Clad in a hot pink swim cap and matching goggles, my daughter waded into Lane Six of the pool. She grabbed a barbell-shaped floaty and pushed off. With assistance from an instructor, she attempted to flutter kick with her body extended like a mermaid.

Her legs flailed about, splashing water all over her instructor’s face. She weaved in and out of the lane like a drunk driver in traffic. This first swim lesson was a far cry from The Little Mermaid and more like The Little Engine That Could. Nevertheless, I cheered as if she were my own little Ariel.

Welcome to Swim Girl Summer. That’s been the seasonal moniker around our household ever since my daughter started swim lessons a month ago.

For months she’s hinted in a not-so-subtle way at her desire to conquer the water. Every time Wheel of Fortune flashed a vacation prize package with a brochure-worthy image of a resort with a pool on our TV, my daughter would ask, “Can we go to the beach and the pool, pleazzzze?” To which my wife would say, “Yes, but you need to learn how to swim first.”

Of course, that’s the response she was hoping for. We played right into her hands.

And we didn’t mind.

Drowning statistics spur swim lessons

Swim lessons are something we’ve wanted for her. It would give her another tool to help her navigate life. Giving our daughter, who is Black and autistic, the lifelong gift of swimming was not only a recreational nicety but also, to us, a matter of life and death.

Drowning is the leading cause of accidental death for autistic children of all ages. They face a higher risk of drowning due to a tendency to wander off, according to data from the National Library of Medicine. And when it comes to race, a study commissioned by the USA Swimming Foundation found more startling facts. Nearly 64 percent of Black children, 45 percent of Hispanic children and 40 percent of white children have no or low swimming ability, it found, putting them all at risk for drowning.

Our daughter first took swim lessons as a toddler at the local YMCA and learned water safety in between, but that seemed like eons ago compared to the sprouting 8-year-old she is now. With each new aquatic milestone, my daughter is swimming against the tide of those sobering statistics.

Sometimes you motor, sometimes you float

During her weekly swim lessons, my wife and I sit with other parents in a viewing area behind a large, glass-paneled wall looking out onto the pool. It’s like peering into a giant fishbowl full of kids — all ages, sizes and abilities — as they splish and splash in the shadow of a colorful mural that reads, “The Big Blue World.”

My daughter is always in Lane Six. From my vantage point, I’ve seen her confidence build as she taps her inner Michael Phelps. Sometimes she swims ahead of the other kids in her lane; other times, she stays behind. Sometimes she extends her arms in front of her; other times, they’re bent from fatigue. Her leg kicks are so powerful on occasion that she resembles a motorboat amid the shimmer and bubbles; then there are occasions when a leisurely cruise is just her speed. No matter what, she’s constantly moving forward.

It’s a bit surreal to watch my daughter both succeed and struggle from behind the glass. She can’t hear us, but we speak to her as if she can. (Good job, sweetie. Come on, push through. You got this.) She can see us, but doesn’t pay attention to us; she’s usually laser-focused on the instructor. But I know she feels us with her. She occasionally looks up from the pool with her big toothy grin and waves until we wave back.

There are moments in this Big Blue World when the father in me wants to rush to the other side and coach her. However, I know it’s best for my daughter to figure things out for herself. I won’t always be there.

Perhaps that’s my own lesson this Swim Girl Summer. As my daughter grows older, parenting will often feel like a never-ending toggle between knowing when to dive in and when to stay ashore. I just hope I’m preparing her enough to swim in the world beyond the pool.

All photos by Johnathon Briggs.

Editor’s Note: We’re digging into our ample archives to find some great articles you might have missed over the years. This one comes from 2013.

One thing my family loves about living in New York City is the diversity and the “melting pot” promise of the city. We want our kids to grow up in this sort of cultural and economic diversity. But even in this vibrant, libel city, my skin color still has the ability to raise an eyebrow. Almost on a daily basis. Like all the times people think I’m the kids’ manny.

We are a multicultural family. I am an Indian American. My parents emigrated from India almost 50 years ago, long before I was born. My wife is a home-grown American – for lack of a better phrase. Her lineage includes Irish, Native American, German and probably a few more.

