One Little Box

My father-in-law’s office recently had him fill out a form for the EEOE (Equal Employment Opportunity Commission) which included newly defined “race and ethnic categories.” He had to choose one race or ethnicity. The race categories were: (1) White, (2) Black or African American, (3) Native Hawaiian or other Pacific Islander, (4) Asian, (5) American Indian or Alaskan Native (only if you “maintain tribal affiliation or community attachment”) and (6) Two or More Races. You could not choose any of the previous six race categories if you identitfied as (7) Hispanic or Latino (the final ethnic/cultural category). So, a multiracial person had to either pick one race/ethnicity or choose the “other” box (now with a fancy new name).

Where is the option to choose more than one category? What would each of my children choose? What would I choose? I began to weigh personal identification, racial percentages, societal categories, whether I’d want to be counted as generically “Two or More Races” and whether I’d qualify as Cherokee according to this definition if I am still searching the Dawes Rolls for my great-great-grandmother’s name. As a White-appearing multiracial woman, this is not the first (nor the last) time I will have to choose one.

My personal ancestors and my family’s heritage are not the only times I struggle with society’s expectation that everyone should fit neatly into one box.

When I go out with my kids, the commentary never stops. After the seemingly obligatory remarks about our gaggle of small children (if I only had a dollar for every time someone said, you sure have your hands full) come the questions about the origins of our multiracial family, often followed by questions about adoption. When we just had our oldest children, the statement that made me see red was (after a glance at our two toddlers in their stroller) “Isn’t that just how it always happens! You adopt and then you finally get one of your own!” I heard this often enough I could roll off my response without a moment’s pause, “We knew we could have biological children when we decided to adopt.” Of course we didn’t know, we assumed–correctly as it turned out.

We joined a local adoption group three years ago when Rico was one, Jaja was two, and I was pregnant with Gretel. The group’s reception was kind but cool. As the monthly meetings wore on, I realized the issues these families were discussing were not our family’s issues. I was struggling to acclimate to a predominantly White community; these families were entrenched here and were discussing summer camps where their kids would meet other adopted children of color. The choices these families had made (all White parents, almost all internationally adopted Asian children) were largely a product of the parents’ infertility. They were scared of birthparents and open adoption. They had wanted a fast and predictable adoption path. And they were not willing to adopt children with Black American heritage.

We made a few friends in the group. A couple with domestically adopted children, who said they had hoped to adopt in addition to having biological children before they had experienced infertility. A single mom of two children who had lived overseas for ten years in her oldest child’s birth-country. A couple who decided to adopt a toddler from Ethiopia instead of having biological children. These families didn’t find it strange we had chosen adoption as a first choice. In our interactions with the world (our families, our community, the adoption blogosphere) however, these few friends are the exceptions.

Infertility is the overwhelmingly most common reason people adopt: heterosexual couples experiencing infertility, including secondary infertility and age-related infertility. The next largest groups of parents are also adopting for reasons related to traditional fertility: single parents, and gay and lesbian couples. There is a growing number of parents who adopt because of religious or moral beliefs, and a small number of parents who adopt because of concerns about over-population. None of those five major groups of adoptive parents includes us, except maybe the environmental group. (I always wanted at least five children, and I never planned to make more than two of them. At this point I figure I have contributed enough of my genetic heritage to the world–the strong genes and the wild cards.)

After weeks of research looking for other fertile adoptive families, I found a yahoo group for “preferential adopters” (people who adopt unrelated to infertility, also sometimes called “optional adopters”). I was denied membership in this community because I also have biological children.

Obviously, by the choices I’ve made, I don’t mind walking a different path. I love the richness and complexity of a life outside the box. But I have to admit one thing: I’m lonely.

My kids have an enormous and diverse group of friends. (We used to invite everyone we knew with children to our kids’ birthday parties–until we were climbing towards 50 people in our not-so-huge house.) They have friends with African American, Native American, Ethiopian, Japanese, Chinese, Colombian, Korean, Indian, Puerto Rican, Jamaican, Dominican, Jewish American, and European American heritage.

All but one of the mothers of the children of color (whether they became a multiracial family through marriage or adoption) are White. Beyond the where-are-the-role-models-of-color-for-my-daughters issue, I have found few allies among my mother-friends–almost no one who is thinking about or interested in talking about the issues affecting multiracial children and multiracial families. I found myself speechless (a rare occurrence) when an acquaintance seemed casually unconcerned about her child being the only child of color in her entire K-6 school. I am all for different points of view–that’s what makes life interesting–but I am tired of having to spend 20 minutes in racially-historic preamble just to get to why we are probably not sending our children to this town’s public kindergarten in the fall.

I don’t want a clone; I just want a sister. Someone who has made the choice to live out here in the ever-changing impossibly-complicated real world, instead of inside a safe (but boring) imaginary little box.

