How Does a White Man Raise a Black Son?
Essence May, 1999, by Shimon-Craig Van Collie
`As I sat one day talking with a pair of mothers while our kids played nearby, one of them informed me, "Kai will always be considered Black, you know."'
BROTHERS
DURING AN ELEMENTABY-SCHOOL assembly in 1997 honoring Black history, my then-5-year-old son's principal asked all the African-American children to rise and be acknowledged. As I looked in his direction, I saw Kai stand proudly and without hesitation. Knowing the racial pride of his mother, now my ex-wife, I had little doubt that he would identify with that part of his heritage, and I admired his resoluteness. Within me, though, churned a question that has become louder as Kai has grown and entered boyhood: How do I, a White man, raise a Black son?
To be honest, the thought never crossed my mind until Kai was 3. Previously I'd lived with the idealistic notion that he was simply half-Black and half-White. As such, he possessed and laid claim to, I hoped, the best of both worlds. But as I sat one day talking with a pair of mothers while our kids played nearby, one of them informed me, "Kai will always be considered Black, you know." Her statement felt like a two-by-four slapped across my forehead. My internal response was then, as it is now, a defiant "No! He's both Black and White. Anyone can see that." Certainly I recognize in him my thick-fingered hands, my barrel chest and my Yankee sense of humor. Yet because his eyes are brown, his nose broad and his skin several shades darker than mine, he will always live, especially here in America, on the other side of that ineluctable barrier between Whites and Blacks. The dawning of this realization left me totally unprepared and confounds me to this day.
Kai's mother and I have formed a fairly competent coparenting team--we have joint custody--and still agree on our approach to his development and upbringing. The fact that we will always be joined though him creates a kind of emotional North Star that guides my daily life. And yet, just as the union between Kai's mother and me has not been totally harmonious, the way that Kai will define himself and be defined still leaves some questions.
My greatest fear is that Kai will "go Black" and, in so doing, reject me. When he makes statements like "Christmas is a holiday for White folks," I wonder if these are the beginnings of the divide. Those who know us reassure me that such a split is unlikely.
Part of the job of any parent, though, is to worry about disasters both real and imagined. And part of the joy of fatherhood is the anticipation of showing my son the world around him, how to interact with it. Yet, as a White male, I grew up with the attitude that teachers were glad to have me in their classrooms, that store owners appreciated my business and that taxi drivers eagerly sought my patronage. The thought that these basic courtesies might not be extended to Kai because he will be perceived as Black wounds my heart. I am also left in confusion as to how he will experience this world and understand those experiences
Obviously, these are issues I never faced. I come from northern European ancestry and was raised in an upper-middle-class WASP environment. A child of the Eisenhower-Kennedy era, I inherited a racial legacy from my parents, who displayed little overt racism, theirs consisting mostly of fear and guilt. Blacks might have been great athletes and entertainers--I idolized Willie Mays while my friends lionized Mickey Mantle--but they were also considered dangerous and untrustworthy. But now, after many years of reflection, I believe that much of this fear stems from guilt. The angst over the sins committed against people of color runs so wide and so deep within the collective White conscience that we can only, at times, see its edges.
Like most Whites, my own racism operates mostly below the surface. During some interactions, however, I encounter its full force. Until recently, for instance, I always referred to Kai as "mixed-race." I belong to a social organization for interracial couples and children where this term is frequently used. Yet I know a Black woman whose son, by a Black father, has blue-green eyes and skin lighter than Kai's. When she heard me use the term "mixed," she reacted vehemently. "What do you mean, mixed?" she exclaimed. "All of us African-Americans are mixed. You just don't want to have to call your son Black!"
So how do you raise a Black son? When I ask for advice, some people tell me to expose Kai to the Black community and especially to Black men. Although simple, this course is not necessarily easy. I have attended many Black-oriented events over the past decade. As the minority in such groups, I feel a natural awkwardness and self-consciousness. There have also been occasions where my mere presence elicited intense anger. After I participated in an African dance class, for instance, a Black man accused me of"trying to steal our culture" and threatened me with bodily harm.
