#HerLifeMatters

My daughter, Keira, is 19 months old now. And she wants to be just like me. I see it every day in subtle ways. She constantly grabs my shoes from the shelves in which they are stored, puts them on her feet and walks around the house. She repeats everything I say. Sometimes, I’ll look at her and notice her just watching me, very quietly, and I can see those eyes and that face taking everything in. One day I looked down at her at the kitchen table and her hands were clasped on her lap. I laughed and asked my husband why she was doing that, only then to realize that she was sitting in the exact same position as me.

We were at our lake home in Wisconsin this past weekend and she picked up one of my shirts, made her “em em” noise (like, hey mom, notice me) and held it out to me until I helped her put it on. It fit her like a dress and was big around the neck. But she proceeded to run around the yard happily wearing it.

I love that she wants to be just like me. And I hope that more often than not on a daily basis, I exude qualities that I would want her to replicate. I hope that my daughter will learn from me how to be a strong woman whose opinions and perspectives matter. I hope that she will learn to educate herself before sharing those opinions, so that she can back them up in data and fact. I hope that she will learn to respectfully disagree with those whose opinions she wants to challenge. I hope that she will feel like she can be anything she wants to be when she grows up; there should be no limitations for her.

I hope she will also learn compassion for others. I hope that when she sees the kid sitting alone at the lunch table, she’ll be brave enough to sit next to him or her. I hope that when she sees someone who looks different from her, she will seek to understand versus judge, and that she won’t be scared to ask considerate questions.

I hope that she will be a joiner, a hand-raiser, who is willing to try new things even when they scare her, and set an example for others that it is okay to fail. In fact, that it is essential to fail in order to learn and get stronger. I hope that she will love wholeheartedly and not be afraid of opening her heart to possibility of careers, of travel, of activity, of human interaction.

But I also recognize that while Keira may be like me in all of these ways, she will never be exactly like me. She will never wholly carry my privilege. That’s because my daughter is black. When I first adopted her, I laughed to myself at uneducated family members and friends who asked “what is she?” or said, “she’s a little black.” Well, first of all, she’s not a what- she’s a child. And second of all, there is no such thing as “a little black.” In fact, Keira is biracial. Her birthmother is biracial and her father, as far as we know, is black.

This has never been something that I have felt the need to consider too much to this point because Keira’s racial make-up never mattered to me. My husband and I did choose to continue to live in the city of Chicago in a neighborhood where we hoped she might see more diversity around her than the surrounding suburbs. And I do continue to stay heavily involved in non-profit organizations that support inner-city youth, largely surrounded by POC in my regular meetings and volunteering events. This is in an effort to continue to help and drive the change in our city, as well as to continue to grow in my own personal path as an ally. But if I’m being honest, aside from those choices, racial tensions and realities don’t really factor into our everyday decision-making.

But now, the events of the past week have gotten me thinking. After the George Floyd tragedy in Minnesota, I sat on a biweekly Coach for Success meeting with my mentee, my teammates at Urban Initiatives, and the other students who are part of the program, nearly all of whom are POC. I watched our youth sharing their raw feelings on the events in what they felt was a safe space. I felt so honored and privileged that they felt safe to share in a room with primarily white coaches and mentors, and even referenced how lucky they felt to have us as allies. One of the young, talented women said that she felt that being born black was like having a death sentence placed on your back. Another said she was scared for her brother, for her boyfriend to go outside now.

After the meeting, I asked my mentee, who is Hispanic, how she felt about the meeting. She said,

“I don’t know how to feel about it or if my voice even matters… I try not to put my thoughts on social media because I feel like people will attack anything… I wish I could do something to help, but I’m not sure what will help…I’ve seen that if we just don’t say anything, we’re the same as the oppressor and that kinda scares me.”

For a 17 year old, I thought she was spot on. I don’t know if my voice matters either. I’ve seen so many white friends and colleagues stand up and try to find their voice on social media. I don’t know if it helps; I don’t know if it means anything. But maybe even if, as a white woman, my voice doesn’t matter, Keira’s will one day and should. Maybe I need to be a voice for her: a beautiful biracial toddler who needs to represent the future of America. A voice for her, as she is just finding starting to find hers.

The more I have been reading, the more I am learning that raising your biracial child in a colorblind world isn’t the best for them. It won’t serve her best to teach her that color or race don’t exist. Instead, it is crucial that I teach her to understand and embrace all parts of herself. She will grow up in a household with white parents and a white brother. Will she embrace that part of herself that is like the rest of her family? Will she be curious about the part of her that gave her those beautiful curls that lead to mommy and daddy conditioning, detangling and picking out her hair each evening? Will she connect with black culture and be curious to learn more about black history? Will she reject that part of her background in an attempt to “fit in” at school or in the neighborhood if she doesn’t see enough children that look like her? Does she yet notice that she looks different from the rest of her family?

These are all questions I won’t know the answer to for some time. But in the meanwhile, I will do my best to continue to educate myself about black culture, racial issues, and historic and current events. I will read stories to both my biracial daughter and my white son that elevate characters of all racial backgrounds. I will continue to buy toys and dolls and watch television shows with them that represent all types of people. I will use my own privilege to continue to advocate for organizations that support our underprivileged youth here in Chicago. I will educate those around me and do my part to slowly shift mindsets. I will teach my daughter that she is worth every bit as much as her brother and I will continue to hope that as she grows up, this world will become a little better, a little more tolerant, and a little more loving. I will hope that she never has to feel the way her fellow POC and all of the high schoolers I work with feel today.