Raising Biracial Children in America: an Eye-opening and Jaw-dropping Experience
Being the father of two biracial children has been an absolute delight. Joshua Malik and Jontae Emmanuel have given me so much to write and talk about. Folks tell me they look more like their mother than me, but that’s all right. They have my nose and ears at least.
In checkout lines
When Joshua and Jontae were babies, I used to race them around grocery stores while I stocked up on diapers, wipes, and pulverized sweet potatoes and the other kinds of liquefied goo that comes in clear jars. At the checkout, I usually heard something like this:
Cashier: Is that your baby?
In my mind, I was thinking, Hey, I have a baby in the seat of the cart that contains his diapers, wipes, pulverized sweet potatoes and the other kinds of liquefied goo that comes in glass jars. Whose other baby would he be?
Me: Yes, ma’am.
Cashier: That ain’t really your baby, is it?
Me: Yes. He’s my son.
Cashier: You leave him out in the sun too long or something?
Me: No, ma’am.
Cashier: Looks like he’s got the jaundice.
I got tired of hearing questions and comments like that, so I came up with some more creative answers:
Cashier: Is that your baby?
Me: No ma’am. I’m just renting the child today. I have to have him back by six or they’ll charge me a late fee, so could you hurry up? Thanks.
Cashier: Is that your baby?
Me: What baby? Oh, this baby. Who put this baby in my cart? It must have been an impulse buy. Oh look—he has my nose! Amazing! I love this store!
Cashier: Is that your baby?
Me: Oh yes. I found him on aisle nine next to the canned asparagus. He was the last one in stock, and he was a close-out special. I even have a coupon for him. But where’s his bar code? Will you have to do a price check?
Eventually I simply told the truth: “His mother is a beautiful black woman. He has her eyes.” That usually stopped all further conversation.
In stores
At a nameless, upscale department store that has gloriously gone out of business here in Roanoke, I ran into the strangest sales associate I have ever met. After assisting Josh and me in the purchase of a Christmas sweater for Amy, she stared at Josh:
Sales: Oh, it’s so good of you to adopt a Bosnian child.
Me: Um, ma’am, he’s my son.
Sales: Of course he is. And all the way from Bosnia, to boot.
Me: No, um, ma’am, he’s my natural son.
Sales: (blinking) That’s not possible.
Problems at school
When Josh was about four, he came home all hot and bothered about something that a classmate had said to him at pre-school.
Josh: Daddy, what am I?
Me: You’re a little boy.
Josh: No, what am I? A boy called me mixed and yellow and said that you were white.
Me: You’re Joshua Malik Murray. That’s who you are, and I’m your daddy. That’s who I am.
Josh: No, Da-ad. What am I?
Me: Well, you’re Scotch, Irish, and African with a touch of Cherokee as well.
Josh: I’m all that?
Me: Yep.
Josh then compared his arm to mine.
Josh: You’re not white, Daddy. You’re pink! And I’m beige!
My son knew his colors. We had bought him the big box of Crayolas, the one with 64 colors.
Problems with school
Later, invasive governmental, educational, and other temperamental forms began arriving from Josh’s schools. I loved filling them out. I checked all the boxes. Josh was white (not Hispanic or Latino), Hispanic or Latino, black (not Hispanic), Asian, and a Pacific Islander. They only need a box marked “human,” don’t you think? I’m sure I ruined all their demographics. My son saw me joyfully checking all the boxes.
Josh: Daddy, why’d you mark ‘em all?
Me: Because you’re all that.
Josh: I am?
Me: And a bag of chips, my son. And a bag of chips.
After a teacher at my son’s school “did me a favor” and marked “black not Hispanic” on a form so Josh could be “eligible” to attend a special “magnet school,” I wrote a poem so I could vent:
"We Are"
We are
a troublesome element
on the Periodic Table of America—
We are
mixed.
We are
gold-bronze-iron-zinc,
Scotch-Irish-Cherokee-African-
American. American. American.
We are
the melting pot.
We are
ashy-legged grandsons
with Nay-Nays and Chubbies,
Grandmas and Grandpas,
with a taste for chitterlings and greens,
milk and apple pie.
We are not yellow/half-breed/light-skinned
(we’re a rainbow)
We are not trying to act black or white
(just human)
We are not a minority
(a majority of the American Gene flows in us)
We are not searching for our roots
(they’re everywhere we look)
We are not in search of a consciousness
(we’re content with our character)
We are not out to prove ourselves to anyone
(just … everyone)
But
if you think
We are
a problem—
that’s your problem.
We’ll solve ourselves, thank you.
And today … we are … the President.
Pride
Josh is currently a freshman at the University of Richmond studying hard and playing football (in that order), and Jontae was recently elected student government treasurer for his middle school.
I know I spend too much time “away” from them writing, but they’re never far from my thoughts. I doubt I could be any prouder of my sons.