We have two daughters: a 4- and a 10-month-old. Sadly for me, but fortunately for them, they look nothing like me. I don’t mean that they resemble my wife more than me on a sliding scale. I mean that they look nothing like me.

As an Indian American, my complexion is dark. I have brown eyes and dark hair, well, I did before going bald. Our oldest daughter, on the other hand, is a result of a chuckle that her genetic makeup decided to have on me. She is stunning. I am her dad and I am supposed to think that, I know. But she is. She has blonde hair, striking blue eyes and an extremely slight olive tint to her skin. She looks nothing like me. Our younger daughter does have dark hair but sports a bluish-green eye color to die for. She has a similar skin tone to her sister. I’m a lucky Dad with a lifetime of stress and worry ahead of me!

Family and friends throw me a bone every now and then and claim to see some physical feature that resembles me in the girls. It’s nice of them to try.

Neither manny nor adbuctor

Given the extreme disparity of my appearance with my older daughter, I would often (and still do) get looks of interest, confusion, and sometimes even concern. The looks often made me feel as if I needed to justify my relationship to my daughter in public. I’ve been asked directly if she was my daughter by perfect strangers. My daughter, being an extremely bright and observant girl, became conscious of this tension with no provocation. At 2 years old, in response to a quizzical look, she grabbed my leg in a crowded elevator and declared loudly, “This is my Daddy!” Admittedly, I quietly loved this. She got to the point that she would scream this declaration to every stranger that dared to look at us.

One time, close to her third birthday, I was bringing her home from a friend’s house a little too close to dinner time. On the walk to the subway, she began to melt down and cry for her mommy. The tantrum began to escalate and I picked her up to get on the subway quickly. A concerned passerby actually followed us for about four blocks out of concern for her. It wasn’t until my daughter finally spat out, “Daddy, I want to go home,” in her tantrum that the person actually turned around and left.

I suppose I should have felt a bit thankful that a perfect stranger was trying to ensure the safety of my daughter. I’d certainly want that should she actually be in a situation that required help. In reality, I was mildly offended at the assumption that she could not possibly be my child.

I don’t appear to get as many looks with my younger daughter, I think as a result of her dark hair. Regardless, as my girls get older, I find myself less and less conscious of the looks I receive with them. I do find myself occasionally fighting off the urge to yell at all the moms at that park, “No. I am not the manny! I’m their father thankyouverymuch!”

Thus, even in a city as diverse and incredible as New York, you really never know what sort of family you will run into. We certainly have all kinds. I think to some degree we all try to fit people into molds that are comfortable to us. I think it’s natural and I am sure I have done it myself. My own experience has taught me to take the extra conscious effort to make no assumptions and remind myself how amazingly different our families can be.

Photo: © zinkevych / Adobe Stock.

February is Black History Month, the perfect time to add to your kids’ knowledge about the contributions and experiences of Black Americans through some great children’s books. You might even learn a few things in the process.

Here are some recommendations for those with pre-schoolers to tweens:

Henry’s Freedom Box: A True Story from the Underground Railroad may have only been published in 2007, but it is already considered a classic. The tale, about a young slave boy who gains freedom by mailing himself in a crate to Philadelphia, has won numerous awards and praise. Its words, by Elaine Levine, and illustrations, by Coretta Scott King Award-winning artist Kadir Nelson, pack an emotional punch. It introduces young children to the cruelty and hardships of slavery without causing bedtime nightmares. (For ages 4 through 9.)

We’ve been big fans of prolific best-selling author Brad Metzler for years. His “Ordinary People Change The World” series of inspiring and fun biographies, while not focused on Black History Month subjects, offers several children’s books that are perfect to share this February or any time of the year. These are I Am Jackie Robinson, I Am Rosa Parks, I Am Martin Luther King Jr., I Am Harriet Tubman, I Am Oprah Winfrey, I Am Muhammad Ali and I Am John Lewis. (For ages 5 through 8.)

Like Metzler’s books, the “A Biography Book for New Readers” series aims to introduce children to inspiring people. Several volumes in this 40-plus book series focus on Black Americans. Yes, you’ll find long-revered civil rights figures such as King, Underground Railroad “conductor” Harriett Tubman and school integration pioneer Ruby Bridges. However, you’ll also find more contemporary heroes such as gymnast Simone Biles, ballerina Misty Copeland, singer Ella Fitzgerald and NASA scientist Katherine Johnson. (For ages 6 through 9.)

