The Major and his wife, Running Girl, have a family of five with three children. Their youngest, Island Boy, was adopted from Haiti in January 2010, shortly after a series of earthquakes devastated that island nation. Their family exploits are chronicled by The Major and Running Girl in their blog, Kay Nou (Haitian Kreyol for “Our House”).
The other day it happened. I had been expecting it, anticipating it, preparing for it. But, when it occurred, it still hit me like a cartoon mallet in a Tom & Jerry sketch.
“I want white skin,” said Island Boy as I was toweling him off after a shower.
When I caught my breath, I replied as calmly as I was able, “No, you don’t. Your brown skin is beautiful.”
In fact, IB’s skin is gorgeous. Imagine New Orleans French-roasted coffee with a splash of the richest caramel you have ever tasted stirred in. Its many shadings and gradations never cease to amaze me. In the summer around the pool, my son’s skin catches the sunlight and explodes into sparkles. Look closely and you can see brilliant flashes of yellow, orange, purple, blue and other colors.
When IB once again insisted that he wanted white skin, I added, “Look at my skin. It’s not white. It’s really pink. My skin has spots and blemishes. Yours is smooth and is one nice, consistent shade.”
I then started to apply skin cream to his body, taking extra care to work it into the creases of his knees and elbows. Over the past two years, we’ve learned that having gray or ashy skin can be viewed as a sign of sloth or lack of care among African Americans.
Over the past two years, Running Girl and I have learned much about black skin and black hair. Running Girl has learned much more than I. For the most part, I have merely been along for the ride. Yet, I never cease to marvel at the wonder that is Island Boy’s beautiful skin.
Here I am: 46-years old, Caucasian and solidly middle class. My love of Island Boy’s melanin-enriched covering is not a form of self-loathing on my part. Rather, it’s an expression of love for my child.
But, as an extension of my admiration for that skin, I wonder profoundly how some people can hate or dislike people because of that skin color.
I realize that race is mainly culture-based. Humans tend to stereotype individuals prior to getting to know them individually. Once you become really familiar with another person, it’s much harder to adhere to the stereotypes. There may be some things that about the person that support the preconception. But, I bet there will be many more aspects of that person that defy the stereotype.
I’m reading to Island Boy at night before bed. As he is a dark-skinned child living in a family of light-skinned persons, Running Girl and I do our best to familiarize IB with role models who share his African heritage. We also try to hold on to some small part of his Haitian roots. But that challenge is a topic for a whole, other blog post.
Tonight we’re reading about one of Island Boy’s all-time favorites, Jackie Robinson. In fact, we’re going a little deeper this evening. We are exploring the roots of blacks in baseball, the negro leagues and the breaking of the color barrier. An excellent book on this subject is We Are the Ship: The Story of Negro League Baseball by Kadir Nelson. Its text and artwork are fantastic.
I have always been proud that the two institutions that broke the color barrier in American culture were the U.S. Army and Major League Baseball. As an old Army officer and a lifelong baseball fan, these two institutions are near and dear to me. Integration of both came in 1947.
I was reading along (and IB was mainly looking at the pictures) when the following sentence stopped me cold: If a colored boy can make it on Okinawa and Guadalcanal…he can make it in baseball. Those words were uttered to black newspaper reporters right after World War II by the newly-appointed Commissioner of Major League Baseball, A.B. “Happy” Chandler. This statement was remarkable in that it came from a white southerner. Chandler was a former U.S. Senator and future Governor from Kentucky. He had been a tobacco farmer and a lawyer during his long career.
His words angered 15 of the 16 owners of Major League teams. Only Branch Rickey and the owners of the Brooklyn Dodgers were solidly in favor of breaking the color line. Baseball historians are quick to point out the tremendous efforts of Rickey in integrating the game. However, Chandler’s actions clearly paved the way for Branch Rickey’s bold moves beginning with the addition of Jackie Robinson to the Dodgers’ roster in 1947.
How do I explain this to my five-year old? He is newly-arrived in the United States. He lives in the bosom of a formerly all-white (now bi-racial) family. At this point, American racism has not touched him yet. Of course, Haiti has its own racist past. But, this is of an entirely different nature than our own.
How to explain men fighting and dying in the swamps and on the beaches of islands far away in the Pacific and in the hellish forests of eastern France? How to explain that some men were excluded from playing a sport under the obviously false pretense that they did not possess adequate athletic skills and would degrade the game? How to explain how far this country has come just in my parents’ lifetime?
“Daddy, I’m bored with this story. Can we read another one?” he asks.
“Sure, Island Boy,” I say, switching volumes.
I pick up a book called my people with photography by Charles R. Smith, Jr. It is a beautiful pictorial retelling of the Langston Hughes’ poem of that name.
The night is beautiful,
So the faces of my people.
The stars are beautiful,
So the eyes of my people.
Beautiful, also, is the sun.
Beautiful, also, are the souls
Of my people.
By The Major, of Kay Nou = Our House
http://kaynou.wordpress.com/
