Is it a matter of Race or Age? I have two beautiful sons. One is a 9 year old Caucasian and the other is a 4 year old African American. We are quite accustom to looks, comments and questions.
We have just come to the end of Spring Break. We enjoyed Spring Break with picnics in the park, sand castles on the beach, sleepovers with friends and a trip to the Space Center. This week it seemed no matter where we went someone would say something about how cute the 4 year old is. As a proud Mama, I was ever so happy to say, "Thank You," and give my 4 year old an extra hug and a kiss. By the end of the week my 9 year old was feeling a little left out and started asking me if I thought he was cute too. Of course, I do. I gave him an extra hug and a kiss too.
As my 9 year old started asking each time somebody said something to the 4 year old, I started noticing that every kind word was coming from African Americans. I started to wonder why. Was this some sort of cultural validation for my son? Or was he just really cute?
I have an African American friend, and we were just visiting. She made a comment about how cute the 4 year old is getting. I agreed and then mentioned our experience. As we talked, she commented, "Well, admiring the looks of a pre-teen is a little creepy coming from an adult stranger." She was right. If a strange adult had made some comment about how attractive my 9 year old was, I might be a little concerned about their motives, but commenting on a cute baby, well, that is just expected.
Now I slap myself. I love both my sons, and I forget their obvious difference. I am accustom to lots of looks and stares; comments and questions. I was searching for the racial difference, the cultural explanation, beating myself up thinking I had missed something important for his little ego as an African American Male. I was the one making it a racial thing and nobody else.
What was it? I believe it had nothing to do with his race, and everything to do with his age. He is a happy, out-going 4 year old with lots and lots of energy. He is cute. It is culturally acceptable in all races to admire a cute baby, but it is a little creepy to admire a pre-teen in the same way.
Relief, I am not a bad Mom just a little over-sensitive.
I love my boys, and both of them are very cute.
Showing posts with label Transracial. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Transracial. Show all posts
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Friday, October 31, 2008
Why are you kissing him?
Honestly, I forget that I am white and my son is African American. When we are out and about, I talk to him just like he is my son, go figure. I also have a tendency to hug and kiss on him like he is my son, go figure. Oddly enough, my son does not hesitate to talk to me like I am his Mother nor does he hesitate to hug and kiss me. I forget about our differences until some puzzled passer-by stares a little too long at my child. I forget about our differences, that others see all too clearly.
I have learned to take a deep breath and ask, “Can I help you?” I have learned that if I can hold my temper most people are simply curious. I have learned that if speak directly to them, they realize that they have been staring and usually politely retreat.
Things have changed, but to see the change live and in person is still a puzzle to some people. I do my best to help solve the puzzle, but there comes a point when you are a stranger and do not need to know. I do my best to help solve the puzzle and have had many pleasant conversations about fostering, adopting, and transracial families.
I have learned to take a deep breath and ask, “Can I help you?” I have learned that if I can hold my temper most people are simply curious. I have learned that if speak directly to them, they realize that they have been staring and usually politely retreat.
Things have changed, but to see the change live and in person is still a puzzle to some people. I do my best to help solve the puzzle, but there comes a point when you are a stranger and do not need to know. I do my best to help solve the puzzle and have had many pleasant conversations about fostering, adopting, and transracial families.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The Right Mom
If you give birth to your child, the question of whether or not you are the right Mom for your child may never cross your mind. At 3:00am when you are trying to clean spit-up out of your hair while calming a crying child, you may question your ability to be Mom, but not whether you are the right Mom.
As an adoptive Mom I have questioned whether or not I was the right Mom for my child. As my son came into the terrible 2’s his temper was not just terrible. It was terrible, horrific, extreme, unbelievable and intense. I tried to just say, “He’s 2.” But something inside me wondered. As he approached 3 his tempers were constant. I was afraid to take him to the park for fear of him hurting another child. He was kicked out of Sunday School and out of a Mothers of Preschoolers group. I seriously questioned my ability to be his Mom. I questioned if I was the right Mom for him.
My adopted son is also of another race than me which seemed to compound my insecurities. I have heard slander and racists comments about me and my family, but I had always chalked that up to ignorance and the lack of a loving spirit. But as my son became increasingly more difficult to handle, was I the right Mom for him? I questioned if race really did matter and questioned whether or not I was the right Mom for him.
