Raising White Kids: A Reflection

“By the way, what color are [the children]?

“White.” She sounded startled. “Does it matter?”

“Yes, he said. “I have to know what color to get the doll.”

One of my favorite holiday traditions is to read aloud short stories from Katherine Paterson’s (Bridge to Terabithia, Jacob Have I Loved, The Great Gilly Hopkins) family Christmas book, Angels & Other Strangers (HarperCollins, 2006). The story “Maggie’s Gift” features Mr. McGee whose loneliness overcomes his crankiness when he agrees to take in an eight-year-old girl and her five-year-old brother, who have to vacate their children’s home on Christmas Eve.

I have read the story aloud on many occasions, most commonly to an audience of middle schoolers who I persuade to pretend they are first and second graders. This past holiday season my audience was five of my white grandchildren, including a real live first grader and second grader, along with a kindergartener, fourth grader and three-year-old. This time when I reached the passage quoted above, I had to pause the reading.

I blame Jennifer Harvey, whose new book, Raising White Kids:Bringing Up Children in a Racially Unjust America (Abingdon, 2018), was looming in my mind. Harvey encourages parents of white children to take advantage of these moments to promote what she calls “race consciousness.” Harvey, a Drake University professor and mother of two white children, outlines in her book a rationale and process for promoting race consciousness in white children. For her, race conscious parenting involves “noticing and naming race early and often.”

I paused the holiday reading to explain to my white grandchildren, “When this story was written, most people believed that white people should have only white baby dolls and black people or brown people should have black or brown dolls.” I was secretly amused that I needed to explain this particular distinction between now and then.

Ten-year-old- Chelsea picked up the narrative. “Yeah, in those days black people and white people weren’t allowed to be together. Like if you were white and you wanted to marry someone who was black, you couldn’t.” She walked us through all the forbidden racial marriage scenarios she could think of. Then she said, “But Martin Luther King came, and he changed all that.”

Seven-year-old Elliott shouted, “Oh, Oh, I know him!” Chelsea continued, “Martin Luther King said that you can marry whoever you want. The color doesn’t matter. It’s like chocolate ice cream and vanilla. You can mix them together, and then you have caramel!” This was not the time to demonstrate how bad that analogy was; her loving and lovely sentiment came through.

Zoey chimed in, “My baby doll is brown.” “I know,” I said, “and I remember what you named her.” I know because the day she brought the baby girl home from Dollar General, she introduced us.

Zoey: Peepaw, this is my baby, and she’s like you. I named her “Moana.”  I’ll call her “my baby,” but you call her “Moana.” She’s like you. I was gonna get the white one, but it was too much.

Peepaw: Was the white one the same kind of doll?

Zoey: Yeah, but this one was almost free. The white one was ten dollars.

Zoey and Moana; Cayce and Firetruck

Once again, I chose not to engage our first grader in a discussion of why the brown doll was “almost free.” Our “race conscious” conversations don’t have to be inclusive of every possible concern. We can circle back at another time. And if we are paying attention, new opportunities will present themselves.

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When I picked up Zoey and Chelsea from school one early January afternoon, I don’t think Zoey remembered Chelsea’s holiday-season synopsis of racial reconciliation. Zoey got in the car and proclaimed, “Peepaw, we learned about Martin… King… Luke…what is it?” “His name is Martin Luther King, Junior!” Chelsea corrected. “What did you learn about him?” I asked. Zoey told us about how white people didn’t let black people do things, like sit down on a bus or go to the same schools or play together. She told us that Martin Luther King changed all that. But then somebody killed him.

After she reported what she had learned, she had some questions. She wanted to know who killed him. She wanted to know why white people didn’t like him. I assured her that while some white people didn’t like him, many white people liked him and worked with him. Zoey's response, “Well I’m a white person, and I would like him.”

What I am learning from my white grandchildren: Truths about race | Antho...

The Way It's Supposed to Be: Reflections on Sandy Hook

I finally remembered the unicorn. It had been in our car since Sunday when our granddaughters, five-year-old Chelsea and 18-month-old Zoey, went to church with us. We took the girls home after Sunday lunch, but Chelsea left the little stuffed toy in our car.

That Friday morning, December 14, 2012, we drove to their house to take Chelsea and eight-year-old Damon to school as we do many schooldays. All week I had kept forgetting to return the unicorn. Until that day.

We arrived at their house and found Chelsea as we do every schoolday, dressed and sitting in her little girl chair in the middle of the living room, watching “Charlie and Lola” on TV. Damon was nowhere to be found. We knew he was in the house somewhere, and older people were around but asleep. I finally spotted two legs sticking out from under the Christmas tree like the Wicked Witch of the East under Dorothy's fallen house. After we pulled him out, we laughed a little and gathered up the children and their things.

