A conversation in the dark
It was a pretty typical bedtime for Andrew tonight. We’ve gotten in a grove, with Bill away, and he’s been using the potty, brushing his teeth, and getting into PJs without my supervision, which is awesome because it gives me about twenty minutes to get a jump start on whatever chores I need to do before going to bed myself.
So bedtime went super smooth, and we’d just finished reading his guide to Jurassic World (which is the closest he’s gonna get to seeing that movie before he’s ten, because who on earth thinks it’s a good idea to market a movie with flippin’ scary dinosaurs to kids?), and I’ve turned out the light and I’ve already started singing his lullaby, when he interrupts me.
Andrew: Momma, how many presidents are alive?
Now, I know there’s a correct way and an incorrect way to refer to ex-presidents, and I recall reading at some point that you’re not actually supposed to refer to the previous presidents as Mr. President anymore, because they’re not. But I’m pretty sure this is all far more political than what is actually necessary when answering a six-year-old’s question at bedtime, and besides which, I didn’t think was exactly Andrew’s purpose in asking.
Me: Well, there’s only one person who is president right now, but there’s people who were presidents before him and some of them are alive.
Andrew: Who is president now?
Me: A man named Barack Obama.
Andrew: What color is he?
For Andrew, this is not an unusual question these days; he’s been asking more frequently about people’s color, even people we see in public. Which is a lot of fun, let me tell you. Andrew’s current beef is the designation of the term “Black”, because as he puts it, his skin isn’t black, it’s brown.
Me: He’s Black, like you.
Andrew: Can I see a picture?
Me: I’ll show you a picture of him tomorrow.
Now I can see the wheels turning inside his head as he thinks very hard about this.
Andrew: What about Martin Luther King?
Me: He was also black.
Andrew: He was a speecher.
Me: A speaker. He gave speeches to lots of people, wonderful speeches, and people listened to what he had to say. You and I went to his memorial in DC when you were a baby, when it first opened.
Andrew: I have a hat!
(It’s true, they were giving up baseball caps that day, with the name of the memorial and all that. I got two of them, and kept them both for Andrew. But I haven’t seen either in some time, so I’m super impressed that he remembers the hat. I’m sure he doesn’t remember the day, he couldn’t have been much older than Charlie is now.)
Me: Yes, you do.
Andrew: What did he say?
Me: (cursing my Swiss cheese brain, I remembered these speeches better twenty years ago) He said, “I have a dream.” And “I’ve been to the mountaintop.” And lots of other things, about how people should all be treated the same, no matter what they look like.
Andrew: And a bus.
I always turn out the light in Andrew’s room, before I sing his lullaby. I turn out his light, I sing his lullaby, I give him a kiss (or have him give me one, it depends on his mood) and tell him I love him and say goodnight. So it was dark, and quiet, and bedtime had gone so smoothly, Charlie hadn’t even made a fuss when I put him down. I could hear the seriousness in Andrew’s voice, a quiet sort of anxiousness that I don’t hear from him very often, because you don’t really expect a six-year-old to be anxious about these sorts of things.
Or maybe, most parents don’t.
Andrew: He was on a bus, and there were people. White people, and they didn’t like him on the bus. And they were angry.
I have known, since the day we brought Andrew home, that someday these conversations were going to happen. And maybe I’ve been remiss in not bringing them up first, not preparing him for what he was going to encounter when he started learning the history of his country and specifically, the history of people who look like him, who have the same misnamed color of skin.
But how do you explain to a three-year old that so much hate exists in the world?
How do you explain to a six-year-old, who is asking you things just before bedtime, in a voice that makes you think he’s been probably wondering these things for months?
(I don’t think it’s a coincidence that he started off asking about presidents.)
Me: Oh, I see. Yes, there was a bus, but Martin Luther King wasn’t on it. Once, a long time ago, before I was born, there was a rule that if you had white skin, you could sit in the front of the bus, but if you had brown skin, you had to sit at the back. And lots of people didn’t like that rule, and Martin Luther King didn’t like that rule, and they argued and protested and eventually the law was changed, and now you can sit anywhere you like on the bus, no matter what color your skin is. Unless you’re in Kindergarten and then you have to sit right behind Miss Ruth at the front of the bus with the other Kindergarteners.
Andrew: And first graders.
Me: Yes.
Andrew: And second graders sit behind them.
Me: Yes, the older you are, the further back you can sit.
Andrew: And third and fourth and fifth….
Me: Yes yes yes. Do you have any other questions?
Andrew: Oh, I have LOTS of questions.
Oh boy.
Me: Okay, well, you can ask one more question tonight and then I’m going to sing your lullaby and you can go to sleep.
(I am now mentally preparing for something about the political ramifications of the Emancipation Proclamation, or maybe an interrogation about the exact location of that bus. Since this is Andrew and all.)
Andrew: Where is Jurassic World? Is it in California? Or Texas?
Then again… this is Andrew.
Me: I think it’s an island, Andrew, it’s in the middle of the ocean, far away from anyone so the dinosaurs can’t get out and hurt anyone. And anyway, remember, it’s pretend.
Andrew: Awwww. I wanted to see them.
Me: I know.
I think every parent must, at some point, wonder what is going on in their kids’ heads. How they reach the conclusions they do, how they see the world and its contradictions. What happens in the hours that they aren’t with us, what they’re told and how they’re told it. What they’re not telling us when they ask us questions that don’t seem all that important to us, but really, really are.
Me: Time to sleep, Andrew.
Andrew: Okay.
I wonder what Andrew was really asking. I’ll probably never know for sure - but I can make a reasonable guess. This is just my cue to find the answers for him.