“Maya! Maya!” my daughter called out to a new playmate. The two were soon playing together in the sand. I watched as they happily walked in the shallow water. Suddenly, a woman yelled, “Maya, no!”
Maya looked back at the lady sitting in the shade, then turned to my daughter and said, “She said no.” Maya walked away from my little girl and back to the boy she had been playing with before.
At first, I didn’t think anything of it. But when it happened a second time and then a third, my thoughts changed. Each time, my beautiful brown-skinned girl continued to enjoy herself, seemingly unfazed by Maya walking away or the woman yelling no.
Each time the woman yelled and Maya walked away I grew more curious and concerned. I had an urge to pack up and leave, but instead, I moved closer to my daughter. I sat directly behind her on the beach and kept my gaze fixed on the woman. I tried to convey that my daughter was with me. I felt compelled to let her know that this little one was mine.
Both Maya and the woman appeared white — like me. They were part of a large group of people, all of whom also appeared white. The little boy Maya went back to playing with each time, appeared to be white too. Was it racism? Was Maya not allowed to play with my little girl because of her skin color? I felt it was, but I’ll never know for sure.
I was bothered by more than just the little girl and the woman yelling “no” at the beach that day. It was the constant burden of racism weighing on people of color that troubled me then and troubles me now. It’s something I think about every day.
Loving brown and black people and navigating a world that was designed for whiteness puts undue hardship on people of color and those who love them. This type of experience is not isolated and doesn’t occur in a vacuum. It’s a normal part of life in the US, where race has always mattered and racism is rampant.
As a white person, I cannot fully appreciate the added psychological and emotional effort that racism requires of people of color everyday. However, I’m more aware of it as I witness the expendability of black and brown lives in America. I understand the extra layer of worry that accompanies loving black and brown people in a place where their lives are so easily ended and devalued. I’m grasping it better as I see how whiteness assesses and rejects my brown children.
Given how we approach race in America, my husband and I work to fortify and prepare our children for the daily barrage of racism. We teach them how to stay safe. We build them up even as we know that our racial hierarchy works against their welfare, sense of worth, and very breath. Our family knows all too well that, when it comes to brown and black people and their experiences with white folk, the answer to “is it racism?” too often is yes.
The episode with Maya at the beach was just one of many where I was left asking if it was racism. It may seem like a small slight — someone not allowing their white child to play with my brown one — but it’s more than that. It’s the never ending nature of racism. It’s the day-to-day reminders that people who look like my brown kids and black husband regularly have to assert their humanity because the humanity of black and brown people is constantly called into question here.
This day and incident felt all too familiar — we’ve experienced this sort of thing before. And the familiarity of it is what continues to trouble me. While the lady eventually relented and Maya got to play, I felt the sting of the three “nos.” I wondered about my kids and the race-based stings they’ll feel as they grow.
I am tired of this query, and I know others feel the same. Many of us are tired too of the ever-present undercurrent of racial disparity in America. I long for nice beach days and for an ordinary, everyday life without the interruptions of racism. I want the kind of change that eliminates the need to ask, “is this racism?”.
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