He was surrounded by younger cousins that acted like brothers and sisters, unaware that he looked different, he lived a youth filled with joy and laughter with his tight family unit of loving grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. But we all age, and as we do, that childhood veil lifts and family members don’t necessarily treat you differently because they are ‘used to’ you… but what about their life shows support? The comments of ‘Well, not you… you’re different.” “Obviously I am not racist, I love you and care for you!” “We need to make America great again, like in the good old days!” “But, what about my ancestors and my father’s family, the good old days weren’t ideal for them.” “…”

Most people that meet my husband will agree, his presence is intoxicating; his joy can fill you from the tip of your toes to the top of your head in a matter of minutes. His aura emulates pure love and joy, and the genuine nature of his heart is one I envy. He’s a chameleon, always changing his style but somehow manages to nail every look. But, beneath that intense love and devotion is a child buried within him that he keeps hidden. A child that didn’t know how to process why his dad wasn’t there, a boy who didn’t know why his skin was different than his family’s, a young man who endured abuse from a stepfather, that in my humble opinion, envied him. As the only black kid in many of his classes, he was always searching for some place to belong. And over the years he learned to bury, cover and mask his feelings with typical characteristics of his favorite Disney characters and forced himself to become the loving, caring, selfless human that he is today.

When we met in college, I was newly divorced with two young children that were half white and half Liberian. We collaborated on school projects and quickly became best friends that were inseparable. Being a couple came naturally, blending a family is what took work. He wanted to help me raise my children as his own, to guide their path as mixed children and teach them to represent their heritage, rather than mask it.

Being the white wife and mother to a blended family, I find myself on guard with a mama bear instinct you don’t want to mess with. I am a protective wife to a fault, perhaps picking up the slack that scarred his childhood, always wanting to make sure my husband doesn’t endure any more pain and keep this happy bubble that he has us in, protected from popping. I am careful with friendships and am quick to dismiss rather than forgive. I make an effort to choose dolls, books, toys, events and things for my family that represents the diversity of the whole human race. But does that matter? I question myself A LOT. Am I doing enough in my daily life to make sure my family feels represented and loved? Do I advocate enough for a community that is larger than me?