I got a lot of conflicting advice after I had my first child. I definitely should breastfeed him as long as possible, but I should not breastfeed him if I don’t want to, and I should keep in mind that formula is poison. I should recognize my pregnant body was a Gift From God. And I should reverse that Gift immediately by going to Crossfit and joining Weight Watchers. I, furthermore, should Love Myself As I Am. While I am Loving Myself As I Am, I should feed my toddler homemade quinoa/organic vegetables/butternut-squash-tofu-chickpea puree. In the meantime, I should spend as much time as possible with my son because This Time Is Precious.
My takeaway from all of this was that no one knows what they are doing, so I was going to have to come up with my own handbook for parenting, and it was going to have three rules: Love him as he is, teach him to love others as they are, and keep him safe.
The last two rules sometimes run antithetical to each other. After the violence at Charlottesville, Virginia erupted during the Unite the Right rally, I struggled with how to talk about the events with my son. As when he was born, so after this tragedy, I was met with varying unsolicited opinions. This time, they concerned how to talk about racism with a six-year-old. Don’t talk about it all; he’s too young. Tell him the unvarnished truth; he needs to hear it. Take him to a rally; stand up for injustice. Don’t take him to a rally; it’s too dangerous. I’d stumbled into the Woke Parent Olympics, but I hadn’t properly trained. That’s when I saw there’d be a vigil for Heather Heyer, mowed down by a white supremacist in Charlottesville, and I knew I wanted to take my son to honor her life, to emphasize unity, acceptance, and peace in a world that insists on divisiveness, derision and violence; to adhere to Rule #2: To teach him to love others as they are.
The event began peacefully in a park, as people around us distributed candles and pictures of Heather in memoriam. Speakers took turns on a stage just feet from us, descrying what happened, and I tried to translate the events as best I could for my little boy. I told him that we were there to say a prayer for the victim and for a nation divided by hate. I did my best to explain that systemic oppression had led to civil unrest and that our family believed it was important to stand up for and with people who are treated unfairly. I told him what neo-Nazis are. I told him neo-Nazis are wrong. About that time, tensions began to rise in the crowd.
A group of Antifa protesters wearing masks, dressed in black, and carrying a long banner stepped in front of the speaker and the crowd hushed. The silence settled just in time for a person to rush the stage. He lunged past Antifa, aiming, it seemed, for the speaker at the microphone, shouting something I could not discern. The crowd surrounded him like an ocean wave, and as he surged forward, they surged back, a receding tide. A Confederate activist I recognized who doxxes protesters at events like these began snapping pictures of the man, of Antifa, and of the crowd. I knew enough about doxxing to cover my son’s face, but I worried that I was too late. My heart tripped and my hands shook. My son, however, was unfazed and unharmed. Still, I couldn’t shake the idea that I had violated parenting Rule #3: keep him safe.
Just about the time I began hand-wringing about my decision to bring my boy, I looked over at Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense, an advocacy group. They, like my son, were unfazed. While their toddlers played in the grass and their infants dangled fat legs from Baby Bjorns, they were unpacking a cooler of juice boxes and snacks. The Tampa heat was high and the children were starting to sweat.
“Wish I had one of those,” my son said. Here I was, simultaneously trying to teach him the complexities of racism while making sure he didn’t get maimed. All the while, I was disappointed in myself because I forgot the juice box at the rally against racism. Parenting is absurd.
Did it make any difference in my boy, spark any awareness he may not have had before? I’m not certain. A few weeks after the rally, we were walking out of Home Depot and he noticed a change in the store. Its Tiki torches, on prominent display the week prior, had been replaced with squat citronella candles.
“The neo-Nazis won’t be able to use those as well,” he noted, before flitting off to look at the Halloween decorations. Ideas are taking shape inside those little grey cells. I’m just not sure how they’ll turn out, or if I’m doing the right thing at all. I’ll probably second-guess myself until my son is grown. He recently asked me to define the term “harassment,” though, so I think I need to stock up on those juice boxes, to be just a bit better prepared for whatever comes next.