So Tall Within: Sojourner Truth’s Long Walk Toward Freedom may be classified as a “picture book” but its beautiful art by painter/illustrator Daniel Minter and lyrical words by Newbery-winning author Gary D. Schmidt will inspire you and your child. It tells the story of Truth, born into slavery to later be freed and become an important fighter not only for abolition and the rights of Black Americans but also for women’s rights. (For ages 4 through 8.)

The 1619 Project: Born on the Water uses the framing of a school assignment about tracing one’s family roots to go back in time to show African life before enslavers robbed people of their freedom. Co-authors Nikole Hannah-Jones, the journalist who wrote the Pulitzer Prize-winning Black history articles for The New York Times Magazine that inform this tale, and Newbery honor-winning author Renée Watson take readers through the generational struggles against slavery, for civil rights and finally, for respect and justice. (For ages 7 through 10)

A two-day massacre in Tulsa, Okla., in 1921 destroyed one of the wealthiest Black communities in the United States. But this horrific episode garnered little notice in history until the late 20th century.

Unspeakable: The Tulsa Race Massacre may be a short picture book but it is powerful. Using verse, authors Carole Boston Weatherford and Floyd Cooper expose readers to a Black community filled with pride taken down in terrifying tragedy. Their 2021 work won many accolades and honors including the 2022 Coretta Scott King Book Awards for Author and Illustrator. (Ages 8 through 12.)

My journey into the world of AI-generated art began two weeks before Thanksgiving. I sat down in front of my computer to experiment with Midjourney, an artificial intelligence program that creates images from text descriptions. I entered the command “/imagine” and a message from the Midjourney bot appeared: “There are endless possibilities …”

Excited, I typed out the image in my mind:

A young african american man wearing a white t-shirt, jeans and sneakers, is flying through the clouds and space as if in a dream.

Midjourney generated four versions that the beloved painter and art instructor Bob Ross might have called “happy little accidents.” In each, the clouds look like unruly cotton balls. The man has no discernible face. He also does everything but fly through the clouds: he walks on them, sits on them, or has his head lost in them. The images were garbage.

After a few days of studying the text-to-image prompts of other users, I refined my descriptions. Finally, through trial and error, I learned how to guide AI to generate images closer to my vision. I’ve turned my daughter into Princess Leia, myself into a guardian angel, and reimagined Santa Claus as Batman.

AI-Generated art and Black fatherhood

As a Black dad who blogs, I was curious to see how AI imagines fatherhood. One day I typed: young african american father holding sleeping baby, illustration. Midjourney produced four touching images that evoked my early, sleep-deprived days of dadhood when I cradled my daughter in my arms to help her fall asleep. I posted one of the images to Instagram and titled it “The Whole World in His Hands.”

The comments from other Black dads were positive. I imagine they felt seen.

That inspired me to create more AI-generated art drawing from my own experiences or those of fathers I know. I made images of Black dads teaching their sons how to tie a necktie. Reading books with their children. On date nights with their spouses. Spending time with their daughters. Essentially, Black dads being present in the lives of their loved ones. Images that are all contrary to the “absentee father” myth prevalent in news media, politics, and pop culture.

I would occasionally forget to use the descriptor “African American” before “father” in my image prompts and Midjourney would, predictably, generate images with white fathers. It didn’t bother me at first. But after the second and third time, I started thinking, “Why aren’t Black fathers included in AI’s default definition of fatherhood?”

So I did an experiment. I typed “fatherhood” into Midjourney 10 times. The bot generated four images each time creating 40 images of what it was programmed to associate with fatherhood.

Only one image was of a Black father. One out of 40.

And none appeared to be people of color.

According to AI, the default image of “fatherhood” is a white father holding or hugging a child.

“I am invisible”

The issue of bias in image generation systems shouldn’t be surprising. As digital artist and academic Nettrice Gaskins noted in a recent Instagram post: “The processes by which machines learn to recognize images is like how humans see things. Neural nets are fed millions of images from databases; they use input from humans to classify and sort image data and come up with probabilities of what the final images will be. Artists can change the parameters for how a network or system identifies, recognizes, and processes these images, which gives them a certain amount of power to influence or make decisions about which images are generated.”

