This last Sunday my son asked me if I’d try out a new hairstyle on him. I had been watching youtube videos on how to do this particular style. I’d bought the products necessary. His hair is finally long enough to try out some styles after years of keeping it closely shaved. I told him a time I thought I could set aside to make it happen. And then that time came and he asked me and I just did a deep sigh.
You know the one, right?
The DEEP SIGH of being a mom who doesn’t want to do something her kid just asked her to do?
I told my son it had nothing to do with him. I love him. I told him it had nothing to do with his hair. He’s handsome and his hair is beautiful and fun to work with. I told him it was just that I don’t feel qualified to try this new style and maybe it was going to take several hours and at the end we’d just have to pull it out because it didn’t look good. I knew I should do it, but like a grumpy toddler, I didn’t want to.
My wise son looked at me and with zero sympathy said, “Mom. You’re the one that decided to adopt a black kid.”
Touche, Josh. Touche.
These are the moments I didn’t know enough to anticipate when we were naively walking into transracial adoption. I knew I would love my child. I knew I would be with him to fight whatever obstacles were in his way. I just didn’t anticipate what a steep learning curve there would be to my own ability to help him overcome those obstacles.
It has been my goal since we adopted him that when he’s out in public by himself, he would not be immediately identifiable as having white parents. We intentionally picked a name that was common in both white and black communities. We try to have an awareness of how he’s dressed and how people might perceive him. I have to do a lot of self-education to try and help him feel like he can fit in, whatever environment he finds himself. And this isn’t about your normal teen desire to just blend in with the crowd. This is about saving him from carrying around a burden of having his adoption immediately on display.
We are very proud of him. We’re proud to be his parents. We’re thankful we adopted him. He is also proud to be our son. I have zero doubts about that. But he does not feel like he wants to talk adoption or trauma or birth family whenever a random stranger (or even a friend) feels like they want to bring it up. He shouldn’t have to do that. So we work to give him the ability to not have to have that conversation when it’s not necessary. And other times when it isn’t possible to avoid (like when we show up to his athletic events or band concerts), we’re not trying to hide the fact that we don’t color match. It isn’t about being ashamed, it’s about allowing him the freedom to decide when he wants to tell that story whenever we can give him that power.
THAT is what I wish I could tell my younger self about being a transraicial adoptive family. As my son so wisely pointed out, I decided to adopt a black child. He did NOT decide to have white parents or to be adopted in the first place. It’s on ME to do the self-education I need to do to be the mom he needs. And that includes figuring out how to help him with his hair.
So we spent a couple hours Sunday afternoon and I learned how to do single strand twists. They’re different than the double strand twists I’ve learned how to do in my biracial daughter’s hair, but there are similar skills involved. When I got done, they weren’t perfect, but they weren’t terrible. And he was okay with that. He was glad I tried and he knows I’ll try again until we get this all figured out. And if I can’t figure it out, I’ll help him find someone that can. That’s what transracial adoption has taught me. I don’t know everything I need to know to be the right mother for this child I love so dearly. But I’m learning. And I’m failing. And I’m trying again. And I’m asking for help. And it’s getting better.
Sometimes hair isn’t about hair. It’s about knowing your mom loves you. She’ll set aside a couple hours for just you. She’ll watch youtube videos and buy products and learn from men who look like you how to do hair like yours. Even when the twists aren’t perfect, the message is there. I love him and I’m going to keep learning how to do this right.