A Mother and an Activist

One of my friends is mother to an only child, actually several of my friends are. (These friends have completed their family-building, often having planned on one child from the beginning. Some of these only children were born into their families, others were adopted.) My friend and I were discussing my family’s recent dismaying discoveries about the local public elementary school and the kindergarten program in particular. I told her I was not surprised that the student body is almost all White, but I am surprised at the administration’s refusal to get diversity or multicultural training. I talked about the book we donated to the school library, and I expressed my frustration with a school system set in their (aversively racist) ways.

This friend of mine is an activist, mostly for environmental causes these days. She told me, situations like this school will be an ongoing issue for your diverse family;  you have so many children that advocating for them all will be basically impossible. I thought I had heard her wrong or misunderstood what she was trying to say. She went on to say my life choices [having four children in four years] made it so there aren’t enough hours in my day for me to be an effective activist. Or maybe for me to be an activist at all–that part wasn’t clear.

What was clear is my friend’s perception that my life is so full (of dishes and laundry and diapers and ponytails and I don’t know what else) that I don’t have time for anything more–even the basic anti-racist activism my family (and the world) requires. It sounded like she was saying we would be taking the easy way out if we homeschool next year–even after I told her I would not give up my fight for positive multicultural cirriculum as well as training for all the elementary teaching staff (whether or not our kids attend this school).

What makes me angry is the implication that I am not able to (1) adequately care for my multiracial, conspicuous family, (2) be an effective activist, anti-racist or otherwise, or (3) do anything beyond provide for my children’s most basic needs–all because of the number and closeness of my children. I understand there are parents who did not intend to have as many children as they have, who become a multiracial family through default of some kind, or find themselves overwhelmed with parenting in general or their family size–but I am not one of those parents. (Don’t get me wrong–I certainly have my moments, the mornings when a kindergarten program of any kind or a fulltime nanny sounds lovely.)

My children are each other’s best friends and strongest allies. They are close enough in age to share interests, games, friends, and gymnastic classes. The most dreaded punishment around here is to be sent upstairs (to a playroom full of toys) to spend five or ten minutes alone. In school and in life, I hope they will continue to support and defend each other, and to simply keep each other company. I believe their relationships with each other are some of the most important bonds for me to nurture–they will likely have each other for years longer than they will have me. 

I am the mother of four bright, strong-willed children each with their own individual temperament, desires, appearance, and identity. As the parent of multiracial children with a variety of heritage, I am inspired to take a small step back and evaluate where my activism is most needed and will be the most effective. I look at my children as individuals and my family as a whole. I look at the community, state, country, and world my family lives in, and I work to do the right thing. (I’ve found it usually isn’t the easiest thing.)

I have certainly been tempted to “take the easy way out”. To me that translates into moving my family into an off-grid house deep in the rural mountains and live a self-sufficient, fully homeschooling life. It’s good I partnered with the person I did. Many times he has called me back from the edge of jettisoning society and running away to my imaginary cabin in the hills–because what good would that really do anyone? (Except maybe me, and only for a while.)

As I’ve moved from imagining being a mother, to parenting babies, to having several small children, my big-picture goal for my children has divided into two parts: (1) I want my children not to be satisfied with things “because that’s just the way they are,” for them to believe they have the power to make a difference, and for them to be motivated to work for positive change. (2) I also want my children to be able to function and live in the real world–the way the world is, unjust though it may be.

Can I help my children develop hope and persistence, both a thick skin and a sharp tongue, courage and compassion, love for their families and a strong self-identity–while also working as a strong anti-racist activist for and beside them? Not in spite of my children but because of them, I believe I can.

Africa Is Not a Country

 

We attended an evening meeting for prospective kindergarten parents last week. I was sitting there, following the 45 minute presentation pretty well, actually thinking to myself–this doesn’t sound that bad. And then came the part about units. The kindergarten program has three units each year including the ocean and (da-dum!) Africa. I let out a huge sigh, loud enough that my husband turned and raised his eyebrows at me. Africa? I mouthed. He rolled his eyes and shook his head (at the unit or my reaction?) and turned back to the presentation.

In the brief meet-and-greet with the kindergarten teachers following the presentation, I asked my questions. What exactly were the kindergarteners studying during the “Africa” unit? (Mostly animals.) Were they studying a particular area of the continent of Africa, or a specific country? (No.)

Sometimes international students from the college come and talk to the kids, said one teacher. At the end of the unit, we let African American kindergarteners talk to the class about their family’s culture–one child talked about Kwanzaa, added another teacher, beaming at me. I tried to smile. I drifted away.

I looked around the classroom that was just finishing their unit on Africa. There were grey construction paper elephants in a group on one bulletin board. The only photographs from Africa were ten old black and white photographs, blown up to 11×17, marching along one wall above the coat hooks. They were unlabelled photos of people living in rural poverty. The people all had short hair, very little clothing, and were shown (for example) squatting around a stone-encircled fire.