Before we left the house, Chelsea grabbed a pink box that opens at the top and has two opening drawers in the front. She gave it to me and said “You take this home and put stuff in it.” When we got to the car, she elaborated to Meemaw, “ You put stuff in it, and Peepaw puts stuff in it. Then you can bring it back to me tomorrow or Sunday.” We took in our instructions obediently. I’m pretty sure she just wanted us to have something else of hers since we returned the unicorn.

 Whitsitt Elementary School is only about four blocks from the house, but as the weather is getting colder we prefer driving the kids to school. Once we pulled out of the driveway, Meemaw   started the prayer.  “God we thank you for this day. And we ask that you be with Damon and Chelsea at school today. We ask for their protection. And we pray that they will be obedient to their teachers and kind to their classmates. We pray that everyone will be kind to them. We pray that they will know that You are with them. In Jesus’ Name.  Amen.”  

“Amen.” 

“Amen.”

“Amen.”  

As we approached the drive up to the school, Meemaw said, as usual, “Wave to Mommy.” Chelsea and Damon’s mom, Chrissy, is a crossing guard at their school. We always wave to her as we drive up to the school.

We parked and headed into the building and walked the short entry hallway. From there, the second through fourth graders turn right and the pre-K through first graders turn left to get to their respective classrooms. At this point we typically wait for Damon’s decision. He might want to go to breakfast, might want to walk alone to class, or might want to have company walking to his second- grade class. “Company” usually means Meemaw, since I am designated to walk with Chelsea, who always just wants to get to class as soon as possible and would be just as happy to walk all by herself.  

Chelsea and I both love the walk, but we are really in different worlds, I think. I am an observer, amazed and delighted to see how the children at Whitsitt respond to one another every day. The school exudes kindness, friendliness, and safety. And yes I have to mention the racial make-up of the student body. It’s perhaps 80% Latino with a handful of black students and white students. That make-up matters to me, mainly because it doesn’t seem to matter to the children. Brown, black, and white pre-K through fourth grade boys and girls walk hand in hand or arm and arm. They are not supposed to speak, because it’s Zone Zero in the halls, but they smile and wave and sneak in a “Hi Chelsea” whenever they can. Chelsea is obediently silent, but also smiles and waves. And she soaks it in.

On this day Damon decided to walk to class on his own, so Meemaw hugged him and said goodbye before joining me and Chelsea. As usual Chelsea’s mood grew more quietly excited as she walked down the hall. We finally got her to her class, where she stopped to hug Meemaw, and I kneeled down so that she could half-hug me. She doesn’t like this moment because she’s already in school mode, but she always accommodates us. By then she was beaming. Mrs. Williams greeted her at the door, and Chelsea entered her kindergarten classroom, her second home, safe and sound.

After the events at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut, that day, we made a point of going to Damon and Chelsea's house after school. We just wanted to see their little faces. When we walked in, Chelsea wanted to know if I had brought back her pink box. I reminded her that I have until Sunday. She giggled, “That’s right. I’ll see you Sunday!”

Are We Losing Winning?

 I spent the day Saturday ragging on Damon’s coach after their first soccer match of the season. After Damon’s team scored their second goal, one of his teammates asked if they were winning. The coach, who was doubling as a referee, replied, “Winning doesn’t matter.”

“Excuse me?!” I said, mainly to Christian, who was coaching his little brother from the sideline. “What did she say?”

I get where the coach was coming from. A long time ago, I played Little League baseball…badly. I got to play because the league said that the coach had to play me. Each game I served my one inning in right field. Most of that time was spent like Chelsea’s one-and-only soccer practice before she quit this year: I would rather be picking flowers (not literally for me, but for Chelsea...). As I stood out in that field, I prayed, as did my coaches, that the ball would never come my way.

I played for two years, one at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and one at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. My two experiences differed very little from each other. But the first year our team came in first place. The second year our team came in fourth place. First place was better.

I played baseball because my brother, Carl—who was still Cochise to me in those days—had played before me. Co experienced all of the pressure that led later parents to go easy on their kids. He was a good player, especially a good pitcher, but I think that, with Dad as his coach, Co never felt he was good enough. Dad had to change his tune by the time I started to play. There was no way to parlay my inability, uncoordination and disinterest into some winning prospect. The best he could do is to hope to get me on a good team and hope I didn’t ruin anything.

