A few summers ago, during our annual vacation week at the beach, my daughter Peyton and I spent considerable time each day playing in the waves. We would wade into the water until it reached my waist and since Peyton was a short six-year-old, the water was about chest-high for her. We would face the ocean and wait for the waves to roll over us. When we saw a wave coming our way we would brace ourselves for impact. Sometimes, if the wave looked really ominous, Peyton would jump into my arms and we would cling together as the wave crashed around us. As long as we knew the wave was coming, we could keep our balance and remain standing. But invariably we would turn our backs to the ocean to look at a kite, a squealing kid or barking dog. And when we turned our backs, the waves would knock us off balance and we would end up with eyes and mouths full of salt water. Once we regained our footing, we would look at each other and proclaim: "You did NOT respect the wave!" Then we would laugh and turn around once more.
I feel like this about race. As long as I keep vigilant watch, the issues surrounding our transracial family don't knock me off balance. But if I relax, if I linger at some diversion as simple as a kite, I get knocked down and thrown off balance.
The core of our jobs as parents is to give our kids the tools necessary for living a full life. I'm not talking about financial success or educational achievement. I am talking about success as humans. I could write a book on what I hope for my kids: that they know love; that they know God; that they know how to be kind and generous; that they know how to laugh at a really funny situation; they know how to be independent and how to rely on others. Included in that list would be the knowledge of how to move in the world. But what if I don't know how to move in the world they will face?
Later that summer, as I pulled into the parking lot to drop off Peyton at day camp, she begged me to stay in the car and let her sign herself in. Now from the time Peyton was physically able to hold her own bottle she has been the epitome of "do it myself" so this wasn't a big shock. I laughed her off and explained that the rules said I had to sign her in and that wasn't negotiable. Her pleading became more insistent. We went back and forth until I had lost patience and yelled at her to tell me why. Peyton and I walk a razor thin tightrope together concerning her independence. I encouraged her to ride a two-wheeler and yet I wouldn't let her ride it out of my sight. I love her self-confidence but I want her to display it in my full view. I get a kick out our her social skills but I want a hand in picking her friends. I'm a mom. And my oldest daughter wants the sweet taste of freedom.
In the battle of wills I usually win when I pull out the punishment card. If you don't X, your punishment will be Y. I had lost patience and I threatened her with some loss of privilege. Sullen, arms crossed, eyes cast downward, her words came tumbling out. Not well-formed, not manipulative, not rehearsed. "Mama, I'm embarrassed by you." Pause. "I'm brown and you're not. The older kids at camp say it's weird." And I was knocked down by a wave six years in the making.
I opened the van doors, hastily put on a pair sunglasses and fought tears. Peyton bounded out of the van and ran to the congregating crowd of kids. I walked to the sign-in desk and scribbled something resembling my name.
As I walked back to the van I had burning salt in my eyes and the taste of tears on my lips. But it didn't taste like the beach. I hadn't respected the wave. I didn't see this coming. I didn't cry because my feelings were hurt. It wasn't that at all. My daughter, the absolute love and joy of my life was handling a situation and it was a world I didn't know. Jumping into my arms would not help her ride out this wave.
My kids know their story of adoption. We celebrate their birthday and their gothcha' day--the day we got them from the adoption agency's nursery. They understand why, at least factually, we don't have the same skin color or hair. Sometimes the factual answers don't say enough.
When a big wave came barreling toward us at the beach I taught my daughter to ride out the crashing water by jumping into my arms. I loved feeling that my strong embrace could protect her from anything. It's time I teach her to keep her feet and roll with the water on her own. From now on we will jump the waves, side by side, while holding hands. That seems like a better way.
3 comments:
Wow. Just wow. Tears in my eyes, too.
I remember when my oldest daughter referred to some of her kindergarten friends as "brown" and referred to herself as "pink." I never "corrected" her, because I thought it was the rest of us who needed correcting. "Black" and "white" seem far more extreme, opposite, even, than "pink" and "brown." And then, somewhere between kindergarten and Peyton's age, my daughter started referring to people as "black" and "white." It still breaks my heart. I'd give anything to have that innocence back.
You will be there for Peyton when she needs you. And she will need you in many, many ways. You don't see color when you see Peyton. She will need to know how to not see color, too.
~Kris
What a brutal wave to be knocked by, and how hard it must have been to write about it again, but...thank you.
If ever there was a person who should take their collective blogs and stories and publish it as a book, it would be you.
Andrea, the world has much to learn from you. And you have the amazing gift to be able to communicate these lessons with humor and profound, eye-opening insight. I am honored beyond honor to call you "friend", and to have your amazing family a part of my life to remind me how the world SHOULD be.
I couldn't improve on what Brooke said. We're all blessed to receive your insight and to learn from you and your precious family what we should know better. I'll try to pay closer attention to the wave myself. That's a promise.
Post a Comment