At his annual check, the Doctor did the usual checking height, weight and various other vital statistics, and then he started asking me developmental questions like, “Does he know his colors? Can he say his ABC’s? Can he jump? Color inside the lines?” and more. As we talked, I began to realize that there was something wrong and it had nothing to do with my ability or right to Mother him.
We were then referred for more testing and the results showed a speech and development delay. He then was accepted into speech therapy and a special education class devoted to meeting his needs. Within 6 months his tempers had become few and far between. By the end of the year, he was speaking not just words but sentences too. His difficulties had nothing to do with me.
Since he is adopted and of another race, I sometimes still wonder if I am the right Mom for him, but I cannot deny how much I love him. Through our difficult time, I did what any Mother would do. I searched, researched, asked questions and eventually did find the help he needed. With every hurdle he jumps, I am right there like any Mother cheering the victories, comforting the disappointments, helping with the hurts, encouraging him to keep on trying as well as directing, teaching, counseling when and where I can.
My son continues to improve and succeed. My son is now known for his hugs and laughter. I love this child. I am his Mother, and I am the right Mom.
As an adoptive Mom I have questioned whether or not I was the right Mom for my child. As my son came into the terrible 2’s his temper was not just terrible. It was terrible, horrific, extreme, unbelievable and intense. I tried to just say, “He’s 2.” But something inside me wondered. As he approached 3 his tempers were constant. I was afraid to take him to the park for fear of him hurting another child. He was kicked out of Sunday School and out of a Mothers of Preschoolers group. I seriously questioned my ability to be his Mom. I questioned if I was the right Mom for him.
My adopted son is also of another race than me which seemed to compound my insecurities. I have heard slander and racists comments about me and my family, but I had always chalked that up to ignorance and the lack of a loving spirit. But as my son became increasingly more difficult to handle, was I the right Mom for him? I questioned if race really did matter and questioned whether or not I was the right Mom for him.
At his annual check, the Doctor did the usual checking height, weight and various other vital statistics, and then he started asking me developmental questions like, “Does he know his colors? Can he say his ABC’s? Can he jump? Color inside the lines?” and more. As we talked, I began to realize that there was something wrong and it had nothing to do with my ability or right to Mother him.
We were then referred for more testing and the results showed a speech and development delay. He then was accepted into speech therapy and a special education class devoted to meeting his needs. Within 6 months his tempers had become few and far between. By the end of the year, he was speaking not just words but sentences too. His difficulties had nothing to do with me.
Since he is adopted and of another race, I sometimes still wonder if I am the right Mom for him, but I cannot deny how much I love him. Through our difficult time, I did what any Mother would do. I searched, researched, asked questions and eventually did find the help he needed. With every hurdle he jumps, I am right there like any Mother cheering the victories, comforting the disappointments, helping with the hurts, encouraging him to keep on trying as well as directing, teaching, counseling when and where I can.
My son continues to improve and succeed. My son is now known for his hugs and laughter. I love this child. I am his Mother, and I am the right Mom.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Discipline or Abduction
“Whose child is this?” was the urgent question a woman asked as I tried to remove my screaming four year old from a store. I was involved in an argument with my child and really did not understand the question, so I chose to ignore her. Again with a little force, she asked, “Whose child is this?” I shook my head trying to grasp her involvement in my situation and responded, “Mine.” She apparently did not like my response and took my son by the arm. At that point both of us turned on her and asked with a little anger, “What are you doing?” I don’t know if it was the sudden unity in our response or the angry darts I was shooting with my eyes that made her decide that this was not a fight she wanted to fight.
In a traditional family, a mother removing a screaming child from a store would produce a few cheers. We are not a traditional family. We are transracial which means one of us is of one race (myself, Caucasian) and another of us from another race (one son, African American). I suppose the woman looked at us and saw an abduction and not discipline.
I know that I have to be thicked skinned. I know that not everybody agrees with our family values. I know that these days you just don’t know who the good guys are or the bad guys are based on appearances.
I don’t know how to let strangers know that I am discipline-ing my child and not abducting some child.
