Years ago, my son raced out of his kindergarten classroom and into my arms and shared a story that I’d long expected but wished we could have avoided. An older student had hurled racial slurs at him during recess.
A white woman interrupted our conversation. “Oh, honey,” she said. “We’re all equal. God doesn’t see color.”
Before I could respond, she smiled and walked away.
My son frowned. “God doesn’t see me because I’m brown, Mama?”
“God sees you and loves you,” I said, trying to conceal my anger. Why didn’t I tell the woman that her words hurt me and could have hurt my son if not addressed? Cupping his face in my light-but-not-white hands, I met his gaze.
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