Still, it felt like the kind of distortion Ralph Ellison famously described in his 1952 novel Invisible Man: “I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination — indeed, everything and anything except me.”

Representation matters. It matters because it validates experiences and lifts aspirations.

That’s the reminder I’m taking with me into February — Black History Month — as I continue my artistic adventure with Midjourney. As Gaskins encouraged, I have the power to influence the images generated by AI. I have the power to widen the visual representation of Black fatherhood.

“There are endless possibilities …”

City Dads Group has joined a national online campaign to help combat stereotyping and change inaccurate perceptions about Black fathers.

The #CelebrateBlackDads social media initiative, launched by Dove Men+Care highlights stories of Black fathers caring for and engaging with their children. The positive tales of love and commitment include several from City Dads members, contributors and supporters.

According to a recent research study commissioned by Dove Men+Care, less than half of Black fathers polled think social media, mainstream media, and popular culture portray Black fatherhood accurately.

“All caring fathers deserve to be seen, respected, and celebrated,” said Carlos Gil, Global Brand Vice President of Dove Men+Care. “We know how important a dad’s care is, and the transformational effect that care has on everyone around them. But too often, the care that Black fathers have for their kids and family is not seen or celebrated. It felt incredibly important to help break down the barriers that limit who is seeing the true stories of these fathers.”

#CelebrateBlackDads is the latest addition to the grooming product company’s Commit to C.A.R.E. (Care About Racial Equality) initiative, launched in 2020 in the wake of the murder of George Floyd at the hands of police. This campaign initially launched on Father’s Day 2022 with the support of country music star Jimmie Allen, vlogger and influencer Beleaf in Fatherhood (Glen Henry), and Black fatherhood network The Dad Gang. 

City Dads has been a longtime partner and supporter of Dove Men+Care’s ongoing mission to shatter stereotypes about what it means to be a man and a father. Some past campaigns, City Dads has worked with them on include advocating for universal paternity leave and recognizing father figures.

To learn more about the campaign and find more inspiring Black dads, visit DoveMenCare.com/CelebrateBlackDads.

Photo: © WavebreakMediaMicro / Adobe Stock.

Moore, the founder and managing director of Base Ventures — an early-stage tech venture fund, explains how he has done that through his life by making wise choices on the latest Modern Dads Podcast.

The native of the Bay Area of California was one of the first investors in Zappos. He has been one of the “25 Most Influential African-Americans In Tech” by Business Insider. Moore is also a widower, and he discusses overcoming the tragedy of losing his wife and mother of his daughter.

Moore is interviewed by City Dads blog contributor Mike Dorsey for Dorsey’s own Black Fathers, NOW! podcast. Dorsey, known as “Mike D” by many, is an author, business entrepreneur, community organizer, speaker and podcaster who aims to create a community for active and engaged Black fathers.

+ Listen to Erik Moore on Modern Dads Podcast +

Moore spent his early career as an investment banker after earning his undergraduate from Dartmouth College and his MBA from The Wharton School of Business in Pennsylvania. In 2016, he was recognized with the Next Generation of Excellence Achievement Award by the Silicon Valley Black Chamber of Commerce. The next year he received the Entrepreneur of the Year Award from The Oakland African American Chamber of Commerce, Wharton’s Trailblazer Award for his achievements in venture capital, and was named a Man of Courage, a Ford Motor Co. program to to build communities by advancing the narrative of black men through storytelling, intergenerational forums, and community programs.

Erik Moore is a board member of The Common Ground Foundation—founded by award-winning artist, Common. He serves on the city of Oakland’s Fund Advisory Board and  the advisory board of the Museum of the African Diaspora in San Francisco.

Even with all his achievements, Moore — according to his company’s bio — says his most important role is as a father.

Our longtime partner Dove Men+Care is teaming with the National Basketball Players Association in an effort to better society for Black men.

The Commit to C.A.R.E (Care About Racial Equity) Now Initiative will showcase, honor and celebrate the humanity of Black men while addressing issues such as public safety, safe and fair voting, community engagement and the accurate portrayal of Black men in media.

