Why Do My Son’s Books Contain Only White People?

The other day while reading to Jonah, I noticed something that really disturbed me.

We were reading Policeman Small by Lois Lenski, a classic for toddlers and preschoolers.

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See it?

I noticed the same thing in a Curious George book.

Crowds of people, and all of them white.

All of Jonah’s books aren’t like this, but too many of them are. And I’m not ok with that.

Part of the issue is that we have a lot of classic children’s books, written decades ago by white authors. Policeman Small was originally published in 1962, and the Curious George series was published in the 1940s.

There were plenty of black Americans and other people of color living in this country during that time, so that’s not an excuse, of course.

What bothers me the most is when I start thinking about the reasons why an author/illustrator might include only pictures of white people in his book.

Was the illustrator’s ideal of a perfect little town all homogeneously white? Did he just not think to include black characters in even the smallest way? Was this an intentional, racist decision? Did these illustrations reflect the reality the author saw around her?

As a parent I start to feel pretty troubled when I delve down deep into these issues. If as a rule my child’s books contain only white people, what lesson does that teach about what the world is supposed to look like? About what kinds of people should be included in a neighborhood, school, church or city?

Am I participating in systems of oppression by reading my child books that look like this?

In my mind this also harks back to the election, and the unsettling discovery of just how divided the U.S. electorate is right now. A quote:

“The biggest difference between the two parties is the urban-rural divide…Politically, that translates into race and identity as the main political dividing line. Rural and exurban America is very white, and generally inward-looking. Urban America is very diverse and cosmopolitan.” (Source: NBC )

Many Trump voters live in places that look a lot like these books, and that they want to keep looking a lot like these books. Or perhaps used to look like this and do no longer. We see where, and to whom, that attitude has led us.

And that’s not an image I want to present to my son as an ideal.

I’ve written before about the fact that my childhood did look a lot like these books. I experienced essentially zero racial or cultural diversity until I was about 13 years old, when I switched from private to public school. This is one area where I feel that my parents really fell down on the job. (Love you Mom and Dad.) I am determined to do better.

Jonah’s external environment is already going to be very different because of living in a diverse urban city. But Jonathan and I are committed to exposing him to diverse examples of all the different ways that people can look through the media that he experiences at home.

Jonah is going to be getting The Snowy Day , a masterpiece of children’s literature featuring a black main character, and a few other books by this same author for his birthday. My goal over the next year is going to be to diversify his collection to include more books featuring diverse characters.

Easier said than done, perhaps: Children’s books, particularly fiction books, are overwhelmingly white.

Do you have a suggestion for a diverse children’s book or series that is appropriate for toddlers and preschoolers? I’d love to hear it!

 

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Honeysuckle

Last week I discovered honeysuckle growing deep in our backyard. If you’re wondering how I could possibly be unaware of something growing in my own backyard, then you a) haven’t seen our yard, and b) probably have a very different attitude toward yard maintenance than Jonathan and I do. In our defense, our backyard is large, partially wooded and rather unkempt. I actually love it when I’m not stressing about what the neighbors think. It’s very private and quiet, and it feels like we are hiking in the woods rather than in the center of the city.

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Jonah and I have been spending lots of time outside as the weather has gotten warmer, which led me to the honeysuckle discovery last week. I brought it up to Jonah’s nose to let him smell it, and showed him how to pull out the middle stem to eat the honey from inside. He was a fan and kept handing me blooms like the sweet boy he is.

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wikipedia.org
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wikipedia.org

When I was 16, I wrote my first ever piece of writing that was just for fun and not for any kind of school assignment. The essay was called “Honeysuckle,”and I posted it on the still-existing fanfiction.net (ha). I wish that I could find a copy. I remember that this piece was about May, about driving around my hometown in a big white truck with a boy I liked, about not knowing what would happen next but being young and full of possibilities and living in the present.

Most people have probably heard about how of all senses, smells have the most profound connection to memories and emotions. I have a deep, visceral reaction every time I smell honeysuckle. It takes me back, to school letting out and the feeling of a full summer ahead of me with few responsibilities, to watching my brother’s baseball games on summer evenings, to being allowed to go out at night with friends for the first time, to summertime community theatre musicals, to kissing in cars in out-of-the-way spots with high school boyfriends, to returning home to Jackson after my car accident, to high school graduation and the beginning of college. To my wedding.

Honeysuckle means home. It’s where I’ve been, and it’s where I’m going. Smelling it takes me back to the best moments of my childhood and young adulthood. Life is beautiful like that.

 

What smells are nostalgic for you?

