Racism

Josh called to tell me about it first, and then the babysitter confirmed it when I picked up the boys.

Ben was on the playground with a friend at school. They were excited by something they were looking at so they called their classmates over to look. But they told three of their classmates that they couldn't join in. Because, his friend explained and Ben repeated, they "have black skin."

It was as if someone had run me through with a sword. I doubled over, nauseous, and nearly vomited in the parking lot.

The words and images continued to swim in my head as I raced to Samantha's house. What would I say to him? How could I explain what he said? How should he apologize? How would I make him understand the magnitude of the hurt he inflicted on his friends?

As soon as Ben saw me he knew that I knew; I could tell that he felt ashamed. The teachers had already spoken to him about it and told him he would have to write me a letter or tell Samantha face-to-face. Ben spent the rest of the school day hiding, refusing to do either one. He knew that what he said was wrong, but he didn't know why. It would be my job to tell him. Once again I felt myself start to retch.

I dragged him kicking and screaming across the grass, his eyes filled with tears, his hands over his ears so he didn't have to listen.

I explained to him what people used to do to people who "had black skin." I told them that other people would hit them, beat them, sometimes kill them. All because their skin was a different color.

Ben's eyes grew wider.

"Would you like it if your friends told you that you couldn't play with them because you are Jewish?" I asked.

He slowly shook his head.

"Ben, " I said, "what you said--what you did--is called 'racism.' It is a horrible thing. It means that you think some people are better than others. It means that you don't care about your friends. It means that you think some people deserve to be treated badly, to be hurt, or even die, just because of how they look or who they are. Ben, you are a wonderful person. So I am so sad that you would say something so awful."

In that moment, Ben's face changed. The smile faded from his face. His eyes grew distant as he started to comprehend this concept that was so beyond his grasp. And then his eyes became watery; he started to cry and fell into my arms. In that very instant of comprehension, my beautiful, compassionate, articulate, and intelligent son grew a soul.

As we left, I instructed Samantha to hold nothing back over the next few days. If Ben asks more questions about racism, about people who did and still do awful things to others, she is to tell him everything he wants to know. She is to tell him about lynching, she is to tell him about slavery. She is to tell him about the Holocaust and about genocide. Because if he is old enough to say something like that, he is old enough to know what it means.

Before we left, Ben told me that he wanted to make some pictures and write letters to the three friends. I told him I thought that would be a wonderful way to tell his friends that he was sorry.

One of my greatest fears as a mother is that my children will never forget all the painful experiences of their youth; that they might carry those stings and wounds with them throughout their lives. Each time I raise my voice at them I secretly hope that the bad memories created from the experience won't last very long.

But I hope Ben remembers this day for the rest of his life.