I’m A Mother, Not A Color

I got a snippy comment about the posts I make about race here and on Facebook.

The commenter wanted to know why I am so concerned about black people when I am white. First of all, I care about all people. I don’t need to be concerned about a person’s skin color to want them to be treated fairly. The same way I don’t care about religion or sexual preference or any other things people choose to do with their lives.

But I wonder if the commenter bothered to look at my pictures to see that all my kids are black?

See, when I adopted my kids, part of me became black.

I don’t even know if that’s politically correct to say or think. Maybe I am offending black people even writing this. But it’s how I felt and how I feel.

My kids have no color to me. They are my kids. I would do anything in the world for them. But I knew the minute they entered my home, my neighborhood, the school, the community, that they were different and people treated them differently than they treated white people. I made it my business and my primary job to never let it be in a negative manner.

I also made it my job to learn about what it’s like being black in America as much as I can by reading and learning. I try to teach my kids about their heritage. I instill pride in the people who made their lives what they are today.

Luckily, we don’t encounter much racism locally. The funny looks we attracted when we first moved to town have evolved into the comments any family gets: “They’ve all grown up!” “Remember when he was a little boy!”

But I see a lot of things in social media that disturb me. Off-color jokes. Assumptions made about a person’s character because of the color of their skin. Conclusions about parenting because of skin color. Welfare status because of skin color.

We have a long way to go. And I will continue posting about race until we get there.

Because I am a mom. I am not a color. And I am.

 

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