Comment Rescue:
This evening, while I was still at work, my wife called to ask me about my recent conversations with my young children about race and politics.
Dear Daughter had told wife at dinner that she announced in her kindergarten class during their “mock election” she was voting for Obama. (It is noteworthy that all the tykes voted the same.) When asked why she was voting for Obama, she said, “Beacause my Dad knows Joe Biden, and because Obama is not a white man.”
I instantly knew from whence this came. We had been discussing the historic nature of his candidacy, the fact that race issues had literally torn this country apart and deep resentment and hatred had followed for more than a century in some horrible and devious ways. (I know, deep subject for a five year old.) But I also said that, where we stood today was remarkable because this country had never elected anyone other than a white man as President. She apparently took the last comment and ran with it.
My children surprise me each day in many ways. But perhaps of greatest joy to me, a person who grew up in a seriously racially polarized neighborhood, is that my children have friends of all backgrounds and that they never even seem to notice the color of their friends’ skin or other differences. Two girls of the same name in my daughter’s class – one white, one black – are referred to her as “the tall Sarah and the short Sarah.” She has befriended one of the kids with downs syndrome who has been mainstreamed into her class. The only thing “different” she sees in him is that he doesn’t talk much and “his ears are little”.
Perhaps more compelling evidence can be seen in my 7 year old son. At the same dinner conversation tonight, he said “The colors of our skin are like living art.” Dear, God.
I had been terribly nervous about raising the subject of race with my kids. They were already “color-blind.” I worried that, by highlighting Obama’s challenge in this country I could begin them thinking in a way they had never needed to properly define their world. But then I thought that I could not let someone else define that world for them in ways I would not appreciate, so we talked about it. All awkwardness I’ll have in dropping off my daughter to her class come Wed aside, I’mm glad we did.
Now, as I ready to lay my head on the pillow before what could be one of the most significant days of my life – and theirs – I think, “Could their generation be the one that realizes the dreams of their father and their father’s father? Could they grow up in a world that is more concerned with character than color?” I sincerely hope so.
Hope is not an abstraction, or a political slogan. It is our national destiny. It was written into our national DNA by farmer philosophers who dared to dream that all humanity is created equal.