.
My view of the word “privilege” was narrow. It took me a long time to truly understand what white privilege truly was.
I had, of course, heard racial epithets in my life, sometimes by those close to me, but that conversation about my foster son’s hair was the first time that overt racism had a truly personal impact on me. I was in my mid-30s.
That is my white privilege.
I have always prided myself on being a good person and one who appreciates people for who they are. Racist words and actions make me sick to my stomach. I have for a long time thought that feeling this way is good enough. I thought I was an ally.
My privilege, though, has allowed me to remain silent and I have realized more and more that a silent ally is as good as an enemy.
For that, I am sorry.
And I promise to be better. I promise to lend my voice and my actions to efforts for equity and understanding. I promise to listen, to not only acknowledge that I don’t understand but also learn what I can do to truly be an ally.
For my foster son, for my brother in law, for my niece and nephews, for my neighbors and my friends, I have to be better.
I will be better.