Somewhere in Alaska resides a basin of bootlicking blubber named Curtis Rogers. He and his equally corpulent calorie compiling spouse were profiled in some irrelevant pap mag for having adopted two African ornaments to decorate their tree of CONSPICUOUS CONFORMITY. They’re not racists!
I am advised that it is quite chichi these days for whites to saddle themselves with genetic aliens who will shun them in favor of their own kind upon reaching adulthood. But oh that delicious frisson of manufactured virtue feels soooooo good in the moment. So instead of acquiring a thing of less future misery–such as perhaps a methamphetamine addiction–we must have Black Baby!
Which circles back to Mr. Roger’s sycophantic neighborhood. He paints a sympathetic profile. It’s not easy raising Black Baby. Indignant Jemimahs accost him in public. Sometimes his living accessory isn’t even receptive to appeals to its native hostility. He’s trying to raise Black Baby into Proud Black Man, but unlike that useless deflated balloon in his pants–it’s just so hard.
Weep with me…
We were waiting in the deli line at a local grocery store as we enjoyed our Daddy-baby time. An African-American woman who appeared to be in her early 60s approached us. “He’s beautiful,” she said. “Is he yours?” Her face held only the slightest hint of a smile.
The question didn’t bother me, but it was awkward. It still is. Our son is African-American and the sight of an adult white man holding an African-American baby generates questions. Some people just think the questions. Some people — like this lady — ask. It is rarely malicious, but it is inherently uncomfortable when people look at you, and based solely on differing racial aspects, ask the question.
“I am his Dad,” I said proudly. I nodded toward my wife who was standing close to us. “We adopted him a few weeks ago.” I smiled at the lady and got the same indifferent look she displayed before.
Sheeeit. Best put away that smile cracka. You about to be axed some querstions.
“What do you know about black infant hair care?” she asked. “This baby’s hair looks tangled. “ She gently pulled aside the blanket I had over him. “What are we using on his skin? This child’s skin looks dry.”
I started to feel a bit defensive.. Where was she going with this? I moved back slightly. “We have some hair oils that were suggested to us and we are using cocoa butter and lotion on his skin,” I said. The answer sounded weak and insufficient.
Weak and insufficient: Some glimmer of self-awareness. An unknown woman approaches with barely veiled hostility and starts pawing your infant “son” while peppering you with demanding queries. Your response: “We have some hair oils…” I wonder if his body stores additional fat in its vacant scrotum. I also wonder if one of his weeping ancestors would have responded more impertinently with, “thank you surly stranger for the unsolicited interest in our social accessory, we’ll ponder your questions as you fuck on back to your own psychopathic clutch of offspring.”
The lady ignored the question and looked directly at me. “What do you plan to do to make sure this child grows to be a strong, culturally connected young black man?” she asked. Honestly, this question had come up as we contemplated adopting an African American child. I had given it considerable thought, but I had trouble putting those thoughts together in the deli section.
Any hint of a smile went away. She looked at me and asked. “Where did you get the idea that you were qualified to raise a black child?” There it was. The statement oozed with racial and social implications that never, ever entered our minds when we decided that race didn’t matter when it came to adopting. Well . . . it didn’t matter to us.
Of course the Navy Seals have no standards as high as that for black parenting. Though his response is worth remembering: It didn’t matter to us. The eternal bleat of the oblivious. Because who else exists in the world but this heap of gelatinous solipsism called you? Over and over again I hear this formulation. And each time I disappointedly await the satisfying thwack of an anvil falling upon the speaker. Race doesn’t matter to us. Well until “us” means your 7 billion neighbors, then it will matter to you whether your calcified brain accepts the premise or not.
My wife and I looked at each other. By now, it was pretty clear that our adoption of an African American child had social implications that we didn’t consider…At the time, it never occurred to me that anybody else’s opinion mattered.
For the love of God. A supposedly continent grown man says this.
We pay special attention to influences that connect him with his race and culture. Sometimes I am frustrated because he doesn’t explode with interest over a book, movie or other example of African American culture or influence.
I felt like a complete failure when he showed little interest in watching the movie “42”, the story of Jackie Robinson, the first African American to play Major League Baseball. He was more interested in playing with Legos. “A baseball movie?” he asked. I was sure that I had somehow failed. I put the movie on and watched alone.
A few weeks later we were in the car in traffic. “Dad, why weren’t there any black big leaguers before Jackie Robinson?” he asked. I looked in the review mirror. He was looking out the window with a thoughtful expression on his face. I explained, as best I could about bigotry, racism and segregation to an 8-year-old. “Is that why he couldn’t eat in the same places as the other Dodgers?”
This contemptible worm. He intentionally discards his own genetic legacy to raise aliens whom he labors to indoctrinate with obligatory hatred toward his own people.
One researcher told us that in order to maximize our children’s cultural connection, we have to embrace their culture ourselves…My wife and I make sure we do as many things as we can that embrace African American culture…We leaned heavily on African American friends, the experts we met at camp and various support groups when the not guilty verdict was announced in the Trayvon Martin case. I sat down with my son and explained that people are going to make judgments about him based on the color of his skin and clothes he is wearing. I explained how he should not be confrontational. I explained, the best I could how to be cooperative without being submissive. We talked for a long time and I wondered if any of this made sense coming from a white man.
Son, it is my duty as your…ummm “father” to see that you reach your full potential as a white-hating sociopath. Whiteys are evil racist predators who hate your skin color. But not your ummm “mother” and me. We are good whiteys, unlike all the rest. We’re certain you’ll remember the distinction as you age.
A similar story, with a bit of levity
Having an instant multicultural family was magical, for about two weeks.
Within two months, Black Baby started pinching his siblings, and Conner was not only ashamed, but also afraid. “When he hurt them, it provoked an anger in me I didn’t know I had,” she says. “I worried I’d lose it and spank him.”
She broke down in front of her husband, who worked all day and hadn’t witnessed the worst of Black Baby’s behavior. He tried to reassure her that it was just a rough transition…But things didn’t get any better, and by early spring, Black Baby had escalated from pinching his siblings to hitting them.
I felt like the expert was telling me that since I had (other children),it would be best to find Black Baby another home,” says Conner. But as difficult as the situation was, she shrank from that possibility, saying, “Forget it. He’s my son!”
Actually he’s not your son. A sentiment we will soon share.
one afternoon when Black Baby began throwing a ball at the ceiling. “I said no,” Conner recalls, “but he wouldn’t stop. So I took it away.” He into a wild, screaming tantrum, unintentionally hitting Conner’s nose with the back of his head: “I was bleeding heavily, sitting on the rug, crying. That night, she told (her husband) she thought they should find a new home for Black Baby.
I sometimes consider the likelihood that the most spiritually infirm of our people will have no part in the future. And sometimes upon that reflection…I dance.