In a traditional family, a mother removing a screaming child from a store would produce a few cheers. We are not a traditional family. We are transracial which means one of us is of one race (myself, Caucasian) and another of us from another race (one son, African American). I suppose the woman looked at us and saw an abduction and not discipline.
I know that I have to be thicked skinned. I know that not everybody agrees with our family values. I know that these days you just don’t know who the good guys are or the bad guys are based on appearances.
I don’t know how to let strangers know that I am discipline-ing my child and not abducting some child.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Stupid Question #6
“Babysitting?” another parent at the park asked me (Caucasian Mom) while watching my African American son slide down the slide. “No,” was my simple answer. The parent squirmed with curiosity and then began the full series of stupid questions.
“Is he real?” I answered, “Yes.”
“Is he yours?” I answered, “Yes.”
“Is he a mix?” I answered, “No.”
“You are African American?” I answered, “No.”
“Where did you get him?” I answered, “The hospital.”
I guess I have a mean streak. I truly enjoyed watching this poor parent try and figure it all out. She got real close to my face and inspected it closely to see if I was African American. I didn’t know her, and she didn’t know us. I just didn’t see why it should matter. He was my son and that was that.
When you adopt a child of another race or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. Times have changed and there are a lot more interracial, transracial and other racial families out there. I always enjoy seeing one. I know and they know that they are asked about their family everywhere they go. I and they want to respect mine and their privacy. Just about every family I have come across offers a simple smile with a nod of the head that says, “I know.”
So here I will end this series. I am sure there are many more stupid questions and some may be posted at a later date. But for now, this is the end. There really isn’t such a thing as a stupid question if you are sincere. If you are a prospective adoptive parent, head up! Transracial adoption can and does work. You will love your child as your own. You will come to a time where you do not see a child of color, but you will see your child.
“Is he real?” I answered, “Yes.”
“Is he yours?” I answered, “Yes.”
“Is he a mix?” I answered, “No.”
“You are African American?” I answered, “No.”
“Where did you get him?” I answered, “The hospital.”
I guess I have a mean streak. I truly enjoyed watching this poor parent try and figure it all out. She got real close to my face and inspected it closely to see if I was African American. I didn’t know her, and she didn’t know us. I just didn’t see why it should matter. He was my son and that was that.
When you adopt a child of another race or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. Times have changed and there are a lot more interracial, transracial and other racial families out there. I always enjoy seeing one. I know and they know that they are asked about their family everywhere they go. I and they want to respect mine and their privacy. Just about every family I have come across offers a simple smile with a nod of the head that says, “I know.”
So here I will end this series. I am sure there are many more stupid questions and some may be posted at a later date. But for now, this is the end. There really isn’t such a thing as a stupid question if you are sincere. If you are a prospective adoptive parent, head up! Transracial adoption can and does work. You will love your child as your own. You will come to a time where you do not see a child of color, but you will see your child.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Stupid Question #5
“Whose child is this?” was the question a nice man asked as he caught my son who was in full stride running outside a restaurant. It was a busy night and we had to wait. I was letting my kids run to the end of the sidewalk and back. The Nice Man thought he was helping by catching a running child. I approached and said, “He is mine.” The Nice Man did not look so nice anymore. He looked at me and said even louder, “Whose child is this?” Again, I told him, “He is mine.” The Man started to push my son behind him I suppose to protect the child from me. I gently smiled, looked at my son, and said, “Son, tell the Nice Man my name.” Of course, he yelled, “Mommy,” laughed and ran into my arms. The Nice Man looked us over pretty hard, but then I suppose he decided my son’s affection towards me was genuine and not induced.
When you adopt a child of another race or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. I can’t say this one was stupid. I can say that this post is more of a “be aware” post for prospective adoptive parents.
I actually get this often especially when I leave my son in childcare. If there is a new volunteer or paid worker who does not know us, they usually require an I.D. or some proof that he is my son. I don’t normally carry around our adoption papers. I usually have to wait until the person who checked us in can be located. I have never had anyone refuse to release my son to me. My son is very rambunctious and affectionate, and he is quite loud in his announcement that, “Mommy is here.” He helps a lot in putting childcare workers at ease that I am the Mommy.
