My daughter’s first grade is spreading the Martin Luther King Jr. Day theme out over the month by having one student per day share with the class their “dream for the future”. I spent some time on Sunday helping her organize her presentation.
I have always thrilled to Reverend King’s voice and vision. But suddenly it seems a bit more personal than before. Whenever I was asked to “share a dream” for the future of our world, it was usually about somebody else. A good dream, yes, compassionately motivated and earnestly desired. I was willing to help contribute to it. But my dream didn’t have a lot of personal emotional resonance. It was about a cause, not a personal reality. I kind of took it for granted that I didn’t have a lot at stake personally.
Even when I adopted internationally, I thought that living in a city with such a large proportion of Asian residents would forestall most if not all problems. If nothing else, my daughters know that I share the experience of being in the minority on occasion. I’ve taken my daughters to storytime at the local library and I’ve been the only white person in the room.
There was one time at a local playground (ironically at probably the most diverse public school in the district) when a girl of about ten came up, asked (me, not my daughter), “Can she speak English? What is she? She doesn’t look like an American.” I asked my daughter if she wanted to answer. She shyly indicated that she didn’t, so I told the girl that Meg was American and Americans look all different ways. But in general, people respond positively to the girls.
I’m just becoming aware that that’s likely to change when they are older. A family member who had a frustrating experience with a post office clerk the other day said. “She just couldn’t get it. She was Asian…” then they looked at me and stopped. While I realize the assumption here was likely about language ability more than skin color, I still had a mental “flash-forward”. I pictured my very bright and extremely helpful daughter home from college, taking a holiday job at the post office—and in my mind’s eye I saw dozens of tired people jockeying to get in anybody else’s line. Who has the energy to deal with communication hassles during the holidays, after all? People would never take the chance to realize that she might be the most capable and helpful worker there.
It’s not uncommon for Arab-Americans to be stopped at airports and even while driving cars. What if the next big conflict is with North Korea? Then whose kids won’t “look American enough”?
So there’s now a little more emotional resonance when I say that my heartfelt dream and prayer for the future is Reverend King’s: “that my little children may be judged not on the color of their skin but on the content of their character”.
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