I was whining/complaining/bemoaning the fact that a real life friend, who will deliver before New Baby arrives, snatched up our #1 boy name. However, they’re spelling it differently, and I was also bemoaning parents that spell their kids names in strange ways. (See article in April 2007 issue of Child for why that may not be good.) Anyway, I’m just moaning. I’m pregnant. There’s room for that, I’m told.

Someone, in my age bracket though slightly younger than me, responds to me, in actual written word, regarding the unique spelling -slash- misspelling of the name in question. She writes, and I directly quote:

ew? are they black? (i’m not trying to be rude, just black people tend to spell normal names crazy.)

Then later, in brief conversation, informs me that she can’t be racist because, oh, more quotes:

My step father who raised me is black, i grew up in the ghetto of baltimore with all black friends and 2nd families… i’m far from racist.

Is anyone else just basically boggling? I ceased conversation after informing said racist that my daughter is “black.” I just couldn’t fathom anything else to say. My heart was suddenly weighed down with fear and sadness.

Is it possible to raise my son to love and respect not just his sister but our increasingly diverse family when people from MY GENERATION not only say these kind of things but refuse to see how they are slathered in ancestral racism? Is it possible for my kids, barring those who can’t look past the legalities of adoption, to be seen as siblings? Another friend recently posted about a childhood memory when she liked to pretend that she and her best friend were twins… but a nasty kid told her, in no uncertain terms, that no one would ever consider them to be siblings because their skin was different.

Can my kids overcome this? Are doing things like seeking out diverse books and settings enough? What more can I do? There was no point in arguing with that woman; her mind was set. It was over. But my son’s mind is still forming. How do I get him to celebrate the uniquness that makes up our family? How do I get him to accept others, those who don’t fit into our family but are beautiful in their own way? How do I teach love, without boundary of race or gender or hair color or music preference or … whatever the most recent hate-reason is.

Of course, after the encounter and before I wrote this post, BigBrother brought me Munchkin’s pictures, said “Nonna” and kissed it. I might be doing something right.

ETA: D ended up getting involved with the non-racist woman who was quoted above. Do you know what this uber-intelligent woman called D? A, and I quote again, “racist whore.” Yeah. DENISE. *dies laughing*