When I invited my oldest brother Marc to live with us, it was not just because my mother was worried about her grandchildren not having a father figure-even though she never said as much. He didn’t have a job, and I was a single mom raising two boys under the age of five on my own. He landed in the United States a year before after his twelve year European chapter ended in divorce. He had no kids, and a 12×18 color picture of the beloved sail boat he had to sell when he moved stateside. Stateside could have meant Virginia, where we grew up, and where he has a zillion connections. Instead it meant Maine, where they have a zillion sailboats and two boys who call you Uncle-Daddy and say; I love you Uncle Rabbit Will You Play Airplane With Me Now Silly Head after they give you the bump, and lunge into their footy pajamas because you want them to explore their own “gravitational pull”.
That room off of the playroom in the damp basement apartment that was going to be my writing studio, my office, was just not being used. I prefer to write on my laptop near the boys, and the heat. But my brother likes the cold, and loved the idea of living rent free in exchange for playing with his nephews a few hours a week. Well, that isn’t exactly how I presented the idea, but that was the gist of it. He was eating through his savings faster than he hoped, and wasn’t ready to give up on the Maine dream yet. He was also growing very attached to those to boys, and said yes faster than he could toss Marcel into the air.
The boys were thrilled. From day one they were told that this was Uncle’s apartment, and not just a cold room downstairs. Uncle had to agree when and if the boys could come down, as he had his own life too. “Can I can come down now Uncle?” was practiced with animated repetition. From the onset, that we had things pretty well figured out, considering the lack of sibling co-parent models we had to follow. Clear limits and expectations were discussed for all of us. He’d have his life, I’d maintain some of my single mommy autonomy which I love, and we’d have a lot of shared time in the middle.
Alone he was just a single guy living in an apartment. In the basement, he became transformed into a super hero. What we offer, is relationship. He is living with his biological family, two nephews, and a sister, who need him, share meals with him, are entertained by him, cherish him, engage him, and redefine him. Being the Uncle who can teach you how to swing a pizza dough in the air, who can be the rough-house filling of a Sammy-Uncle-Marcel sandwich, and be the most important man in your life, is an obligation that makes you feel herculean just for walking up the basement stairs. Or at least that’s how it looks to me. [click to continue…]
Tagged as:
co-parenting,
parenting boys,
raising children,
single moms,
transracial adoption
I was born in a 1972 to a Japanese mother and Black father. My father was stationed at Misawa Air Base and it was during his service there that he met my mother. And it was there that I was brought into the world.
But we didn’t stay in Japan long. As a military family we moved frequently and headed to the United States around the time I was three or four. I didn’t speak English when I arrived, but it wasn’t an issue. I didn’t have an expansive vocabulary and quickly learned English. It’s a shame though. Today my Japanese language vocabulary is about the same as it was when I was three or four, but that’s another post.
As my mom struggled to acclimate to the US culture, I was unequivocally raised to be American. But, I was also raised to be a Black American woman, more than a woman of dual nationality. I’m not sure when or how this occurred, I just remember always being referred to as “Black” or “African American.” I struggled with the over-simplification of a person (me) that I felt was more complex. Even as I prepared for college, I needed help (or confirmation?) so I asked my dad, “What bubble should I fill in here?” He responded without hesitation, “Black/African American.”
Of course, my Japanese heritage wasn’t completely ignored. My mom always prepared Japanese foods and when I was school-age, I spent weekends at the San Diego Japanese School learning the language, culture and more. Though, not much stuck because at the end of the day, I was always labeled, “Black.”
I never felt totally comfortable with that. Not because I didn’t appreciate my ethnicity, but because I struggled with the idea of labels. I was frustrated with people’s innate need to categorize me into a single category of people. And when they couldn’t figure me out, I was asked, “So, what are you?” Every time those words fell upon me, I felt diminished to a check box. I wanted to be defined by who I was on the inside, not the assumptions people formed based on the outside.
Today, I’m the mother of three beautiful, multi-cultural children. Though, my kids are just one-quarter Japanese and three-quarters African-American, their ethnicity always remains a mystery for people outside of our family and friends. Often, they are mistakenly labeled Puerto Rican, Filipino, Indian, and more. My insides turn when I’m getting to know a new mom and she looks at me and my kids with a puzzled curiosity, then asks, “So, what are you guys?”
An immature version of my former self wants to curtly reply, “We’re human. How about you?” But I hold back and politely describe our cultural make-up. At which point I usually hear, “Oh…interesting…” and we’re left with an awkward pause as each of us tries to figure where to take the conversation from there.
Despite my irritation over ethnic labels, I also recognize its value. Everyone wants a place to belong, and for better or worse, we build communities around our cultural identities. And there is confirmed value in that. I want my children to know and love the richness and diversity of their ethnic background; it’s important.
So, as with everything in motherhood, I take it day by day. And I trust that as life unfolds, my focus on raising confident, responsible and contributing children will be enough to manage the conflict I feel with labels.
*image credit: Flickr/? kacyphoto
Tagged as:
biracial children,
culture,
ethnicity,
multicultural families,
multiracial families,
raising children,
self-images
