“Because you’re black,” he said.
Confused and upset that he’d been barred from playing, Marcell tucked himself away in a quiet corner of the play area until I arrived to pick him up. I could tell by the way his shoulders were hunched over that something wasn’t right. “Hey, baby, give me some sugar,” I said, waiting with outstretched arms for my afternoon greeting. “How was your day? What’s wrong?”
“They said I couldn’t play with them,” Marcell offered in the most pitiful little baby voice I’d ever heard.
“What?” I asked, my happy-to-see-you face quickly morphing into a furrowed brow. “What happened that they said you couldn’t play with them?”
“He said it’s because I’m black,” Marcell said, just as pitiful as could be. “But I don’t understand, Mommy, because my shirt is green, my pants are blue, and my sneakers are white.”
“He said what to you? Who said it? Show me,” I demanded.
Marcell pointed in the direction of the cubbies; at the end of the tip of his little finger was the boy, a Middle Eastern kid with a thick accent and skin as brown, if not more so, than Marcell’s, and his mom, who was helping him gather his things. “Wait right here,” I told Marcell. “Don’t you move.”
I caught her in the parking lot, tucking her son into his car seat. “Hey, let me speak to you for a minute,” I said. I’m sure the fury in my eyes was the impetus for her to close the car door before she gave me her full attention. I let her have that, then confronted her head-on. “How dare you!” I snarled. “What are you teaching your son at home that he’s bold enough to say something so foul to my son?”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “What did he do? What is going on?”
“Your son told my son that he couldn’t play with him because he’s black,” I said, seething. “What are you teaching your child at home? Because I know this is not his fault. He’s a five-year-old child. That’s the kind of mess that gets taught to kids at home.” She raised her palms in surrender, trying to interject, but I wasn’t about to let her have at it. I was too disgusted to entertain explanations and excuses. “My son would never say something like that. He’s being taught to love and respect all people, no matter their color, and what I will not stand for is for some child to refuse to give him the same respect on the playground. How’s your son going to make my son feel left out anyway? They got the same color skin!”
I can’t even begin to recount what she said back because I didn’t give a damn about the words coming out of her mouth. I just wanted to make clear that there would be some hell in the city if her kid ever spoke to my kid like that again.
Later, after we got home and unpacked his book bag and had a snack, I sat Marcell down and tried to explain to him in black and white the complicated Technicolor of race. “Baby, you’re cute right now and the world loves you, but when you get bigger you’re going to become a threat.”
“What do you mean, Mommy?” he asked, all that innocence shining like halo light around his head.
“Well, there are people in this world who do not like other people because they’re black. And that’s an awful thing because skin color shouldn’t matter, baby. We like anybody who has a good heart, and it’s a good thing to let them play hide-and-seek with you, no matter their color.”
Marcell looked down at his hands and arms and then back at me, seemingly more confused than he was before our talk. “But my skin is brown, Mommy.”
“And it’s beautiful, baby,” I said, shaking my head and giving him a warm smile. “Your skin is brown and beautiful.”
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