I’m an Old Soul. Even in college, my Friday nights involved cleaning and watching Dateline. That has carried over into married life. Last night, while reading some blogs, Super Nanny ended and I went to switch the channel to NBC to watch my beloved Friday night show.
Before I found the remote, What Would You Do? came on. Right off the top, they started talking about adoption. I decided to watch the show for a little bit to see how it went.
For those unfamiliar with the premise of the show, actors and actresses act out a scene in a public place in voices that can be overheard. Cameras are watching, of course, to see if anyone intervenes with the situation at hand. Eventually, those that intervene learn that it was a social experiment and they give their thoughts on the issue driving that particular scene.
Last night’s scenario? Transracial adoption. Oh dear.
In the first version of the scenario, a white woman meets her white female friend at a diner. She has her newly adopted child (four-ish) in tow. Her friend exclaims, “You didn’t tell me she was black!” Cringe. They sit down and the friend begins to berate the newly adoptive mother about the color of her child’s skin, saying everything we’ve all heard before.
I wasn’t sure anyone would intervene with this one. People often don’t want to touch race issues with a ten foot pole. Interestingly, an older woman — I’d place her in her late 60′s or early 70′s — did intervene. And then my husband had to pick my jaw up off the floor.
She said that she didn’t agree with transracial adoption. She gave this as her reason.
Blackbirds stick with blackbirds. Doves stick with doves.
Mind you, that’s not an actress being fed that line. That’s a real human being sharing her own words and opinions on the situation. I think I saw some shade of red after she opened her mouth. She did go on to say that even though she didn’t agree with it, what’s done was done and that as a friend, the other woman should support the new mother. Well, at least she wasn’t a total bigot.
A few more people intervened — in favor of the adoptive mother though. Thankfully.
Then they switched the scenario, bringing in two black women; the adoptive mom picking up her newly adopted white child was met with the reverse, “You didn’t tell me she was white!”
They sit down at the table and the friend launches into all the reasons that this won’t work. She actually says, “With all the needy black children out there you had to go and adopt a white child?” The adoptive mother plays into the question, explaining that the child’s mother died of breast cancer. Family was brought up and how she’d be better off with “her own.”
Again, I wasn’t sure people would intervene.
Then a nice man made me blubber like a baby. When the friend went off to the bathroom, a white man at the booth behind the adoptive mom leaned over and showed the mom a picture of his family. It then launched into his family’s history; when he met his wife, she was already parenting a son who just so happens to be black. They got married, the man adopted the son and the couple went on to have three more sons. The son is now 35, a grown and happy man, and they have two grandchildren from him. He shared how families are families. Later, when asked why he intervened, and he shared his story, I just wanted to hug the man.
And then there was a little old lady. She shared how when her granddaughter got pregnant with a “black man” (she had to gasp/say that twice because she kind of stuttered over it like it was a cuss word, sigh), she wanted her granddaughter to “give the baby up” or have an… and she stuttered again and wouldn’t actually say the word abortion. She went on to say that the baby, her great-grandchild, is now the reason she breathes. I’m not sure what it says if she can’t actually say the word “black man” without faltering, but her grandma heart made me feel a bit warm.
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Watch it for yourself: What Would You Do?, Friday, February 25, 2011:
(PS: My favorite part is when the first little girl exclaims, “It’s fake!,” and her adoptive mom shushes her. Heh.)
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I know there are people who believe like the first woman. I’m related to some of those people in various ways. I live in a city with people who think that way. I hear things — regularly — that make me cringe, that hurt my heart for the amazing parents, children, grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers and sisters I know that live the transracial family life. A friend of mine who didn’t know about the Munchkin referred to a biracial child as an “Oreo.” We’re no longer friends. Dee once overheard a comment like one of these while at a restaurant. I hate it.
As someone said during the scenarios, I’d like to think we’re evolving past some of these issues. In some ways, I know that we are. But we still have a long way to go until families are recognized as families — no matter their makeup — and humans are recognized as humans — no matter their skin color.
(Please note that all words used in this piece were based on what the show used.)
I made it out to a rally yesterday. My first and, obviously, only of the season. I missed previous ones due to short notice, other plans and random illness(es). All the same, standing outside yesterday, even though it was in the upper 60′s, has left me almost without a voice today. (My chorale director will be thrilled, no?) I stood there, in what was touted as Columbus’ biggest rally ever, and looked at the people around me. White families. Black families. Hispanic families. Mixed families (which included one in our group).
My name is Jenna. I blog here, 
