White dad of Black child: Black history is American history
I’ve never been so anxious about wearing a T-shirt. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been particularly concerned with any clothing I’ve worn. This was different. My son asked me to celebrate Black History Month with him by wearing a black shirt with gray letters that simply said, “Black history is American history.” I’ve never learned so much about myself as I did putting on that shirt and walking out the door.
We’re parents of one Black son and three white ones. I haven’t written much about the racial aspects of our family because we’re still figuring it out. I’ve also learned many folks have opinions on how we should conduct ourselves.
Some believe my family should be colorblind. These are the people who post quotes by Martin Luther King Jr. to show how far we’ve come as a nation. “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character,” King famously stated. Our nation has indeed made progress since King uttered those words. Even so, my wife and I don’t see wisdom in ignoring the racial differences in our family.
At the other extreme, are those who view my family with skepticism and even disdain. I’ve been cautioned not to “whitewash” my son and had my family’s motives questioned repeatedly. In one conversation, a gentleman at the gym explained that he “just wanted to make sure that I wasn’t trying to atone for my white guilt or suffering from a savior complex.” I’m not sure how to respond to the implication that my son would be better off without parents than suffering through white ones.
I struggled at first with the T-shirt
My wife and I believe that every kid deserves a chance to thrive no matter the circumstances life throws at them. We can’t save anyone, but we’re driven by the example of our Savior. “If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love,” the Apostle Paul wrote to the Corinthians. “I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.” Nobody cares about what we say we believe unless our lives back it up.
For us, love is not charity. It’s not us feeling good about ourselves. It is what Jesus did for us. My family knew we had the capacity to provide a home and parent another son. We talked it over with our biological sons who agreed, and then we did just that.
So why did I struggle so much with a simple T-shirt?
The sentiment on the shirt is factually accurate. America only has one history. It’s complicated. Some aspects of our past present a shining example of self-governance to the world. Other choices we’ve made as a people have been unmistakably evil. We’re presently battling over which vignettes from history we teach our children. The lines drawn aren’t altogether different from opinions about my current family makeup. Some want to move past race altogether; others view the world entirely in terms of race.
It’s easier for me to keep my head down, focus on other issues, and raise my boys to be men of character. That’s also one of the most sinister lies I could tell myself. How can I raise men of character if I don’t have the moral courage…of a T-shirt?
That shirt was on my son’s terms instead of mine. He wanted to know his father cared about him. Does the history of people who look like him matter to a father who looks like me? More specifically, he wanted me to wear a statement of solidarity on my chest.
‘Roaring’ cultural narratives create an atmosphere of fear
My son’s counselor told me that he beamed with pride that his white dad would affirm Black history. My son showed him our Black History Month apparel. In such a small gesture, there was an “us.”
That was everything to me. My discomfort rested solely in the roaring cultural narrative. What if my conservative friends thought I’d gone “woke?” What if I offended someone who opposes white people engaging Black History Month? What if someone thinks I’m virtue signaling for approval. What if liberals came after me for misappropriating someone else’s culture? I could tone it down a little and just wear a black T-shirt, and my son would be the only one to know.
The unnamed masses of potentially offended people bouncing around in my head cannot mean more to me than my son.
I also discovered my own comfort is a powerful disincentive to combatting the lingering effects of racism. It’s easy to be the white person who doesn’t ask questions or talk about race. So many of us hold the hope that racial disparities and
missed opportunities simply improve over time.
King warned against the ‘white moderate’ in famous letter
King spoke about such well-intentioned moderate Christians in his “Letter from Birmingham City Jail”:
“I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is not the White Citizens Councillor or the Ku Klux Klanner but the white moderate who is more devoted to order than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice….shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.”
It’s not good enough to be comfortably safe about race. The discomfort is where growth happens. It’s where progress is made. For example, my sons are acutely aware of the advantages and disadvantages they experience which had nothing to do with them beyond the chance of their birth. It changes the way
they view the people around them. They understand the importance of creating opportunity for others instead of preserving it for themselves. The process of actively engaging race is also humbling. I’ve had to ask my friends for their counsel in raising Black men. I’ve found familiar common ground when it comes to building character, but race has an experiential impact that I simply failed to appreciate for far too long.
I’d like to provide a comprehensive answer that sums up our ongoing family experience. Every fiber in my being wants a conclusion where I provide a final bit of wisdom on the complexities of race. That’s also part of my problem. I want to set the terms of racial engagement. I want it to be convenient and easy. At least now I have a T-shirt to remind me that it isn’t.
USA TODAY Network Tennessee Columnist Cameron Smith is a Memphisborn, Brentwood-raised recovering political attorney raising four boys in Nolensville, Tennessee, with his particularly patient wife, Justine. Direct outrage or agreement to smith.david .cameron@gmail.com or @Dcameron Smith on Twitter. Agree or disagree? Send a letter to the editor to letters@tennessean.com.