“Black men and our community have been suffering far too long from the negative portrayals that have been built into our society, which is why we are honored to partner with the NBPA to help drive transformative change and amplify the voices and work of the players,” Esi Eggleston Bracey, chief operating officer of the men’s grooming products parent, Unilever N.A. Beauty and Personal Care, said in a news release. “We all have a responsibility to advocate for racial equity, including challenging the misrepresentation of Black men to help save lives. This partnership will help us work towards a brighter and more just future.”

The Commit to C.A.R.E. Now Initiative asks people to help by doing two things:

1. Sign the Commit To C.A.R.E. Now Pledge

The pledge says signers will:

• Educate themselves and start courageous conversations about racial injustices, particularly with Black men.
• Take personal responsibility to stand up against racism, lead by example and spread the message.
• Be an advocate for the cause by supporting legislative change that will help save lives.

2. Sign a petition for The George Floyd Justice in Policing Act

The petition encourages the U.S. Senate to pass legislation (H.R. 7120) that offers a comprehensive approach to hold police accountable, end racial profiling, change the culture of law enforcement, empower our communities, and build trust between law enforcement and our communities by addressing systemic racism and bias to help save lives.

Black Men Care video released

A recently released video for the initiative features pros Chris Paul, Donovan Mitchell, Aaron Gordon, Jaylen Brown and Danny Green promoting their work to correct the depictions of Black men in media and culture that too often rely on harmful stereotypes.

“Our partnership with Dove Men+Care is groundbreaking because it emphasizes the humanity of our players and calls on the world to see them as men – not just as athletes. We are eager and committed to systemic change that will make the world more equitable for them and for all Black men,” Payne Brown, president of THINK450, the innovation and partnership engine of the NBPA, said in a news release.

The Commit to C.A.R.E. Now Initiative is one of many Dove Men+Care has taken over the years to try to try the public’s perception of modern fatherhood. City Dads Group has worked with them multiple times on campaigns to champion men in their roles as fathers, such as the fight for paid paternity leave. This year, the company has placed more of an emphasis on matters of racial violence and injustice.

In June, it launched “Father’s Day Taken,” a pro-fatherhood fundraising initiative to remember the thousands of black dads who have lost their lives due to racism and violence, and the families left behind. DM+C established a fund to invest $1 million to support these families in need.

George Floyd died at the hands of police officers just over two month ago. Breonna Taylor was shot and killed in March. Justice in each case moves slowly, if at all.

Significant racial progress, I say out loud during a recent newscast, is taking a long, long time.

My son, who is Black, sits next to me as I lament. He sighs and looks up from his phone, “Yeah, actually I had forgotten about the Black Lives Matter stuff until I saw the NBA and MLB players kneeling on Opening Day.”

His gaze retreats back to his phone.

I do not reply. I just sit, quietly frustrated.

His comment made me think of the dogged, lengthy efforts of past Civil Rights titans, like The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and John Lewis, making the mission of racial equality their life’s work. I then thought of the protest my son attended with my wife after Floyd’s death, and the way that day make him stop and think about the need for systematic change.

A few months later, though, he’d lost that feeling of urgency.

I suddenly find myself wondering, “Does this generation of children have the same grit to carry this movement onward?”

With protesters continuing to take to the streets in several American streets, there is no question the Black Live Matter movement has feverish support from adults. These rallies, though, have gotten fringier, less kid-friendly and downright nasty in places like Portland or Seattle where government-affiliated troops routinely use force and tear gas to disperse crowds.

I am selfishly thankful my son is not subject to that sort of chaos. But is familiarity with such unrest, though, necessary to garner the type of passion that success in this struggle will require? As parents, our mission is to protect our kids. My children’s relative lack of bumps in the road to this point could be construed as modest progress.

I tend to harp on to my son about him having no limits, that the only barriers to his success will be those constraints he places on himself. I have drilled that mantra into him from his earliest ages and, I think, he believes it. But I wonder if because he has been taught that nothing is out of reach regardless of his skin color is part of the reason why the urgency of Black Lives Matter has waned in him.

Complicating this issue with young people and persistence is that many children like mine do not have to wait for anything – not for food, not for a text back, not for Instagram likes, not for commercial breaks. Kids, if made to wait these days, tend to stop, quit, complain or just move on.