When you adopt a child of another race or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. I can’t say this one was stupid. I can say that this post is more of a “be aware” post for prospective adoptive parents.
I actually get this often especially when I leave my son in childcare. If there is a new volunteer or paid worker who does not know us, they usually require an I.D. or some proof that he is my son. I don’t normally carry around our adoption papers. I usually have to wait until the person who checked us in can be located. I have never had anyone refuse to release my son to me. My son is very rambunctious and affectionate, and he is quite loud in his announcement that, “Mommy is here.” He helps a lot in putting childcare workers at ease that I am the Mommy.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Stupid Question #4
“Where did you get him?” was the question of another Mom at the park as we watched our children run up and down the slide. “The hospital,” was the only answer I could muster (though another blogger had a witty remark, “Wal-mart.”).
When you adopt a child of another race or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. The Mom at the park then clarified her question, “Where is he from?” I told her he was born right here in our city. “Oh, that’s nice,” was her condescending reply and with nose in the air, she walked away. So, am I supposed to be apologetic for adopting locally?
Sorry, my story does not include an interesting transatlantic voyage with cloak and dagger and an exciting exodus to freedom as we saved our son from the grips of death. Oh, I do have one excerpt that might be considered exciting. I use to walk with my son in a stroller at the same time on the same route everyday. We always ended at a park.
There came a time when I noticed a strange car on our route. The first day I saw it, I did not think anything of it. The second day, I wondered if it had broken down, but then on the third day I saw it at another spot on our route. Day four and five, I noticed the same car in different spots. I tried to shake it off as paranoia, but when I saw it at the park, all the hair on the back of my neck stood up.
I saw two heads in the car and started to turn the stroller around. My son then protested rather loudly. I stopped walking and tried to console him. As I talked to my son, I looked back at the car and the two heads. They were not looking at us. They seemed to be deep in conversation with each other. I must be paranoid, and I decided to go to the park.
My son jumped out of the stroller and ran laps around the park. I had almost forgotten the car and the two heads. I was pushing my son on the swing when one of the car doors opened and then was slammed shut. The two heads were arguing and one was trying to get out of the car. That was enough for me. Ignoring my son’s protests, I strapped him in the stroller. I could hear their argument now, “They are happy! Leave them alone!” I sprinted home.
I never saw the car or the two heads again. Of course, it took weeks for me to be comfortable walking outside with my son again. I now mix up our walks with bike rides at different times of day and we don’t take the same routes.
I struggled with whether I should report it or not. I struggled with even telling my husband. What would I report? Two heads that I cannot describe had an argument in a car that I cannot describe next to the park.
Maybe I am paranoid, but as a Mom, my greatest fear is the loss of either of my children. With my adopted son, fear of loss is a little more real. I don’t care where he came from; he is my son.
When you adopt a child of another race or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. The Mom at the park then clarified her question, “Where is he from?” I told her he was born right here in our city. “Oh, that’s nice,” was her condescending reply and with nose in the air, she walked away. So, am I supposed to be apologetic for adopting locally?
Sorry, my story does not include an interesting transatlantic voyage with cloak and dagger and an exciting exodus to freedom as we saved our son from the grips of death. Oh, I do have one excerpt that might be considered exciting. I use to walk with my son in a stroller at the same time on the same route everyday. We always ended at a park.
There came a time when I noticed a strange car on our route. The first day I saw it, I did not think anything of it. The second day, I wondered if it had broken down, but then on the third day I saw it at another spot on our route. Day four and five, I noticed the same car in different spots. I tried to shake it off as paranoia, but when I saw it at the park, all the hair on the back of my neck stood up.
I saw two heads in the car and started to turn the stroller around. My son then protested rather loudly. I stopped walking and tried to console him. As I talked to my son, I looked back at the car and the two heads. They were not looking at us. They seemed to be deep in conversation with each other. I must be paranoid, and I decided to go to the park.
My son jumped out of the stroller and ran laps around the park. I had almost forgotten the car and the two heads. I was pushing my son on the swing when one of the car doors opened and then was slammed shut. The two heads were arguing and one was trying to get out of the car. That was enough for me. Ignoring my son’s protests, I strapped him in the stroller. I could hear their argument now, “They are happy! Leave them alone!” I sprinted home.
