It will be different...

“It will be different, you know. Raising a brown baby. There are…” she trailed off, cleared her throat and gathered courage. Sometimes the truth is difficult to hear, and often even more difficult to speak.

She began again. Softly, as our children’s giggles and shrieks floated innocently along the breeze while we huddled together on our back porch.

“We teach our white families raising brown babies that they will need to raise those children a little differently. Even a routine traffic stop will need to be taken very, very seriously. You will probably want to talk to other families. I have a reading list that may help, as well. Sadly, it is just the world we live in.”

It is just the world we live in.

We were currently enrolled in the Open Options program with our adoption agency, and were open to any child in any of their country and DHS programs who happened to be a “match.” The time was quickly approaching when we would have to choose a country program, as no match had been made through Open Options. We were leaning heavily toward adopting from Haiti. A few weeks following that meeting with our social worker, Michael Brown was shot and killed by a police officer in Ferguson, Missouri…

In the midst of the riots in Ferguson, we received a call. We had been matched with a chubby-cheeked, smiley baby boy in South Korea.  He was undeniably ours, and the whole family sported the pregnancy glow. We were head over heels in love. We wouldn’t be bringing home a brown baby, but we would be bringing home an Asian baby who definitely looked nothing like the rest of our family. No worries, though, right? None of the race worries that consumed me as I prayed about a baby in Haiti, right? As we would learn the following summer, racism takes many forms, and does not fit neatly into a black/white box.

Summer 2015. Korea Camp. 

A panel of young adult Korean adoptees and a room full of parents of Korean adoptees. For the first time, I heard the term “microaggressions.”

Microaggression: 

A term first used by Columbia professor Derald Sue to refer to “brief and commonplace daily verbal, behavioral, or environmental indignities, whether intentional or unintentional, that communicate hostile, derogatory, or negative racial slights and insults toward people of color.”

Whether intentional or unintentional. Have you ever used the phrase or thought, “But he/she didn’t really mean it,”? I have. Since bringing home Tai, I have heard several comments that brought a lump to my throat. When I mentioned them to others, I was told, “But she didn’t really mean it,” or "He/She didn't mean it that way." Tai is too young to understand the root of those comments right now, but the day is not far away. The tightening in my chest is real. And justified.

What I learned from those young people at Korea Camp was that every one of those “jokes” or instances where someone “didn’t really mean it”…they are cumulative. As I listened to them share their hearts, sometimes with tears streaming down their faces and other times with justified anger, something deep inside me began to ache. I heard parents share about their kindergartner’s first experience of being called a banana (white on the inside, yellow on the outside), flat face, or pancake face. The schoolyard taunts and Asian eye jokes. I learned about the sexual stereotypes imposed on young Korean girls, and the frustration of not excelling in math when the stereotype and well-meaning friends say otherwise.

Imagine that each of us is created as a magnificent sculpture, perfect in the eyes of God in every way. With every slight, whether intentional or unintentional, a little bit of that sculpture gets chipped away. For some, the sculpture eventually crumbles to the floor. For others, with one final chink in the marble, it explodes violently into a million tiny pieces. Even for adopted children growing up in a “white” world, the chisel still wields a mighty blow.

Fast forward to this summer…

I am holding our newly adopted little guy perched on my hip while standing in line to purchase snacks at a gas station along the highway. Our daughter, Anna, is acting silly and dancing around a bit, eliciting the sweet music of Tai giggles and guffaws. Suddenly, I spot it. I hug Tai closer to my body and take a step back. I shush Anna and tell her to calm down a bit. I try to give the young man in front of me the benefit of the doubt, but the Mama Bear instincts kick in and I feel the overwhelming need to protect my cubs. Not everyone reacts positively to transracial families such as ours. Especially not young men with swastikas inked on their shoulders.

Suddenly, our social worker’s words come flooding back.“It will be different, you know…”

I’m already doing it. I’m changing my behavior in order to not draw any extra attention that could potentially bring harm to my family. Goodness knows we are one tent short of a circus even on our best days. (My mother lovingly shared that she recently heard this saying and thought of us. Hmmmm...)