The grit required to rid the world of racism will be immense. While no one wants to hear phrases like, “it will take time” or “justice will come” or “progress is slow” about today’s racial climate, they have all been proven to be real. In the world of apps and instant gratification our children have been raised in, have we parents adequately allowed them to grind through a hard task for long periods of time for a coveted outcome that made the dogged effort worth it?

I dread that these realities are inciting passionate adults at the fringe and turning off children like my son who are maybe not equipped for the long tussle required for monumental change. Parents may be well-meaning in shielding their children from the racism’s ugly stain, but in protecting our children I can’t help but think we have not done a good job of explaining that other families are not so fortunate. My son’s indifference to the continued fight for Black Lives to Matter, I think, is proof.

So now, months removed from the awful imaginary of George Floyd’s death, the Black Lives Matter movement may open our eyes to other ignorances like our children’s lack of access to plight, to fortitude, to communities that look starkly different than our own, and to the concept of persevering for a cause that will take great perseverance to achieve.

My son may lack grit. I need to do a better job of displaying its importance to him because grit is required for Black lives, like my son’s, to matter.

Photo: © DisobeyArt / Adobe Stock.

I knew in advance of the interview that the question would be asked, but it still startled me when it was. Few Black fathers have a ready-made answer to: “When will you speak to your child about race? And what will you tell her?”

This question came about in February, three months before the police killing of George Floyd, as part of a project I participated in exploring Black fatherhood. In the months since, it has echoed in my mind as the Black Lives Matter movement has commanded global attention and my daughter hits a new milestone: her sixth birthday.

With each passing birthday, my daughter moves closer to the age I was when my mother sat me down to have The Talk, that unfortunately necessary conversation — the first of many — that Black parents often have with their children about race, racism and how to navigate a society that does not always see you as fully human. That this is a familiar rite of passage in Black families speaks volumes about the systemic and generational dehumanization that African Americans endure.

The Talk defined and in practice

The Talk covers all manner of indignities and scenarios: the first time you were called the n-word; what to do when you’re pulled over by police; how to respond to being followed by a store employee who suspects you’re a shoplifter because of your race. The list goes on.

In my case, nothing particularly dramatic had happened. My mother must have sensed it was time for me, at the age of 8, to be introduced to the concept of racial difference given the two worlds I inhabited in 1983 as a third-grader: the predominantly Black neighborhood of South-Central Los Angeles where I lived and the then predominantly white suburb of Northridge in the San Fernando Valley, where my elementary school was located.

During the week, I’d ride a school bus 40 minutes from South-Central to the Valley in pursuit of a better education. My mother decided to have me bused under a voluntary Los Angeles Unified School District program to integrate schools. The program, which effectively dismantled mandatory busing, allowed minority parents the option of busing their children to predominantly white schools. My mother seized the opportunity. At its peak in 1984, about 23,000 students were bused under the voluntary program. I was one of them.

My mother, born and partly raised in the Black neighborhood of Greenville in segregated 1960s Mississippi, later told me she believed the educational opportunities in the Valley superior. She also she wanted me to gain exposure to people of different cultures.

But she also apparently wanted to be sure I was grounded in my own.

I recall my mother sitting down with me in our apartment and explaining that the shades of skin tone among the people in our neighborhood — brown sugar, coconut, honey iced tea, golden yellow — reflected the diversity of those who identified as Black, our racial-ethnic group.

“You’re Black,” my mother said, as if preparing me to understand how other people might first see me.

“No, I’m yellow,” I countered, using the word my family often used to describe my fair skin tone. She laughed.

My mother, a librarian at the time, explained in her version of The Talk that Black people have a rich history and culture, but are often discriminated against because they are different. As a result, they have been engaged in a long struggle for equality embodied by the civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr. I knew who King was. As a second-grader, I was awarded the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Award for “contributing to the spirit and the dream of a better world for all people.” I can’t recall what I did to earn this award, but vaguely recall drawing a crayon portrait of King and writing a short statement about his life.

How mother’s words changed my life

And then, with a deep sense of reverence, she described the Civil Rights Movement — what Black people were fighting for (equal treatment and opportunity) and against (discrimination and violence) and how King had a dream we would one day live in a nation where people would “not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

I’d never heard my mother speak before with such passion. Her words made me feel both proud and angry.