I never saw the car or the two heads again. Of course, it took weeks for me to be comfortable walking outside with my son again. I now mix up our walks with bike rides at different times of day and we don’t take the same routes.
I struggled with whether I should report it or not. I struggled with even telling my husband. What would I report? Two heads that I cannot describe had an argument in a car that I cannot describe next to the park.
Maybe I am paranoid, but as a Mom, my greatest fear is the loss of either of my children. With my adopted son, fear of loss is a little more real. I don’t care where he came from; he is my son.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Stupid Question #3
“Are you going to tell him he is adopted?” Now here is where a little common sense would do the inquisitor some good. I am a fair skinned, light haired, green eyed Caucasian woman with a dark skinned, darker haired, browned eyed, African American son. Do I have to answer that question?
When you adopt a child of another race or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. I suspect my son is going to realize that something is different between him and us. Even as a toddler before he could speak, he would spend much time examining my hand and comparing it to his. Was he perplexed by the difference in color? Was he impressed by the difference in size? As an inquisitive toddler, I am sure it was a little of both.
Yes, I am going to tell my son he is adopted. I love the word “adopted” because of all the joy this adoption has brought to our family. I hate the word “adopted” because in our everyday, he is not my “adopted” son. He is my son who I dearly love.
When you adopt a child of another race or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. I suspect my son is going to realize that something is different between him and us. Even as a toddler before he could speak, he would spend much time examining my hand and comparing it to his. Was he perplexed by the difference in color? Was he impressed by the difference in size? As an inquisitive toddler, I am sure it was a little of both.
Yes, I am going to tell my son he is adopted. I love the word “adopted” because of all the joy this adoption has brought to our family. I hate the word “adopted” because in our everyday, he is not my “adopted” son. He is my son who I dearly love.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Stupid Question #2
“Is he yours?” an inquisitive stranger asked pointing at the bundle of joy nestled in my arms. My baby grabbed their finger, so I asked, “Is he yours?” The stranger snatched their finger back with a look of surprise and then nervously laughed and hurried off.
When you adopt a child of another race or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. I, the Caucasian, White Non-Hispanic, Mom, am very aware of how “mine” my African American son is. Just like any other Mom, he is my pride and joy and sometimes embarrassment.
My son is now a pre-schooler and very inquisitive. He likes to test everything. He is very curious to see what things do. He eyeballs every object closely and explores with a lick for taste, lots of touching for feel, a sniff here and there for smell and a knock for sound which is usually more of a bang against another object to hear it good and loud.
Last week at our Children’s Church program I was volunteering in the worship center, busy with crowd control of a couple hundred wiggly, giggly school aged kids. I saw my son’s teacher coming towards me. I saw my son behind her eyeing something. As the teacher was making the pass of his color pages and him to me, my son broke loose and darted for the wall. Before I could grab him, he pushed the button which turned off all the lights in the worship center. Of course, these lights don’t just come back on when you flick the switch. They go off in a blink but back on takes some warming up time. As I tried to control my son, I turned around and saw all the people in the center looking at us. Yes, he is my son, and I still love him.
When you adopt a child of another race or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. I, the Caucasian, White Non-Hispanic, Mom, am very aware of how “mine” my African American son is. Just like any other Mom, he is my pride and joy and sometimes embarrassment.
My son is now a pre-schooler and very inquisitive. He likes to test everything. He is very curious to see what things do. He eyeballs every object closely and explores with a lick for taste, lots of touching for feel, a sniff here and there for smell and a knock for sound which is usually more of a bang against another object to hear it good and loud.
Last week at our Children’s Church program I was volunteering in the worship center, busy with crowd control of a couple hundred wiggly, giggly school aged kids. I saw my son’s teacher coming towards me. I saw my son behind her eyeing something. As the teacher was making the pass of his color pages and him to me, my son broke loose and darted for the wall. Before I could grab him, he pushed the button which turned off all the lights in the worship center. Of course, these lights don’t just come back on when you flick the switch. They go off in a blink but back on takes some warming up time. As I tried to control my son, I turned around and saw all the people in the center looking at us. Yes, he is my son, and I still love him.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Stupid Question #1
“Is he real?” asked a passing stranger admiring my African American toddler. My Caucasian son answered that question eloquently, “Does a doll burp?” Then he mustered a burp that made the toddler laugh and burp. Then the two brothers proceeded to have a burping contest. I, the “white, Non-Hispanic” Mom, stirred things up a bit by producing my own, very large burp. I love having boys.
