I'm not  an expert on trans-racial/trans-cultural adoptions. But I have been married "interracially" for over thirty three years. I don't like that term but that is how we are categorized on the US Census. Biologically speaking there is only one race. I've believed that since I can remember. I hope the white people who want to adopt children from Haiti believe that. And understand what they will face raising a child of color, especially dark color, in America. I'm worried  for them, and frankly a little scared for the children.

Before my husband and I were married, we were asked to attend a conference about "bi-racial" (black/white) adoptions. Ninety-five percent of the potential parents registered were white. The conference organizers were college professors who knew us. They thought potential parents would enjoy meeting a couple who might be similar to the biological parents of the children they hoped to adopt.

My fiancé and I were assigned different discussion groups. In my group the leader arranged us in a circle. We began by telling why we were here. It was a friendly group. Lots of smiles and head nodding as people shared their stories. I heard a few things that should have warned me but I chose to ignore them. When my turn came I explained why I was asked to attend. My story was received with silence. The only smiling face was the leader's. Some shifted in their seats. Others looked down or away. A woman directly across from me began shaking her head and blurted out "You plan to marry one? We are here to adopt the "mistakes". And you are here planning to marry one?"  The man sitting next to me said, "You seem like a nice girl. Why would you do this?"

It wasn't the first time I experienced this reaction. I just didn't expect it here. I didn't have my guard up, so this hurt, but I could get over it. After this I would never see these people.  But I feared for the children they planned to adopt.

Many of these people had their own kids but wanted to help a needy child. Some had already adopted but wanted more. White children were harder to get. You had to wait longer and the rules were more rigid. A woman said she couldn't get a white baby since she already had one, so this would be better than nothing.  

I told them I was marrying this man because I loved him. The reason I could love a man of another color was because my parents chose to raise me in an integrated neighborhood and school so I knew from life experience we are all human. Now they regretted that decision. My father said if he knew this would happen, "it would have been "nigger" from day one".

I told the group if they had white children they need to be prepared one day their son or daughter may chose to marry someone who wasn't white. Having a black brother or sister, their white child may come to the same conclusion I did. It makes no sense to limit options when you discover everyone is human.

I could tell this was the first time they considered this possibility. I probably should have left at that point and let them talk more freely. But I was young and thought I needed to make my point clear. I also liked making them squirm.  I said the only way they could try to prevent this was to teach their children whites were superior. They would have to treat their black child as an inferior and not provide the same advantages. I hoped the nods were for understanding this was ridiculous and not for giving them a strategy.

At the end of the conference, one of the black social workers attending gave the final address. She listened in on the group discussions. She was outraged. Whites in the audience looked ashamed, sad, frightened,  or mad. I remember her ending words... "I'd rather see these babies be put through a meat grinder than adopted by the white people here today." Soon after the Illinois Social Worker Association imposed high restrictions on inter-racial adoptions.

Ten years later I was out with my children and a woman approached me. She admired my beautiful children. I returned the compliment. Peeking out behind her was a lovely "bi-racial" little girl. The woman belonged to an inter-racial adoption group that met monthly. She invited me to an upcoming picnic. I explained my children weren't adopted, my husband was black, but we would love to come. It would be great for our kids to get together with other inter-racial children and we would enjoy meeting the parents. Her smile faded.  "I'm sorry. This is only for adopted bi-racial children." She turned away and then looked back. "Maybe you should start your own group."

When our children were little I asked my husband for advice on raising them. He worked long hours. The kids were mostly with me. I was afraid I might not be giving them what they needed to survive. He told me to ask his mother. 

I didn't want to admit to her I was afraid. I was still trying to prove that her son was not an idiot for marrying me. So I asked her to tell me the family stories. My mother-in-law is one of the smartest and most intutitive people I have ever met. She knew exactly why I was asking.  From then on, every visit, she shared stories. She still does.