During our pre-flight meeting at our adoption agency we were asked how our family and friends were reacting to our adoption. Were they prepared to embrace our Korean cutie? It was explained to us that even the most hesitant of grandparents, friends, etc. have a difficult time holding on to prejudices once they meet and get to know these little guys.

Once they get to know them.

So it is with all of God’s creations, I believe. It is easier to hate the unknown. Let’s hate all Muslims because the only ones we “know” are the terrorists we see on television. Guess what? I would trust most of my gay friends with my children more than many of my straight friends. Why? Because I know them. After the horrifying shootings in Orlando, I read about each of the victims. Sisters, mothers, brothers, husbands, and sons. They weren’t just LGBTQ people. They were people. They were all loved by someone, and I wanted to know them.

Several days ago a man only a few months older than me was shot and killed by a police officer in the place that I call home, Tulsa, Oklahoma. His name was Terence Crutcher, and he was a father to four children. I am withholding judgement in this case until all of the facts are revealed, but it is an unfathomable tragedy for all involved. Both police officers and family members are understandably shaken by these events. I have watched the videos, and despite the fact that I know how it ends, I find myself pleading with Terence to stop walking and keep his hands up. To turn around and face the officers. To not reach toward his car. Whether he was impeded by a medical emergency, drugs, or simply poor judgment, he does not stop or turn back around.

Unfortunately, Tulsa has a dark past when it comes to race relations. Once home to America's Black Wall Street, it became home to the largest and most violent race riots in American history in 1921, decimating America's most prosperous African American community. I strongly believe that "The Burning" by Tim Madigan should be required reading for all High School students, especially as we work as a nation to understand the underpinnings of our current situation.

What do I know, regardless of whether race was at play in Terence’s case?

We still have a race problem in America. Every time a white police officer shoots another black man, shouts of racism echo across the country, even if the shooting was justified.

What will it take to effect real change in our lifetimes?

We must continue and in some cases START a dialogue. Mayors, community leaders, pastors. Those with a voice need to use it to unite, rather than divide. Peaceful protests are a great way to bring attention to an issue, but they rarely invoke change. 

White people, we must acknowledge white privilege.

There. I said it. It is hard to admit, but the more I have read and heard from speakers, the more I realize that in order for me to even begin to understand how my brothers and sisters of color experience life in America, I must acknowledge the advantages that were mine from birth. The perks of being white in America. There are many, but they are often subtle and unrecognized by those of us who benefit from them every day.

Parents, we must teach ALL of our children, regardless of race, to respect and obey those who vow to serve and protect us. If a police officer tells you to put your hands up? Do it. Sit down? Do it. No arguing, no questions asked. Sure, there are some rotten apples in the police force, but the vast majority are there because they truly want to protect and help us. They get paid next to nothing for performing an increasingly dangerous job. To those of you in the police force and those of you who love and support those officers… THANK YOU.

We need to build bridges. I witnessed some amazing bridge-building happening when I attended the local IF:Gathering here in Tulsa this year. Women who had been inspired to reach out to women of other races and backgrounds and truly get to know them as Jesus would. They shared a meal, laughed, and talked about the hard stuff that none of us want to admit, as well as the hard stuff that many of us didn’t KNOW we didn’t know.

I would love to see not just bullying discussions, but specific discussions about race and religious diversity in our schools. Last night we met each of our daughter’s middle school teachers. As we traveled from class to class, I saw parents who were African American, Indian, and Burmese (we have a large population of Burmese refugees in our schools). I saw a mother wearing her hijab. As much as our public schools are struggling financially in our state, it made my heart happy that my daughter is meeting and befriending children who represent the world… not just our little corner of it.

LOVE. We must let our love win over our hate. Our courage must be greater than our fear. Our desire to see a better world for our children must outweigh the ease of living with the status quo. We can shut ourselves in our homes and watch the news spin the stories 24/7 or we can get out there, get to know our neighbors, and share and learn from one another.

"It will be different…" she said.

It WILL be different.

It CAN be different...but it starts right here at home.