Proud to be Black. Not less than. Not ashamed. Proud.

But angry at the unfairness of it all.

Both feelings are rooted in the knowledge of one’s own history, which may explain why years later in college one of my majors was history and I became a student activist.

You don’t realize the implications of how your parents raised you until you become a parent yourself. By introducing me to a racialized view of the world grounded in a history of striving and resistance, my mother inoculated me with a sense of pride against the virulent nature of racist beliefs and actions that I had yet to encounter. She helped keep my self-esteem intact.

So, the next time I’m asked about when will I speak my child about race and what will I tell her, I will follow my mother’s example.

I will speak to my daughter when I feel she’s ready to bear the burden of racial awareness.

I will tell her, “We’re all different in our own ways, but equal: equal in rights and equally deserving of respect and kindness.”

I will tell her about the history of her people and the stories of individuals within our family who overcame adversity to not just survive, but thrive.

But most of all, I will imbue her with a sense of hope that one day The Talk will no longer be necessary.

The Talk photo: © fizkes / Adobe Stock.

The racial divide in the small western Kansas town I grew up in was very evident. Our community was practically 50% Hispanic and 50% white. When many whites would reference the Hispanic community and their culture, it was never Hispanics, it was almost always the pronouns “they” or “their.” It was almost as if by not acknowledging the race, it didn’t exist beyond the many Mexican restaurants sprinkled along the main street in our small town.

I knew this racial divide existed, but internally this divide was never there. My best friend growing up was Hispanic. I spent many afternoons with him and his family. I never saw him as a different race. To me, he was just a person who I really enjoyed hanging out with.

When I look back on how race played a role in our schools and within our community while growing up, I regret that I didn’t take a stand then. I stood idly by watching this happen and wonder why. Any time the reference of “they” came up, and knowing who was being referenced, I didn’t say anything.

Why can’t people be treated like the people they are?

As I watch my oldest grow up, I see a bit of myself in him. His best friend is black in a largely white Kansas suburb. He has spent many afternoons over at his friend’s house playing, laughing, and enjoying being in his presence.

I vividly remember when I was my son’s age, sitting in front of my third-grade class during our school geography bee. I couldn’t tell you the question our group was asked but it was about current events. Each participant down the line did not know the answer until it got to me.

“The Million Man March,” I answered.

I was right.

It shocked many in the class, including my parents, that I knew this answer. It is one of the first news stories I remember as a kid. I remember watching the black community march on the National Mall to make a difference.

Recently, I was scrolling through YouTube and a thumbnail caught the attention of my 9-year-old. It was of one of the recent Black Lives Matter protests and showed man holding a sign.

“Dad, what does, ‘I can’t breath’ mean?”

It was at that moment I realized how much we have shielded him from the current events of our day. At his age I knew what the Million Man March was and stood for. Yet, he had to ask me what that sign meant.

At that point in time, I was still processing what I was witnessing on TV. I knew what was happening with the Black Lives Matter movement was exactly what needed to happen. Their voices needed and still, need to be heard. But inside part of me was wondering what I could do as a 30-something white guy who has what many call “privilege.”

I explained the death of George Floyd the best I could to my son. I explained that the black community, while free in the United States, is still fighting to have their voices heard and to feel as accepted in our nation as the rest of us.

I told him that one of the things that makes me proud to call him my son is that his best friend is black. That he doesn’t look at the color of one’s skin as something that makes them different than him or anyone else.

Without skipping a beat, I told him to do exactly what I wish I had done when I was his age: stand up if he sees someone being treated differently because of their race, sexuality, religious beliefs or for any reason. I told him that we will be seeing people standing on the corner in coming days, holding signs and protesting the injustices against race. We will honk and we will stand beside them to show our support for those people still fighting to be treated equally today.

“I know, Dad.”

That was all that I needed to hear. I just needed to that reassurance. That simple, “I know, Dad,” gave me hope that maybe there will be a day when all of this racial injustice will only be a part of the history taught in schools — a history that will make kids ask themselves much like I am today: Why?

Racial divide photo: © Natalia / Adobe Stock.