Black History Month isn?t a thing in our house?which may sound a bit odd on the surface, coming from a black mom. Race just isn?t something we talk about often, because I don?t want my kids to think of their skin colour as a thing, a weight they carry.
When the subject comes up, I try to answer my kids? questions in appropriate ways, but some conversations are difficult. Like explaining to my daughter that she is black.
Two years ago, my then-five-year-old wandered into the TV room while I was watching a documentary about Harry Belafonte, a musician and an instrumental figure in the civil rights movement. The timing couldn?t have been worse; on the screen was footage of black people fleeing from ferocious police dogs as hoses were being turned on them. ?What are they doing"? she whispered, wide-eyed. Oh, man. I gently explained about a time when some people didn?t really like brown people very much (I used the word ?brown? because at the time she was confused about brown skin being called black?because of crayons, I figure). In simple terms, I explained that many white people didn?t want brown people living in their neighbourhoods, and I told her about segregated schools, lunch counters and drinking fountains.

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