In the darkness of the night, a small group of travelers navigated through the Kenyan terrain. Aboard an open-top vehicle on the bumpy dirt road, they were eager to reach their destination. Tasked with delivering vaccines to a distant village, they understood any delay could compromise the vaccines' effectiveness. It was then that they unexpectedly found themselves face-to-face with a pride of lions.
The travelers were in a predicament. Ditches flanked both sides of the road, leaving them with no way to evade the looming predators. The nurse sitting in the front seat wasn't certain if she audibly cried out or merely inwardly prayed, "Oh God, my life is in serious danger," as a male lion approached and stood unsettlingly close. She cast anxious glances between the lions and the driver, hoping he had a plan for what to do.
Despite having grown up in Kenya, she had never been this close to a lion before. The lion merely stared at her, while the lionesses lingered in the background. She wondered if they were waiting for his signal to attack.
The lions, however, did not attack the travelers. After a few tense moments, the male lion turned and walked away, followed by the lionesses. When the travelers arrived at the village, they relayed their encounter with the lions. They then learned that the villagers had observed the entire incident. One villager had even used binoculars to watch the event unfold.
Confused as to why they did not intervene, the nurse asked them why they had merely watched while their lives were at risk. The villager with the binoculars replied that the lions were not the real fear. For the villagers, the true threat lurking in the darkness were the armed poachers, who were more ferocious than any wild animal and ready to kill anyone interfering with their hunt.
During our last visit to their great-aunt, this story was shared with my children. We had just settled down to enjoy some of our favorite Kenyan dishes she had prepared. She leaned in closer to my kids and said, "Listen up, children, I have a story to tell." Now living in the United States, far from her Kenyan home, she wanted her American-born great-nieces and nephew to learn about her experiences as a nurse in Kenya.
She told several stories of her life in Kenya and they deepened our time together. In retelling them to a younger generation, with us parents as witnesses, she imparted her strength and wisdom to us. She was revealing to my kids some of their origins and giving them a sense of their history. She was connecting them to a legacy larger than themselves and a place far away from where we spend our everyday lives. Simultaneously, she was reminding us, the parents, of the significance of our shared and personal stories.
Stories are powerful. The narratives we share, and those shared about us, shape our identities and potential. Those about our ancestors help us understand our roots and lineage. Knowing who our predecessors were can spark imagination for who we can become. Such narratives can serve as our foundation, cautionary tales, and as paths that guide us.
As a white, American woman, I'm grappling with how to convey my stories and the stories of my people in a way that provides value to my biracial children. Truthfully, it's a challenge. In the American context, race complicates how my spouse and I weave our narratives together to help our kids understand our family, themselves, and the world.
It's crucial for my children to grasp the racial reality of the United States, their birthplace. The difficulty comes in knowing how we came to be where we are today with race because the unabridged story is not widely told. The narratives I share about the actions of white people in establishing and maintaining a racial hierarchy, as well as white folks inaction in promoting racial equity, are often contradicted by the stories my kids encounter in their everyday lives.
Though young, they recognize the negative impacts of whiteness and observe how those around them respond to race, noting both action and inaction. They wrestle with the paradox of how white people can profess love for people of color, yet fail to challenge the racist structures that harm and demean black and brown people. This is a persistent conflict we encounter.
My husband and I frequently need to revise and expand on the prevailing narratives our family encounters about whiteness, white people, and the contrasting stories about people of color. Our kids have noticed that whiteness is frequently depicted as innocent, even though they know that's not the case. They see how the agency, resistance, and unyielding calls to humanity and wholeness from people of color are often understated or entirely overlooked here. It's difficult, if not impossible, for us to escape the ubiquitous message of white superiority in American culture.
As their mom, I have to grapple with what it means to be a white American woman, examine how I’ve learned to play the part, and reassess how I show up in different spaces and relationships. While I have numerous stories about my family's past, our origins, and how it shapes who we are today, these stories don’t include anything about race. Yet, whiteness is and has always been a part of our story. Now, it’s a part of my kid’s story too.
Unfortunately, many white folks, like me, often struggle with recognizing the impacts of whiteness in the U.S. There is typically resistance when normalized racial behaviors, language, and stories are questioned. Despite this, we have the ability to promote equity and shape the future narrative. I am convinced that addressing inequity benefits everyone, not just a select few. By acknowledging the damaging history and impacts of whiteness and striving to dismantle it, we can all do more than just survive - we can thrive.
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