My daughter thought that she would have problems to color me in brown instead of "flesh"



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I hold my breath and wait when, not if my oldest will have her first racialized experience. I've always thought it would happen when she would be in kindergarten, maybe in first grade if we were "lucky".

I remember becoming aware of kindergarten racism when I saw the Klan on television. In fact, the word-n was one of the first words I learned to read. The first time someone called me, the word-n was in first grade.

Even after these experiences, I did not think I would have to deal with racial insensitivity with my child's teacher and school administrators while she was still in kindergarten.

I have heard about the kindergarten children in prison and I am well aware of the prejudices that children of color, especially black and biracial children, experience in class. The culture and the complexion of my daughter's kindergarten are extremely white, which is why I have been watching. Until a few weeks ago, nothing extraordinary had happened.

Every day, for almost two weeks, Alex made sure to remind me of Mother's "Mother's Day" every year. The event had been saved on my phone and entered in my calendar since the beginning of school, but Alex, at the age of 4, could hardly believe that she was the only one to keep me from oblivion of our special day.

When I arrived at school that afternoon, I received a sheet of paper that gave a glimpse of the activities of the day: Go into your child's class, make a pretty little do-it-yourself With the imprint of your child's thumb on a ceramic tile, decorate a sugar cookie. with infused sugar icing and pure sugar asparagus, then go home with your child (who has had zero naps and 100,000 grams of sugar in his system) and try to get by until you reach sleep.

When I entered Alex's classroom, she ran to me and gave me a big hug. I smiled while she was guiding her comrades in the performance of one of their daily activities. Miss Karen, the teacher, told the children that it was time to show the portraits they had each made of their mother.

I did not expect photorealism from my pencil drawing of my 4 year old son, but I was surprised that she managed to get my hair color and eyes correct, but not the color of my skin.

Alex took my hand and dragged me to the place where his portrait was hanging. "Mom, I drew your black and curly hair," she said proudly. She was very successful in giving me a big black afro and brown eyes.

"You did such a good job coloring my hair and my eyes," I say.

But there was something in his portrait that was off. I did not expect photorealism from my pencil drawing of my 4 year old son, but I was surprised that she managed to get my hair color and eyes correct, but not the color of my skin. She had made my face the same peach color that her classmates had colored their moms.

I should say here that I was not at all upset or offended by the fact that my child had colored peach. But my guts did not stop telling me that something was wrong.

Less than a week ago, Alex had told my mother that she liked my dark brown skin. My child knows her colors and she knows what color I am, but she has colored my skin incorrectly. I did not want to read it too much, but I noticed that Alex's portrait was very similar to other portraits. The head, neck and shoulders were clearly derived from a pattern. Most of the other moms wore a purple shirt and some of the children had drawn necklaces, similar to those I wore in Alex's portrait of me.

I began to wonder if, perhaps, the children had been asked to follow a pattern and if that model presumed whiteness.

Once the day was over, Alex and I walked hand in hand to our car. "You made such a beautiful portrait of a mother," I began. "I was wondering why you had not colored my skin brown."

"I had to follow the teacher's instructions," she said. "But I could color the hair as I wanted, so I went black."

When Alex told me that she had to follow the teacher's instructions, I felt even more uncomfortable, but I tried to look better because I did not want her to think she had made a mistake.

"Oh," I said. "So, did you choose which color to make the skin?"

"Miss Karen said we had to use the flesh pencil, so that's what I did."

"Oh, why did not you choose brown?

"Because I did not think it was something Miss Karen would want me to do."

"Oh, what color did you use?

I did not try to question my child or make him uncomfortable with his work, but I wanted to be sure I understood how she understood the teacher's instructions, because I found that she told me was problematic.

I talked to my husband, my sister and a couple of friends with children of Alex's age. I have also spoken to my mother, who has a doctorate in the field of multicultural education and has a good knowledge of the development of identity in children. In chorus, they said, "It's not OK."

I sent a handwritten letter to Miss Karen and sent an email to the program director to inform her of what had happened. I asked for a meeting so that my husband and I could more fully express our concerns. I received a call from the school early the next morning asking if we could come meet us.

I admit that I entered the meeting with low expectations. I had this type of discussion with the administration in a predominantly white institution and I know that such meetings are often long on platitudes in terms of valuing diversity but not on institutional changes.

The presence of black and brown bodies does not automatically create a diverse space.

We met Alex's teacher and two other administrators. I shared what had happened and expressed my concerns as to how the activity had been conducted. I explained how the language used by Miss Karen confused Alex and caused the erasure of a fundamental part of my being and let my child think that she might have some problems. problems to represent me correctly.

To be honest, my objective in this situation was not to fight for a change of culture in the institution; I simply want my child to have the feeling of being able to represent correctly and draw the different skin nuances of our interracial family without the white normativity telling him that it is absurd.

As expected, we received many excuses and statements of the school's commitment to value diversity. However, several things I did not expect occurred:

They listened to our concerns without being defensive.

They trusted me to tell my lived experience.

They trusted Alex to tell her experience (she was not at the meeting, but I shared what she told me).

They did not downplay the incident nor trivialize our concerns.

They recognized the areas in which they did not meet my child's needs and explained what they would do to change.

I felt good about the outcome of the meeting. But I know that a single complaint will have no impact on the white normativity that permeates the school culture. I do not expect the preschool to become awake, but I am happy that they are open to buying multicultural art supplies so that students can accurately represent themselves and the world around them.

It is important that institutions, especially white and white cultures, examine how they promote white normativity. The presence of black and brown bodies does not automatically create a diverse space. True diversity occurs when different cultures and perspectives of people are also welcome, and when these views are welcome to challenge the status quo.

As people of color interact with predominantly white institutions, we should not accept whiteness as a norm. We should not have to assimilate to belong. When we treat whiteness as normative and our cultures and ways are aberrant, we reinforce white supremacy and teach our family, especially our children, that something is wrong with us.

I realize that the struggle against white normativity is a difficult battle. Multicultural art supplies will not solve all the problems. The representation does not solve all the problems. Parent-teacher conferences will not solve all the problems.

But my daughters will know that they can wear their darkness in all spaces and places without reservation.

Ally Henny is a full-time wife, mother, and student. His "shaking side" on a part-time basis is writing and talking about issues of race, faith and culture. She is pursuing her Master's degree in Theology from Fuller Theological Seminary with a focus on race, cultural identity and reconciliation. Passionate about racial justice and healing, she seeks to bridge the racial divide of our country with truth, education and compassion.

The names in this story have been changed.

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