They lived in Chicago but had migrated from the South. It was the custom to send children down South to stay with relatives for the summer. It kept the family bonds strong. But this was in the late 50's. Before civil rights. Not long after Emmett Till, a black boy from Chicago, was lynched for speaking to a white woman. He was showing off to his southern cousins. My mother-in-law refused to send her sons south and withstood all manner of critcism and accusations she was protecting them too much. Thought she was "too good" for the rest of the family. If they went she would have to teach them to get off the sidewalk for a white person. Never look or speak directly to them. Obey the "for colored only" signs. She knew if she taught them that, it would damage their spirits. She had seen it happen to her father and uncles and the boys she grew up with. It happened to her mother and sisters. It happened to her. It wouldn't make any difference how much she told her sons they were just as good as whites, that action would tell them something else.

She also didn't speak badly about white people. She didn't want to make them fear or hate or expect discrimination. They would feel defeated and never try. She knew there were good white people. Her sons would need to be able to discern the difference. I always wondered if she regretted teaching him that, the same as my father had.

Taking a cue from my mother-in-law, I would not let our children be around people, even relatives, who were racists. I bartered to send them to a private arts school because I had been in too many teachers' lounges throughout the city and heard the way the teachers talked about the black students. I was a guest artist doing mime shows. They had no clue I was married to a black man so they spoke freely. I could not trust my children's spirits to people who did not believe they were capable of learning as much as whites. That is a direct quote. These teacher's believed they were being asked to do the impossible. I work with the public schools now. The disparity between white and black student test scores hasn't improved. The drop out rate for African American students is 50%. There are veiled explanations that amount to the same thinking as I heard twenty-five years ago.

If I had not been able to barter tuition at the private school, I would have homeschooled. There wouldn't have been any other choice I could have lived with. The school wasn't perfect, but since I worked there, I could watch out for them.  

When my son was a teenager, I was walking a distance behind him and one of his black friends in a store. They were laughing and talking, oblivious to the women clutching their purses and the detective following them. I remembered how white women used to stop me to admire my adorable, cute son with those full kissable cheeks. Now he was a man and they feared him. I knew this was coming because I had people in my life that shared similar experiences. I believed them and didn't dismiss it as being overly sensitive. Even so, I had to fight back tears.

When my husband taught our son to drive he also had to teach him what to do when the police stopped him so he wouldn't get killed. My son protested. Said he would tell the cop off if he was unfairly stopped. It was one of the few times I saw my husband get angry. He had to get through to him the danger of driving black in America. It wasn't a joke. And it wasn't something I would have known to teach him.

Our children are grown and married. They have children. There are all shades in our family. We belong to a religious community that embraces all and means it. We have friends from varied cultures. Yet, even with this richness, this love and acceptance of all people, my seven year old grandson scans every new situation for people as dark as he and is not happy unless he finds one. Last week he asked why most of the black people in movies are bad.

I want to believe that every white person who adopts a child from Haiti knows the inherent goodness of this child, and has genuine respect for the culture. I want to believe they will love this child so much they will dedicate their lives to learning about the rich history and culture of Haiti and will understand that while they are providing an easier material life for this child here, there are family members in Haiti that love this child too. This child must be told about their love and sacrifice.

I want to believe they are willing to examine their inner thoughts and motivations and conscientiously eradicate prejudicial thoughts replacing them with new insights and knowldege. I want them to study the history of race in America and the impact of slavery on everyone and be willing to see it. No excuses, no denials.  Just see and try to understand what has happened and continues to happen in this country. 

Most of all, I want to believe they will cultivate friendships with people from Hati and African Americans who will drop in for coffee, sit around the dinner table and come to family gatherings. Friends who will grow to trust and honestly share their own stories of struggle and triumph. Friends who will laugh with them and sometimes cry.

They will need these friends to talk to when their little girl says she wants to be "white" like her mommy. Or their son, before watching a movie with black actors, says "Please tell me they aren't going to be bad this time."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

NOTE: My parents eventually gave their blessings to our marriage and became wonderful supporters of us and loving grandparents and great-grandparents.  (Didn't want to leave the impression my parents never accepted our marriage.)  The story about that is here on my blog: "Our Love Story in Black and White"

http://open.salon.com/blog/mimetalker/2009/11/22/open_call_our_love_story