Garrett came home from school in his usual chipper self. His first grade class wasn’t too stressful and he was in a good mood. I could tell because he was singing a song. It was one I hadn’t heard before and sounded like a hymn. I asked him whaat he was signing and he said “Just a freedom song.”
What’s a freedom song, I asked.
“We learneded it today in class. It’s about Doctor Martin Luther King day.”
Intrigued at how fast he was learning, I asked who is Doctor Martin Luther King?
He looked down like he was trying to find the answer written on his hands. Then he looked up and me and answered in a question tone: “He freed the slaves?”
I could tell they were covering all the right topics at school, but maybe not as perfectly clearly as needed. I told him King came much after the slaves were freed, but that’s he did help with making life better for the descendants of the slaves. He stood there just thinking for a moment. I knew to let him stew on it. He was a thinker and needed to process all this. Then he asked the poignant question: “Dad, what’s a slave?”
Ugh. The ugly parts of humanity are hard to explain to an innocent child that soaks up everything. I carefully shared that slaves were people that were treated like property, bought and sold, forced to work hard labor especially on farms, mostly black, and often tortured or even put in cages.
What I said sunk his countenance. He hurt for anyone treated like that. I sat there in the sofa while he pondered it. Then he asked again, “Dad?”
I waited.
“Are there any of them left?” He was concerned for anyone treated like that. I explained that slavery had ended a long time ago and then people like King had helped advance equal rights for everyone regardless of color. But he was missing something.
“Dad, are there any more black people?”
For a moment, my heart was lightened. Of course, I said. Your best friend Isaiah is black!
He rejected the notion. “No. Isaiah is brown.”
How could I argue with this? He was entirely right! I explained that some people decided that brown people would be called black and pink people would be called white and that there were other skin colors that people named wrong too. But that yes there are lots and lots of black and brown people all over America.
He went quiet again, this time for a bit longer. Then he had an idea.
“I’m going to ask him.”
You’re going to ask who, I asked.
“I’m gonna ask Isaiah if he was ever put in a cage.”
Now, Isaiah was a wonderful kid and Garrett’s best friend. Isaiah lived caddy corner to us on the same street, and his dad was a US Marine. I’m 6’5” and John made me feel small compared to his strength and stature. We had become good neighbors and friendly, but we both had typical work schedules and didn’t spend much time together. But the thought of Garrett going over to Isaiah’s house and asking him if he was a slave or if he had been out in a cage – well that thought scared me, even if it were asked in the innocence of youth.
I suggested we go over together and get ahead of this before any feelings got hurt. Garrett was excited to see his friend so we went right over. I knocked and John answered. He welcomes us in and was a little concerned that the boys had gotten in trouble again. These two were always up to something. I assured him it was nothing like that, and then I shared the whole chat I’d had with Garrett. John could tell I was nervous as heck. It’s not an easy topic, and with these boys entirely unaware of the uglier sides of humanity, I didn’t want anything coming out wrong.
“Are you scared?” John asked, almost smirking.
I explained that I was afraid of Garrett saying something the wrong way. John explained that he knew Garrett was a good kid and had good parents, and that technically, Garrett was right: Isaiah is brown, not black. We had a good laugh and the boys disappeared into Isaiah’s room to play. I left a little more humbled and a little more grateful for good people like Isaiah and John and for Garrett’s school teacher.