Color is my daughter’s cocoa hand nestled trustfully in mine of cream.
Her sparkling dark orbs reflected in my skies of blue.
Pink-tinged lips smiling mischievously as she tells a silly joke.
Ebony hair curling softly as my fingers twist and braid.
Color. It tinges the world of adoption. Exploring the expanse of thought through books, classes, seminars, and conversations, we ask and wonder. What does color mean? What does it mean to me? To my family? To society? Most importantly, what does it mean to my child?
These are questions I have pondered long. A white girl from California, raised in a military family, moving every few years. In the leveling culture of enlisted families, it seemed natural to have friends of various backgrounds. While I learned about the historical reality of racism in school, it seemed irrelevant in my own experience. Though horrified at the raw injustices of the past, I accepted as normal my family’s close friendships with families whose skin tones varied from ivory to obsidian. During college I began to think more deeply about color as I grew close to a white friend who had black adopted siblings. I tried to learn as much as I could about the black experience in America, deeply disturbed to find that racism was not merely in the past. After marriage, my husband and I began to explore adoption. We wanted to hold out our hands to “catch” children who might otherwise “fall through the cracks” into abortion, foster care, etc. We learned that African American children were inexplicably considered “hard to place.” Following our hearts, we decided to see if we could adopt black children.
We were delighted, in 2009, to be chosen to adopt a daughter, and in 2014, another, both dark-skinned and lovely, inside and out. Continuing to educate ourselves, we constantly look for opportunities to cultivate friendships with African-American people and to strengthen those we have already established. We enlighten ourselves through books, movies, and documentaries. In the process, we understand ever more clearly how challenging it can be to grow up black in America. We deeply desire to equip our daughters with the knowledge, strength, confidence, and wisdom they need to thrive in every stage of life.
Color paints our days with the blushing pinks of tutus, the rainbow hues of beads, the gold of precious memories and the blues of sorrow. It binds us together with black scarves worn at bedtime, white lotion rubbed into skin, and matching tinted nails. Sometimes it separates us in the eyes of those who don’t see the red of our hearts and the sparkling diamond cord that connects them.
Sisters’ legs entwined in sleep, swirls of coffee and cream.
“Black Spider” her code name as she, costumed, races with brothers in wild play.
“Those are my people,” her shy statement of pride when black friends come by.
Soft tears sliding down milk chocolate cheeks as she seeks my arms when sad.
Laughter bursting through pearly teeth when she is filled with joy.
Every day we read, talk, eat, laugh, play, and love in vivid color. Color is real, it is beautiful, and it is ours.
