Having a white mother, my siblings and I likely had even fewer conversations about race than black children raised by black parents, because there was a lot about our lives that our mother’s whiteness made it hard for her to see. But those conversations were one-offs that ceased to be necessary once we were old enough to see the reality of race for ourselves. While I was growing up, my mother had given the obligatory speeches that all parents of black children must give: don’t challenge cops, don’t be surprised if you are followed at stores, some people will be mean to you because of your beautiful brown skin, no you can’t have the same hairstyle as your friends because your hair doesn’t do that. But the truth is, like many families, our conversations growing up mostly revolved around homework, TV shows, and chores. I was well into my career in writing about culture and social justice and my opinions and identity around race were pretty well documented by then. But surprisingly, my mother and I had our first really substantive conversation about race late in my life, when I was 34 years old. When my white mother gave birth to me, and later my brother, in Denton, Texas, she became the subject of a lot of racial commentary in her conservative southern community.
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