“Mommy, why are you pink?” you asked me one day.
“Well, I’m pink and dad is brown,” I answered. “You are a mix of both and your skin reflects that. So it’s brown, not as dark as dad’s, and not as light as mine, just somewhere in the middle. Just perfectly you.”
My little innocent boy with extra melanocytes, brown curls bouncing with a tinge of my blonde highlights around your face, and sparkling brown eyes resting in light-brown skin. Sometimes I look at you and think, I wish your dad was more involved. I think it often but never say it aloud. There’s a lot I don’t say. I’ve tried everything to foster that relationship, but I’m finally reaching a point where I have to stop trying to fix something I didn’t break.
And then come the questions from you–questions that crack me open every time. “Mommy, is he coming to see me?” “Why was Daddy mean on the phone?” “No, I don’t want to talk to him.” “No, I don’t want to go unless you go.” And I have to say, “I can’t go, honey. I’m sorry,” even when my heart feels like it’s splintering inside my chest.
Preparing You for a World I Don’t Fully Understand
What breaks me the most is trying to prepare you, my Black biracial son, for the world you’re stepping into. I panic because I am not Black, and I am not your father, and sometimes I feel so ill-equipped. Thoughts rush in like a hot flood: What do I do? How do I guide him? At school, one Black friend tells you your skin is “too light,” while a white friend insists your light skin is “the best.” My insides burn hearing that.
“You are the best,” I tell you without even thinking. But inside I’m screaming, What are we doing to our kids? You’re four. Why are we already here? You’re stuck in the middle but deeply and beautifully both—and that is your right. I tell you that different parents teach their kids different things, but every skin color is beautiful, and that I think yours is magical. Your heart is pure. That’s what I want you to know.
Then the questions come faster, bigger, heavier. Suddenly I’m explaining slavery. I don’t want to scare you away from people, but I also won’t pretend nothing happened. It’s just us. You need awareness. I’m crying as I explain in the most straightforward way I can what happened and what the Underground Railroad was. “Mommy, how come the pink people were bad to the brown people? How come some pink people helped? Will I have to do that?” you ask. “Over my dead body,” I say. “Never.”
A Family You Deserve, But Rarely See
Three whole phone calls from your father this year. It’s November now, and you’re five. Nana and Papa never call. TT visits when we meet halfway—she’s been incredible—but it’s far, and that’s the only real connection you have to your dad’s side. Paw Paw, your father’s dad, died so young. COVID took him. You would’ve loved him. He would’ve adored you: your sense of humor, your little jokes, the way you light up a room.
Nana Patti never misses your birthday or Christmas; she checks in on us often. Great-Grandma Doletta and Great-Grandpa Jeremiah passed when you were a baby. I show you photos of them holding you, and I can’t stop thinking about the love you would have felt from them.
The Woman Who Saw Me
Grandma Doletta kept beautiful brown-skinned figurines all over her home. One day, I noticed a single blonde figurine with long hair—an exact replica of me—among all the others. “Is that supposed to be me?” I asked your dad. “I don’t know, ask her,” he said.
When I did, she just smiled that sweet, sassy, knowing smile and said, “You see anybody else here like that?” Tears poured down my face. I was always welcomed in their world in a way the world itself still struggles to do. Why can’t society be the same? Why are we still here?
Grief, Love, + a Five-Year-Old’s Wisdom
We talk about them, and your face lights up even though you never knew them. “Mama, why are you crying?” you ask. “I miss them,” I say. And you tell me, “Well at least they are in our hearts forever. They are in mine and I love them.” The wisdom you carry at five terrifies me. I’m afraid the world doesn’t deserve a child like you. They aren’t ready for you.
The Panic That Lives in the Background
Then I panic again. We have no one close by. You need your Black culture, your roots, your family. I cannot replicate that. We read books about your hair, your eyes, your ancestors, your royalty. But here, in real life, you will sometimes be seen as the enemy. And these books, while important, piss me off. The fact that a child needs a book to remind them of their worth because the world will try to take it from them? It hurts. You won’t understand it. I don’t understand it.
I carry fear with me everywhere. What school do I put you in? Are there Black students? Black teachers? Is it diverse? Is it safe? How do they discipline? How do they speak to you? Right now, at five, you are harmless. But one day, you will grow into a strong, tall, handsome Black man. And because of that, people will misjudge you. They will mess with you. It’s inevitable. The thought destroys me. I don’t even want you to date—just the idea of you getting hurt in any way twists my stomach.
The Page That Stopped Me
A few days later, I walk into your school, and they hand me a book of your art. I flip to a page where the prompt asks the kids to draw their favorite thing about themselves. You outlined a brown face, brown eyes, and your curls. You know exactly who you are. You are proud. And in that moment, I knew: despite all of my fear, all of my worry, all of the things I can’t fix or give or replace—you know your worth.
And even on the days I feel unprepared, I know this: I will raise my biracial son with truth, pride, and unwavering love, because he deserves a world that sees the magic I see in him every day.