The One Where I Write About the Accident

I was in a serious car accident 11 days after my 18th birthday in 2006. I suffered a brain injury, and had to spend six weeks in rehabilitation. I’m fine now.

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public domain image via pixabay.com–Not my accident.

I’ve been trying to figure out how to write about this for a while now, so I figured I would start with the facts.

On the one hand, my accident has absolutely nothing to do with my life now. It almost feels like it happened to another person. On the other hand, it has everything to do with my life now.

Because of my accident, a few things happened:

1) I got a brief taste of what it was like to live as somebody else.

2) It helped me be myself more fully, or it turned me into myself.

3) I decided that there was no way I could continue to live in the town where I had grown up. I had to get out, as soon as I could.

After my accident, I was unconscious and/or unresponsive in the hospital for 10 days. The doctors told my family that in addition to a broken collarbone, tailbone and pelvis, I had a moderate brain injury but that they couldn’t be sure of the damage until I woke up. When I did, the injury was downgraded to mild, but I still had to spend the next month in rehab (not the drug kind) to relearn some physical and mental skills.

In rehab in Atlanta, I met people with the saddest stories you could imagine. There was my roommate in the inpatient facility who had been a beautiful, popular college freshman until she was thrown from a car that her friend was driving. She had lost the ability to walk, eat on her own, or communicate except by grunts. There was another girl close to my age who had escaped Hurricane Katrina only to have a serious brain injury a few months later. There was a man who had been shot in the head and whose injury left him with aphasia, making him unable to speak.

This was my first encounter with people who were truly, truly different from me. Their injuries were much more serious than mine, and most of them had a long road ahead of them to–at best–a partial recovery. We didn’t really belong in the same facility–as in, I didn’t belong. It was here that I understood the true meaning of empathy for the first time: not really while it was happening, as I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to articulate this to myself at the time, but afterwards.

The accident also affected my personality in subtle ways. When I came back home after the accident, I acted older. More serious. Probably less fun. More patient, but less willing to waste time doing things that I didn’t enjoy. Less tolerant of large, loud crowds of people. Are these characteristics, most of which I have today, a result of the effects of the accident on my brain, a result of experiencing a trauma, a natural consequence of growing up, or a little of all three? I’m not sure, but I know that when I came back from the accident I was different. My best friends stayed in my life, but because I was not the same as before, I lost touch with the girls I had been friends with from school, because they were the same. And that’s okay.

Finally, my accident made me 100 percent certain that as soon as I could get out of my hometown, I was gone.

Jackson, Tennessee, though not really that small compared to many other small towns, is the kind of place where everyone pretty much knows everyone else. My father was a professor at a local college, a columnist in the local newspaper, and had been one of the pastors at our former church for a long time. My siblings and I had gone to multiple schools and participated in different community activities. So our family knew a lot of people in town.

After my accident, news spread quickly in the way that it only does in a small town. My dad wrote about it in one of his columns in the paper. All of our family friends showed up at the hospital, prayed, sent flowers and gifts, gave money, and were generally amazing. I’m thankful for the outpouring of support to this day.

But the result of so many people knowing about the accident is that my life came to be defined by it. Not by people who knew me personally, but by friends-of-friends and old classmates and acquaintances and random people in the grocery store. Because of my accident, I didn’t go away to college like I had planned. Instead I went to the local college, and this of course meant that it was even harder to get away from what had happened.

The first couple of years after my accident, people I didn’t know would routinely try to talk to me about it. Two memorable examples: While waiting for my food in my college dining hall, an elementary school acquaintance asked me if I had any “effects” (as in mentally) from the accident. A few months later, a woman I had never met before messaged me on Facebook and asked me to reach out to a family at her church whose daughter had just been in a car accident.

What I know is that people’s response to my accident show some of the best things about living in a town where everyone knows everyone else. In a small town, you are known. You are cared for. But what I also know is that because of the accident, I needed to live someplace where I could choose to be anonymous. Let’s be real–I was always moving away from Jackson. I had always wanted to live somewhere bigger and with more things to do. But the accident gave me a very important reason to want to get out.

I was back in Jackson last year for two weddings. One stranger at each of these weddings brought up the accident to me. “Weren’t you the girl..?” Remember that this is ten years after it happened. Yes, I said, and smiled.

So this is the story. I don’t talk about it much. I doubt most people who know me now have ever heard me mention it, and you probably won’t. It’s not that important, but in a way, it is.

I have a scar from the accident on my left temple, where broken glass had to be removed. Though I always cover the scar up with makeup, in a weird way I’m proud of it, too. It shows where I’ve been. I earned it.