I later joined a basketball team of my own volition. I faired no better there, and like Chelsea, I quit pretty early on. But I learned that I liked basketball. It didn’t so much matter how good I was. I liked the game. So by the time I enrolled at Punahou School for my junior year of high school, I was beginning my days playing basketball with a ragtag bunch of classmates. Most of them were better and younger than me, but I still liked playing. I also liked winning.

And I later played basketball on teams or in pickup games, knowing that I would usually be the weakest player on the court. One of my fondest memories remains the day my older brother, Carl, and my younger brother, Keith, and I challenged some guys in a pickup game in Hawaii after my college graduation. My brothers are clearly better athletes than me. I don’t remember who won that game. I do remember that Carl missed a layup, Keith put it back up, I got his miss, and I made the basket. Whether or not we won, I saw myself as the hero—that time.

In my later single adulthood I also enjoyed shooting around by myself. I even used basketball as a sort of worship. I would bring my boombox to the outdoor court at the old Howard School. I’d blast Christian music and sing while I played. I met 12-year-old Josh and 8-year-old Anna that way. They lived across the street from the school. They came over together one day while I was shooting and singing. They introduced themselves and told me that they recognized my Christian music. They asked me where I went to church. Then without asking their parents, they invited me to the weekly Tuesday night dinner they had with close friends from their church. Josh and Anna symbolize basketball benefits that had nothing to do with competition. I had grown to enjoy basketball with or without the competitiveness.

Although I was largely unsuccessful in sports, I did grow up learning to compete, mainly with words. And in those competitions, winning was everything; I would not back down. The residuals of my competitiveness remain today. I like being right. And I like you believing that I am right—even if I’m not.

Then I face moments like this Sunday morning, when Pastor Stephen Handy talked about imitating the humility of Jesus. Again with that Jesus Talk! I loved that in our subsequent Sunday School class, Ken pointed out that Jesus is already a victor and that because of Jesus, we are victors too.

I’m still learning. I have discovered that winning doesn’t have to be everything in order for it to be anything. And in some situations, winning doesn’t even matter. Marriage has been my best laboratory for seeing that “winning doesn’t matter.” I’ve learned that there are some things—such as the relationships themselves—that matter more.

After Damon’s soccer game Saturday, an inattentive teammate asked who won. The coach said, “Nobody won.” I still think she is wrong (which would mean that I am right): Damon’s team won 4-0. It matters. But it's not all that matters.

A Father's Blessing

I know this plays like a commercial, but it's really just another excuse to talk about the grandkids. The occasion is the release of the updated version of The Blessing, John Trent and Gary’s Smalley’s popular family-oriented, Christian “self-help” book, originally published in 1986.

I read the book back then, and as a Christian with a fairly recent psychology degree and a strong desire to raise a family, it punched all my buttons. Problem was I didn’t have a family of my own. I wasn’t married; I wasn’t even dating. So it was a bit like reading escapist fiction for me.  But now, of course, my world is different. I'm married and occasionally dating (my WIFE, silly people!); I count six kids and seven grandkids.

My grandson Damon had a tough time last school year. He is now in 1^st grade for the second time. This year, he’s doing well academically, but it’s taken a while for him to deal with this thing emotionally. It seems that repeating a grade and trying to fit into a new school are not easy realities to get used to.

Laura, my wife, and I get to see him every morning. Before we pick up his cousin Elliott for the day, we travel to Damon’s house to drive him to school. When we get to Damon’s house each schoolday morning, his mom, Chrissy, has already taken his brothers Christian and Dylan to their schools on her way to work.  Brother Michael is also at work. Damon is at home with his daddy, Thomas, who is there after having worked into the evening. Damon's little sisters, Chelsea and Zoey, are usually sleeping.

Before leaving the house with Damon, we ask him, “Did you do you homework? Did you get your folder signed? Are you all set?” It’s the ritual. The last part of the ritual is when he goes to his daddy. Thomas hugs him, holds him close, and whispers a prayer for the day. He challenges Damon to do his best, to obey his teachers, to be kind to his classmates. He says “I love you,” and kisses him. Damon is then ready to face his day.

That moment lasts less than a minute each day, but it makes all the difference in the world for how Damon navigates that day. Thomas bestows a blessing on Damon.

That’s The Blessing John Trent and Gary Smalley describe in their book. Their contention is that The Blessing bestowed upon our children (our grandchildren, spouses, other family members and friends) can make a difference in how they navigate, not just one day, but their entire lives. For the authors there are five elements to The Blessing:

1. Use meaningful and appropriate touch.

2. Use a spoken message of encouragement.

3. Attach high value. Communicate that person’s value.

4. Help them picture a special future.

5. Actively commit to helping them succeed.

I’d like to say that I taught Thomas everything he knows in this regard, but it wouldn’t be true. Thomas is one of those rare people gifted by God as a natural nurturer, a natural encourager. Most of us are not like that. Most of us need help learning how to bestow that blessing. For us, the book, The Blessing, can help.

