I'm Not White

My son told me over the weekend that he doesn’t consider me white. I was delighted to hear him say this, not because I don’t identify as white or don’t want to be white or any reason other than it makes me feel like I’m doing a good job not “othering” my children. What he meant by this statement, really, is that I embrace the cultures and traditions of the minority groups in our area. I have assimilated from my white country upbringing into the multicultural melting pot of our city. But, in a more microscopic sense, it means I’m doing a decent job of sewing together our little patchwork quilted family. Just like a quilt, we each retain our own colors and pretty patterns, but we hold on tight together and as a group create something even more beautiful, comfortable and inviting. I am white, but I’ve learned to speak Spanish fluently and I can make a decent pot of arroz con frijoles/gandules just like Primero’s family. I’m white, but I’ve learned to properly moisturize and protect the skin and hair of my black children. I’m not patting myself on the back because there was a time when I couldn’t see myself doing these things, when I thought being color blind was the best way to raise children who weren’t white. But, I have learned differently by reading literature, blogs, and attending trainings – know better, do better. So, to hear my son say I’m not white to me means I have done the hard work so my children don’t have to; they don’t need to assimilate into a white culture that won’t accept them, they can be themselves and we can celebrate the beauty in our diversity. In this time of difficulty, it’s a much-needed compliment.

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