Relating to men in general is not something that comes easily. My closest siblings were my sisters. But the truth is that, in some ways, I am still afraid of Black men, whether it's a group of teenagers in baggy pants walking down the sidewalk or a casually elegant professional tooling around in his sports-utility vehicle. I am everything they should hate, not to mention the fact that I have "messed with their women" as well. In each, I project the potential of a Bigger Thomas striking out at the White world and not without justification. Trying to make friends across that divide looks difficult at best. I also wonder about the wisdom of striking up a friendship with a Black man and later confiding that I did it to help my son. Wouldn't that really be a case of using him for my own needs and "another White man ripping off the Blacks"?
I am sure Kai is picking up on my attitude, which accelerates my discomfort. As he grows older, he will face tough choices. Black classmates have already asked him why his skin isn't darker. He may face the dilemma of choosing between being a "cool brother" or an "uptight White" with all the behaviors and dangers that go with either one. As someone who grew up in the latter mode, I can assure you that the price paid for "acting White"--loss of spontaneity, repression of feelings--is great.
What gives me hope is my belief that Kai represents the new face of America. In California, where we live, Whites will no longer be a majority in a few years. As people of color continue to gain socioeconomic status, opportunities for intermarriage and for having multiracial children will grow. Perhaps the best thing for me to do is simply to engage myself in Kai's life as I have been. When racial questions arise, I will have the opportunity to provide my perspective, flavored as it is with the cultural and ethnic seasonings that make up the White experience. At the same time I can acknowledge that he is not of one heritage exclusive of the other. I can also encourage him to make his own decisions regardless of his racial categorization. Or mine.
Shimon-Craig Van Collie, a writer living in Berkeley, California, is the copresident of the Jefferson Elementary School PTA.
COPYRIGHT 1999 Essence Communications, Inc.
COPYRIGHT 2000 Gale Group
`As I sat one day talking with a pair of mothers while our kids played nearby, one of them informed me, "Kai will always be considered Black, you know."'
BROTHERS
DURING AN ELEMENTABY-SCHOOL assembly in 1997 honoring Black history, my then-5-year-old son's principal asked all the African-American children to rise and be acknowledged. As I looked in his direction, I saw Kai stand proudly and without hesitation. Knowing the racial pride of his mother, now my ex-wife, I had little doubt that he would identify with that part of his heritage, and I admired his resoluteness. Within me, though, churned a question that has become louder as Kai has grown and entered boyhood: How do I, a White man, raise a Black son?
To be honest, the thought never crossed my mind until Kai was 3. Previously I'd lived with the idealistic notion that he was simply half-Black and half-White. As such, he possessed and laid claim to, I hoped, the best of both worlds. But as I sat one day talking with a pair of mothers while our kids played nearby, one of them informed me, "Kai will always be considered Black, you know." Her statement felt like a two-by-four slapped across my forehead. My internal response was then, as it is now, a defiant "No! He's both Black and White. Anyone can see that." Certainly I recognize in him my thick-fingered hands, my barrel chest and my Yankee sense of humor. Yet because his eyes are brown, his nose broad and his skin several shades darker than mine, he will always live, especially here in America, on the other side of that ineluctable barrier between Whites and Blacks. The dawning of this realization left me totally unprepared and confounds me to this day.
Kai's mother and I have formed a fairly competent coparenting team--we have joint custody--and still agree on our approach to his development and upbringing. The fact that we will always be joined though him creates a kind of emotional North Star that guides my daily life. And yet, just as the union between Kai's mother and me has not been totally harmonious, the way that Kai will define himself and be defined still leaves some questions.
My greatest fear is that Kai will "go Black" and, in so doing, reject me. When he makes statements like "Christmas is a holiday for White folks," I wonder if these are the beginnings of the divide. Those who know us reassure me that such a split is unlikely.