Let me be clear: I do not have a problem with displaying photographs of the indigenous or poor peoples in Africa, however they historically lived or currently live. My main problem is this: these were the only photographs or pictures of people of color in any of the kindergarten classrooms.

As I wrote earlier, this is not a racially or culturally diverse school, nor does it embrace multiculturalism. I had been warned by more than one acquaintance that this school (when it did include anything non-White) consistently exoticized people of color. Example #1: Black people live far away in the rural deserts of Africa with large scary animals. This style of presentation makes Black Americans (and Black children in the class, if there are any) exotic, strange, other.

My secondary problem is that Africa is not a homogeneous region of the world. It is a vast continent made up of 53 nations, more than 1000 languages, and people of all races and an uncountable number of ethnicities. To “study” Africa in kindergarten (in a unit that lasts less than 3 months) seems so broad as to do nothing more than perpetuate stereotypes.

Imagine the kindergarten was instead doing a unit on Europe, an area of the world that includes about 50 countries (depending on who’s counting) as diverse as Ireland, Poland, Germany, France, Italy, Greece, Switzerland, Turkey, Croatia, Spain, and Russia. Is it possible to construct a remotely accurate generalization of the daily life of European people (as well as European wildlife)? I don’t think it is.

I pulled a book out of the kids’ shelves to read to them last week, after the parents’ meeting. It is one of my favorites.  Africa Is Not a Country describes and shows the daily life of children in 25 different countries in Africa. The book includes almost no animals, and people of all skin-colors.

We donated a copy to the elementary school library today.

Fairy Party

A couple years ago we began choosing themes for the kids’ birthday parties and asked our friends to bring a photo or drawing related to the party theme instead of a present. Dog, pig, and duck themes were easy. Skateboarders were a little harder (these stickers saved us).

This winter my oldest daughter turned five, and she wanted a fairy party. I began to casually look at fairy paraphernalia in the fall, and suddenly realized it was going to be harder than the animal themes–because all the fairies I found were White. I looked harder. I looked online. I called family members in big cities and asked them to look for me. Tucked away in a drawer I found four Folkmanis fairies I had purchased back when our almost five-year-old was still a baby; hanging in the hall, they became our decorations.

Invitations and stickers with fairies of African descent were impossible to find. Jaja drew a picture of a fairy and we scanned it into the computer where she chose colors to fill in her drawing. We made our own invitations and printed out Jaja’s fairy stickers on adhesive labels.

From Boston came this multiracial (and multi-gender) set of magnetic fairies. 

I bought a doll online, and in the midwest my mom found the fairy costume to go with it. I then wrote a letter to the company that makes Only Hearts Club dolls, asking them to please add a darker-skinned African American doll and an Asian doll to their collection (in addition to their five straight-haired, fair-skinned dolls).

All of these party preparations did not cost much money, they just took a lot of time.

Anything pre-printed (birth announcements, birthday party invitations, books to track baby’s first year) is complicated for multiracial families. Often you must choose one race or skin-color, or skip anything with people all together. Rarely can I find a pre-printed multiracial family or group of people, and often the ‘multiracial’ groups are (for example) eight White children, one Asian child, and one all-encompassing brown-skinned child. I have been told I go overboard in trying to present our children with images that reflect our family’s full heritage–but I believe it is essential for my multiracial children (in a multiracial family) to see families like theirs and people who look like them.

It is a constant balancing act between honoring our family’s diverse heritage and just letting my kids be kids. For this party, I caved on the balloons–the only balloon with a fairy was blonde: scantily-dressed Tinkerbell.

I work hard to ensure my children’s home environment represents our family’s full heritage: contemporary and historical Native American images, photos of African American and African peoples, White American and European peoples, and Asian and Latino peoples as well (some of whom are included in our extended family).

I scrutinize picture puzzles, lacing cards, and matching games to be sure they represent a range of skin-tones and do not include stereotyped images of people of color. In our family of three girls and one boy, my filter includes gender as well. I actively seek out photos of boys with long hair and wearing non-traditional clothing.

I don’t have a picture in my head of who my children are going to become, who they may partner with or marry, what their children may look like, or what fashion trends they eventually will follow. I only hope they grow up to be confident in who they are, know their family and ancestral history, and believe the world is open to them–so they can become who and whatever they wish to be.

Grandpas

My children have three great-grandfathers, all in their 80s, but only one regular grandpa.

My dad has been dead for eleven years. He didn’t live to see either of my brothers graduate high school, or to meet any of my four beautiful children. My older kids talk about Grandpa R and can pick him out of a picture. They have asked if he is still my dad, if someone can be your grandpa if they are dead and gone. Of course, I answer, he will always be my dad.

Like absent parents and relatives around the world, just because you can’t see someone doesn’t mean they don’t exist. You can be related to someone even if you have never met.

He will always be your grandpa, I think to myself, though he didn’t live long enough to know me as your mother.