Split Decision

Tomorrow, Grandma and Grandpa Campbell are coming up from Virginia for Owen's preschool pageant. We'll all be terribly impressed with his shepherd-ness, and following the after-party (note: buy ranch dressing!), we'll sojourn back to our house for split pea soup (mine), cheese toast (my mother-in-law), and Christmas cookies (again, MIL). 

To prepare for the festivities, I took the boys to Safeway to pick up ingredients. Following the recipe on the back of  the Safeway-brand split peas, I walked over to the Strange Swine section to find ham hocks.

Although I found trotters, ears, neckbones, and yes, snouts, I could not find the hocks. I looked around me, because I enjoy starting up conversations with strangers in the grocery store. Paul has fondly told me in the past, "You believe that the entire world is just waiting to be your friend, don't you?"

Well, yes.

I've always been grateful for the revelations from stranger chit-chat, because I believe that we're already plenty isolated with our Blackberries and our private driveways, and it's a good thing---a human thing---to acknowledge others when going through the motions of the day.

So, I looked around, the words, "Has anybody seen the ham hocks?" poised to leap off my tongue. I opened my mouth, but then closed it again, because the only people around me were older African American women, and I second-guessed myself.

I did not want to be the fool asking these nice women about ham hocks. I didn't want the thought "Oh, you're asking me about ham hocks, 'cause I'm Black, right?" to enter their minds. I didn't want to presume that these women knew anything about ham hocks, or inadvertently stumble into a Great Racial Dialogue when all these ladies probably wanted to do was stock their pantries.

And so, I continued to look, and asked Owen, loudly, "Hey, Buddy? Do you know where the ham hocks might be? What could I use instead of ham hocks?"

Owen, naturally, looked at me and said, "I don't know, Mommy." Nobody else jumped in with advice.

Finally, I saw an employee and she shared with me that they were out of ham hocks, due to the recent blizzard. She suggested pork necks, instead.

One of the ladies overheard our conversation and nodded vigorously. She said, "Or you could use turkey wings, if you don't want the pork flavor."

Having opened the door, she and I talked for a good five minutes about the Strange Swine section, as she passed on some tips involving fat back and black-eyed-peas. She asked Owen if he was a good boy, and he explained that he was, and that we would get a kid mailbox on Christmas morning.

She said, "What are you gonna do with a mailbox?"

"Get mail," he said, "And send mail too! But no bills!"

The exchange ended with pats on the back, and "You and your beautiful boys have a very Merry Christmas, dear!"

I floated away, as I always do when I encounter the gentle grace of former strangers.

And yet---my fears of insulting, of appearing judgmental or racist, almost kept that exchange from occurring.

And yet---I would have probably done it the exact same way.

Liberal white guilt or common sense? What do you think?

A touchy subject

Owen was looking at Paul's booklet from the Boston Marathon. On the cover, there was a picture of Robert Cheruiyot, an incredible elite Kenyan runner. He pointed to him and said, "That man is black."

My heart sunk a bit, and I'm not sure why. He was simply making an observation, with no positive or negative connotations attached. Owen himself often declares himself to be blue or pink, depending on which type of river dolphin he wishes to be. (This would make sense if you also lived in Go Diego Go! world. You see, Diego once helped a baby river dolphin return to the river, so it could become pink. Apparently, this is a real and natural phenomenon. But I digress...)

I guess I've always enjoyed the fact that Owen has the right attitude regarding outward appearance. Like Stephen Colbert, Owen does not see race. He's often mistaken African-American professional athletes for his father. Everybody from LeBron James to Plaxico Burress has, at one point or another, been identified as "Daddy." Apparently, Paul Campbell makes the Sports section of the Post weekly, often dunking balls or charging the gridiron.

Barack Obama has also been called both "The Bobblehead" and "Daddy."

I don't think that Owen's attitude has changed, but I do think that he is becoming more aware of differences. So, now I need to think about how to answer questions, if and when they come up. My catch-all answer will probably be, "People are different because God made them that way."

Owen will surely ask, "But why?" At this point, I could answer scientifically, discussing melanin and genetics. Or, I could further explain that God gave Owen brown eyes, brown hair, and pink skin because that's part of His plan. Likewise, he gave Joel blue eyes and blonde hair and big blue glasses.

I realize that this is just a variation of "Because God made them that way," but I hope that Owen will be distracted by a water faucet, and mercifully, drop the subject.

I guess I am, like a lot of the country, not as comfortable talking about race as I should be. It worries me that I must have referred to somebody as "black" at some point. How else would Owen know that term? Then, it worries me that I'm concerned about calling somebody black. Why should that term be any heavier than tall or short or skinny?

The reality is that race is a touchy subject.

When I was seven, I was at a pizza place with my parents. The boy behind the counter had terrible, terrible acne. I asked my parents, loudly, "What is the matter with that boy's face?" My parents shushed me and scurried me away. The boy behind the counter looked at me, and I knew that I hurt his feelings. I was ashamed.

Today, on our first outing with Joel (wearing his new, blue glasses), somebody joked, "Hey, where's Waldo?" I smiled politely, but it made me worry about the additional cracks Joel will endure in the name of clear vision.

Perhaps that's why I'm so sensitive. I don't want Owen or Joel to make anybody feel badly about his or her appearance, and I don't want the boys to feel badly about their appearances, with comments made either intentionally or in ignorance.

I want them to see people as people, and do a better job at this whole outward appearance thing than all the generations before them.