Raising a Child of a Different Race

In so many ways, this post is a few years too early.  Right now, Nur is a needy toddler who feels part of a family unit.  He is a son, a big brother, a grandson, a nephew, and a cousin.  I'm not sure if he truly understands that he looks different than his parents.  Someday I know the real challenges will begin.

Even though Nur is only 2, I do my best for Nur so that he never feels like he doesn't belong.  I feel like I never do enough for Nur and acknowledging his background.  I try, but then I get wrapped up in daily parenting, and at times, I feel like I haven't nurtured this topic enough.  And this subject is not going away.

I will tell you this. . . love isn't colorblind. It's not supposed to be.  Every day when I see Nur, I acknowledge his appearance.  He has the most beautiful bronze skin I've ever seen.  Truly, this boy has the most beautiful skin.  I see his big dark brown eyes with his enviable eyelashes.  I acknowledge his muscular, yet thin frame.  And speaking of skin. . . Nur is so dark, that he can disappear at times.  This weekend, before bed, my family was all watching a show.  Nur was snuggled in with T, under the blanket, and only his face was showing.  TT started to panick, and kept asking, "Where's Sissy?" (Her word for Nur. . . and his word for her)  T and I just laughed because he was RIGHT THERE.  Nur and TT laughed after the fact too, only when she realized he was right here with us all.  Yes folks, my son is dark brown.  It's okay to notice that.  I do.  Every day.

And although love isn't colorblind, love does have a way of pushing the past farther into the past.  When I am with my son, I don't think constantly, "he's adopted." That is so far from my mind.  And yes, of course he IS adopted, and that is something that we will always discuss, to me, he is just my son, whom I love like crazy.  When I introduce him to people, I introduce him as my son.  That is what he is.  At work recently, someone new to my group was admiring a picture on my desk of Nur and TT.  Another co-worker felt the need to come over and say, yes, that is her son. . . he's adopted.  It bothered me.  Nur doesn't need that introduction.  For one, it's obvious. . . for two. . . he's simply my son. 

There are things I try to do for Nur.  We have black dolls in our family.  And our books? Many of the characters are also black.  We intentionally hang out in diverse settings.  Which isn't hard in our neighborhood.  In fact, just last night we went to a park, and at one point, I told T that I felt the need to point out that I was the only white person at the park.  The school we take the kids to is also diverse. We attend with a very nice Ethiopian family, and a very nice Somali family.  Nur may not look like his Mama, Baba, or sissy, but I want him to know that he looks like many many other people on this planet, and that the way he looks is perfect.  It's how he was perfectly made. 

We take Nur to a barber shop to get his hair done by another black male. I don't claim to know anything about Nur's hair.  I will gladly pay the big bucks (okay, it's only $15.00) to have an expert do his hair.  Because you know what? I'm white.  I am not going to pretend for one minute that I am the expert on being black.  I have no clue.  But what I can do is find resources for Nur who do have a clue. 

Parenting a child of a different race has taught me how much of this world is made for white people.  It's something I could ignore before, but I can't anymore.  And I'm not sure who and when it was decided that white people are superior.  Jesus wasn't white.  Mohammed wasn't white.  The majority of the world are not white.  Who decided this? 

In a few years, this post will be very different.  Raising a child of a different race will get more difficult.  I just hope that through my parenting, I set the foundation with Nur that he is perfect the way he is, and that he should be extremely proud of his background and of the traits his birthparents passed down to him.