The person followed with, "I would have no clue what to do with it."
This exchange occurred as my daughter jumped out of the car to go into school. The person made these remarks after opening the car door for her. I glanced at my little one, as she started to walk away, she paused and looked back for just a second. I’m certain she heard what was said about her hair.
My heart sank. Without much thought, I muttered “Thanks.” Then, speaking louder in hopes my daughter could hear, I added, “She has amazing hair — it’s easy to care for and love.”
Despite all the “race doesn’t matter” rhetoric going around, my mixed race family can’t even get through school drop-off without being reminded that it does. Sadly, these reminders rarely leave a positive impression.
As I drove away, I wondered which message would stick with my little girl. Would it be the notion that her hair is “other” — something difficult that her white mom surprisingly manages to style? Or that her hair is amazing, easy, and loved? Unfortunately, I fear it’ll be the former.
You might wonder why I’m bothered by what seems like a simple compliment. It’s troubling because it’s not about the speaker’s intent — it’s about the impact on my young daughter. I’m concerned with the messages my biracial children receive about themselves in moments like these.
It’s the second part that gets me. The comment shifts from a compliment to a commentary on perceived difference and preference when the person mentions assumed difficulty. These kinds of veiled comments invariably come from another white person and are directed to me, a white person. This makes me think it’s more about whiteness than anything else.
This isn’t an isolated incident. In fact, white people frequently tell me that my children’s hair must be difficult to manage, or that they couldn’t handle it themselves. I wish we could stop implying that kids like mine are outside the realm of what’s considered easy or normal.
Whenever this happens, my mixed race family hears that the traits making my children appear different are viewed as challenges to overcome. This perspective implies that my kids’ differences require extra effort — though I’m unsure if it’s skill, time, energy, or love that people think is needed. The message we receive is that they’re somehow “too much.” Ultimately, it suggests there’s something wrong with the way they are.
But what’s truly wrong is the persistent denial of race and racism in the U.S. We know that children of color adapt to a cultural preference for whiteness in America — it’s been studied and documented. These types of comments add to an already enormous pile of messaging about what it means to be white and what it means when you’re not. This reality makes it even more crucial for us to learn how to counter the stories, ideas, and beliefs that work against liberation and wholeness.
Some of the same people who say race doesn’t matter, are the very folks who feel it necessary to point out my kids’ physical features that don’t fit with whiteness. These comments reaffirm that white is the standard and my black partner and brown kids can never measure up. That they’ll never truly belong.
I want to clarify my intention in sharing stories like this. Some might think I’m simply calling out others’ behavior in order to shame well-meaning people. Others assume I’m trying to present myself as woke.
But, my true aim in these seemingly small moments is to tip the scales so that my kids receive as much affirmation as possible. I want to help my kids become practiced in authoring their own stories. I’m trying to make it so my children don’t get stuck in narratives that define them in limiting ways.
Whether intentional or not, meaning is often communicated through everyday interactions. The way we speak and relate to others can sometimes uphold oppressive and harmful social narratives, forces, and structures. My aim is to oppose these. I can do this in small, everyday moments.
Reflecting on the interaction with my daughter, I wish we could consider a few things. Why did the white person direct their comments to me — another white person — instead of speaking to my daughter directly? Why did they speak about my daughter — a person of color — in front of her as if she weren’t there? Did the person realize it might not be appropriate to tell a young child that her hair is difficult to manage? If so, why did they say it anyway?
At the time, I was immediately concerned with how my precious girl would take in this moment, yet I reflexively said “thanks.” This expression of gratitude didn’t reflect my true feelings or intentions. I’m pretty sure this reaction comes from ingrained habits of evading open discussions about race, maintaining politeness, and avoiding making others uncomfortable. These are habits I’m actively working to break — habits I can only overcome by closely examining how and why I reenact them in everyday occurrences.
There’s a dynamic in this interaction between the other white person and me that I need to pay attention to. It’s rooted in our shared whiteness. While I have theories about why they directed their comments about my daughter to me, I can’t be certain, nor can I change their behavior.
What I can do is examine myself. I can ensure my responses align with my intentions. Often in these exchanges, I feel pulled to uphold the expectations and preferences of whiteness. I sense that’s what other white folks expect of me too.
But, if I let such comments pass unchallenged, I’m not countering the potential harm to my kids. In these instances, my goal is to overcome whatever holds me back and resist these messages. I want the last word about my children to be that they are beautiful, valued, and deeply loved.
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