When you adopt a child of another race or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. Yes, this was a real question. We are real people. We are transracial which means some in our family are from one race and some are of another race, in our case: Caucasian and African American.
My son is very real to me. Right now he is sick and my heart beats strongly for him. It appears to be just a cold, but he is a thin, little guy and to hear the rattle in his chest and the stuffiness in his nose just hurts me. I am caring for him like any mother cares for her son with medicine, hot soup, steam baths and lots of hugs. I am not sleeping at the moment since with every cough he makes throughout the night, I am up checking on him.
My son is very real to me. I don’t see an adopted, African American child. I see my son, and he needs me.
When you adopt a child of another race or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. Yes, this was a real question. We are real people. We are transracial which means some in our family are from one race and some are of another race, in our case: Caucasian and African American.
My son is very real to me. Right now he is sick and my heart beats strongly for him. It appears to be just a cold, but he is a thin, little guy and to hear the rattle in his chest and the stuffiness in his nose just hurts me. I am caring for him like any mother cares for her son with medicine, hot soup, steam baths and lots of hugs. I am not sleeping at the moment since with every cough he makes throughout the night, I am up checking on him.
My son is very real to me. I don’t see an adopted, African American child. I see my son, and he needs me.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Stupid Questions
When you adopt a child of another race and/or color, be prepared for the stupid questions. Just so you know, I am a light skinned, green eyed, woman. My light skinned, green eyed husband and I have two sons: a biological, blond haired, blue eyed son and an adopted, dark skin, brown eyed son. The politically correct term for our family is transracial.
For the first stupid question, “Are you African American?” If you could see me, you would find that question quite humorous. I am from Scotch/Irish decent. I am pretty darn white with freckles. I can only guess it is the freckles that give the question some credence.
Thus begins a series, I like to call “Stupid Questions.” Now the Mom and Teacher in me says, “The only stupid question is the one that was never asked.” So when people ask me these stupid questions, I take a deep breath and try to politely answer.
Here is a tip for people on the outside looking into a transracial family. COMMON SENSE and don’t forget, PRIVACY. You don’t need to know all my business or the history of my child, and if you are a total stranger, I am not going to tell you. I am not trying to be rude. It is just none of your business.
If you continue to read this blog, you will learn quite a bit about us. Mostly I am doing this as an educational tool. I get asked a lot of questions, and I appreciate people with a genuine interest. I appreciate people considering the same path who want to hear from someone who has been there, done that. I do not appreciate people who see us as a curiosity or feed for some gossip.
Just like anything else, once you get into it, your eyes open and you see how common you are. We may seem odd to you, but to us and the numerous other families like us. We are one of many.
For the first stupid question, “Are you African American?” If you could see me, you would find that question quite humorous. I am from Scotch/Irish decent. I am pretty darn white with freckles. I can only guess it is the freckles that give the question some credence.
Thus begins a series, I like to call “Stupid Questions.” Now the Mom and Teacher in me says, “The only stupid question is the one that was never asked.” So when people ask me these stupid questions, I take a deep breath and try to politely answer.
Here is a tip for people on the outside looking into a transracial family. COMMON SENSE and don’t forget, PRIVACY. You don’t need to know all my business or the history of my child, and if you are a total stranger, I am not going to tell you. I am not trying to be rude. It is just none of your business.
If you continue to read this blog, you will learn quite a bit about us. Mostly I am doing this as an educational tool. I get asked a lot of questions, and I appreciate people with a genuine interest. I appreciate people considering the same path who want to hear from someone who has been there, done that. I do not appreciate people who see us as a curiosity or feed for some gossip.
Just like anything else, once you get into it, your eyes open and you see how common you are. We may seem odd to you, but to us and the numerous other families like us. We are one of many.
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