Part of the job of any parent, though, is to worry about disasters both real and imagined. And part of the joy of fatherhood is the anticipation of showing my son the world around him, how to interact with it. Yet, as a White male, I grew up with the attitude that teachers were glad to have me in their classrooms, that store owners appreciated my business and that taxi drivers eagerly sought my patronage. The thought that these basic courtesies might not be extended to Kai because he will be perceived as Black wounds my heart. I am also left in confusion as to how he will experience this world and understand those experiences
Obviously, these are issues I never faced. I come from northern European ancestry and was raised in an upper-middle-class WASP environment. A child of the Eisenhower-Kennedy era, I inherited a racial legacy from my parents, who displayed little overt racism, theirs consisting mostly of fear and guilt. Blacks might have been great athletes and entertainers--I idolized Willie Mays while my friends lionized Mickey Mantle--but they were also considered dangerous and untrustworthy. But now, after many years of reflection, I believe that much of this fear stems from guilt. The angst over the sins committed against people of color runs so wide and so deep within the collective White conscience that we can only, at times, see its edges.
Like most Whites, my own racism operates mostly below the surface. During some interactions, however, I encounter its full force. Until recently, for instance, I always referred to Kai as "mixed-race." I belong to a social organization for interracial couples and children where this term is frequently used. Yet I know a Black woman whose son, by a Black father, has blue-green eyes and skin lighter than Kai's. When she heard me use the term "mixed," she reacted vehemently. "What do you mean, mixed?" she exclaimed. "All of us African-Americans are mixed. You just don't want to have to call your son Black!"
So how do you raise a Black son? When I ask for advice, some people tell me to expose Kai to the Black community and especially to Black men. Although simple, this course is not necessarily easy. I have attended many Black-oriented events over the past decade. As the minority in such groups, I feel a natural awkwardness and self-consciousness. There have also been occasions where my mere presence elicited intense anger. After I participated in an African dance class, for instance, a Black man accused me of"trying to steal our culture" and threatened me with bodily harm.
Relating to men in general is not something that comes easily. My closest siblings were my sisters. But the truth is that, in some ways, I am still afraid of Black men, whether it's a group of teenagers in baggy pants walking down the sidewalk or a casually elegant professional tooling around in his sports-utility vehicle. I am everything they should hate, not to mention the fact that I have "messed with their women" as well. In each, I project the potential of a Bigger Thomas striking out at the White world and not without justification. Trying to make friends across that divide looks difficult at best. I also wonder about the wisdom of striking up a friendship with a Black man and later confiding that I did it to help my son. Wouldn't that really be a case of using him for my own needs and "another White man ripping off the Blacks"?
I am sure Kai is picking up on my attitude, which accelerates my discomfort. As he grows older, he will face tough choices. Black classmates have already asked him why his skin isn't darker. He may face the dilemma of choosing between being a "cool brother" or an "uptight White" with all the behaviors and dangers that go with either one. As someone who grew up in the latter mode, I can assure you that the price paid for "acting White"--loss of spontaneity, repression of feelings--is great.
What gives me hope is my belief that Kai represents the new face of America. In California, where we live, Whites will no longer be a majority in a few years. As people of color continue to gain socioeconomic status, opportunities for intermarriage and for having multiracial children will grow. Perhaps the best thing for me to do is simply to engage myself in Kai's life as I have been. When racial questions arise, I will have the opportunity to provide my perspective, flavored as it is with the cultural and ethnic seasonings that make up the White experience. At the same time I can acknowledge that he is not of one heritage exclusive of the other. I can also encourage him to make his own decisions regardless of his racial categorization. Or mine.
Shimon-Craig Van Collie, a writer living in Berkeley, California, is the copresident of the Jefferson Elementary School PTA.
COPYRIGHT 1999 Essence Communications, Inc.
COPYRIGHT 2000 Gale Group
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