A Lesson in Perspective from K

In case you don’t get to spend a lot of time with this sweet boy on the reg., he has meltdowns. Meltdowns that leave me wishing I had a tranquilizer on hand—for myself, of course. This past Saturday he had one that has taken me a few days to process. Mainly because it happened in public. In Publix, actually. He and I were doing the weekly grocery shopping—a task which is normally done by him and Meg. But with her sick, we set out as soon as the little ones were down for their nap.

Meg would tell you that I’m a slow shopper. And that I made too many extra stops that prolonged the trip unnecessarily. I would agree. By the time we got to Publix it was already time to be home preparing dinner—with food we needed from Publix. So we rushed in the “green store” and I started ticking items off the Meg-made list. K immediately noticed a fellow patron getting an Elsa balloon inflated for a birthday party and wanted to watch. I obliged while I was in the area, but eventually I had to break it to him that we had to go to the next isle. I should have known. I should have prepared him. He fell to the floor whining, crying, and kicking while repeating “I don’t want to go” over and over.

After failed attempts at empty threats and bribery I put the produce back up, abandoned the buggy, and scooped him up like a baby. At the door I told him I would let him down, and I let him know calmly and firmly that he had to hold my hand in the parking lot. He fell out again, this time grabbing onto the sliding door, snorting and yelling “no, no, no.” Snot bubbles, spit . . . his face was contorted and glistening. I scooped him up again and headed to the car, humiliated. I could feel eyes on us as we walked the 20 yards, but did not realize exactly what was happening outside my tunnel vision. I had to wrestle him into his car seat before I could escape the situation, drawing even more attention to our plight (he was still screaming).

Finally, I backed out of my parking spot and turned around to a crowd of faces still staring—one woman, cell phone in hand, taking pictures or videos of the car, us, and then my license plate. I *politely* rolled down my window and let her know “He’s mine, okay?!?!?” The only response I got was her index finger wagging at the sky while her head bobbled back and forth in my rear-view mirror. I can only imagine what she was preaching to the crowd around her.

When I got back home I broke down recounting the story to Meg. Anger. Shame. Inadequacy. Fear. And in the midst of all my tears my sweet boy finally snapped back (he had cried to go back to the green store since we left the green store) and stood beside me patting my arm.

Perception. OED defines it as “the ability to see, hear, or become aware of something through the senses” and “the way in which something is regarded, understood, or interpreted.” My perception has been formed through all that I have seen, heard, tasted, smelled, and touched throughout my lifetime. Senses give us the basis to form memories about situations that in turn trigger our emotional senses: fear, trust, love, gratitude, loyalty . . . I have been stared at, but never quite like that. Not like a black family barbecuing in a public park, or a black student sleeping on the couch in a common room, or a brown family seeking asylum . . . My anger and fear and passive aggression come from a privileged perspective (though the almost-four-year-old with a quick temper played a minor role). I knew I would make it home safely—with my beautiful "brown" boy—barring an apoplectic stroke.

This may have nothing or everything to do with the Publix incident, but twice this week K has told me he’s different. Both times I have asked why he thinks that and he has replied, “because my skin is brown.” And both times I reassured him that everyone belongs in our family. Then I pointed out all the other families we know who don't "match." We are constantly exposing all of our children to new experiences and a rich variety of people. K has a barbershop, books that reflect his skin color, and music. He loves music. Beyoncé. Hazel Scott. Snoop Dogg…I want nothing more for K than for him to be safe, happy, and healthy and always know how much he is loved. I don’t want to steal his Black identity.

I am constantly aware of the implications of transracial adoption. We’re used to the stares, points, and whispers from the folks trying to figure us out. We’re a lot. Add other foster mamas (Missy & Octavia) to the mix and we’re a mystery that cannot be solved . . . unless you know us. And how can you know us if all you do is stand back and judge or call the police? (I just want to say that don’t you think kidnappers would be more discreet than a large white woman in a tie-dyed shirt carrying a screaming child through the parking lot?) I realized I probably seemed unapproachable Sunday, that’s my fault. But a kind word, an empathetic nod…a conversation about the difficulties of parenting. Any of those would have been nice. And way more constructive than pointing fingers in a parking lot. (I'm still a little miffed.)

We all—no matter race, color, creed, or sexual orientation—have common lived experiences that could meaningfully connect us with others in this divided world, if only we took a moment to gain perspective.