Stuff I Learned from a 15-Month Unplanned Sabbatical

 Labor Day Thoughts from  a Guy Who is Recently Re-employed:

1. I love job security!

2. It is good and satisfying to work for a living.

3. Contrary to the human nature beliefs of some of my friends, most humans (even most Americans) believe, live by, and are motivated by no. 2.

4. There are hardworking people who can’t find a job and hard-working people who can’t provide for their families (OK, I already knew this one).

5. There are more important things than job security.

6. Looking for work is work. Looking for work during a recession takes patience, persistence and ingenuity. And the Patience and Persistence Award goes to: My wife, Laura.

7. Networking works, even if it takes 15 months (or longer) to work. 

8. Contrary to some rantings from defenders of hard-working, successful people, there is no such thing as independence. No-one gets there purely by their own actions and abilities (See no.7).

9. There is no such thing as job security.

10. blah blahblah GRANDKIDS blah blah blah (See no.5)

I Know How Chelsea Feels

My memories of Germany are mostly impressionistic. I remember fearing the Germans on the other side of the fence, except for the ones we knew and loved. I remember idolizing my big brother, Carl, who we called “Co” --short for Cochise. I remember the feeling when my baby brother, Keith, was born (If he’s the baby brother, then what am I?). I remember a similar lost feeling when Marcia, my one and only sister, went off to German school.

We moved to Camp King, the Army base at Oberursel, Germany, before my first birthday. We lived there until I was five. For the first four years of my life, Marcia was my best friend. We were only thirteen months apart, and eventually people started to think we were twins. We loved that.

Once Marcia abandoned me for German school, Kelly Reinhart became my best friend during school hours. I have no specific memories of her, only fond feeling memories. She was a curly haired white girl (That's her on the tricycle). Our families lived in the same Army quarters. Her dad and mine were both soldiers and worked together at a second job at the NCO club. We got to go to the club at least on Sunday afternoons, so we saw a lot of the Reinharts.

But Army life is all about making friends and losing them in the next assignment. After Germany we lived in Kansas, Ohio, Virginia, and Hawaii; and I started seventh grade at Fort Knox, Kentucky. When Dad orchestrated a return to Hawaii, we were all relieved and thrilled, partly because the Reinharts were now there. I remember the anticipation of seeing my old best friend.

But thirteen-year-olds are not five-year-olds, and socialization was in full swing. I remember being at a backyard barbecue in Hawaii and someone telling me that that girl over there was Kelly; she had long wavy hair by then. I was shy. She probably was too. I don’t know if it was simply boy/girl stuff that kicked in or if anything else was lurking for either of us. But I don’t think we even spoke to each other—ever again.

But it was okay since Marcia and I were back to being “twins”—for a few more years. So I gotta assure Chelsea: Damon will be back.

What It Means to Me

I was 5 years old when President Kennedy was assassinated. I came home from kindergarten and watched the news on our black and white TV. I remember going outside, climbing the dumpster at our Fort Riley, Kansas, Army quarters. There I pondered the significance. To my little mind, you might as well have said, “God has been killed.”

I was 9 years old, living in Fort Belvoir, Virginia, when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. Though I am African American, I was not really aware of who he was until he was killed. Dad tried to explain it to my innocent mind, “Martin Luther King was like the President of the Negro people.”

When Bobby Kennedy was assassinated only months later, I was much more alert. In my naive mind I still intertwined patriotism with religious devotion with general decency and strangely with academic excellence. That year my family took at least two trips to Washington DC. One was to see the national sites and structures. I cherish the pictures of the four of us kids standing obediently against the backdrop of the Washington Monument and facing the Lincoln Memorial. The other trip took us to 14th and U to see the devastation of the riots after the MLK assassination.

Two patriotic tracks began to emerge in my mind: one of continued pride and one of continued criticism. I insist that both were patriotism. In those days our family holidays were times to gather friends, often servicemen and women whose families were far away. We would, of course, feast; we’d watch sports; we’d listen to music; and we’d talk about issues. On the issues I was allowed to disagree even with my own Army officer father.

In high school I had the rare opportunity to continue those issue discussions with a couple other Black guys. During the 1975-76 school year at Punahou Academy in Honolulu, Hawaii, Rik Smith, a junior; “Barry” Obama, a freshman; and I, a senior had a standing date roughly once a week to talk. We discussed the social climate on our cosmopolitan campus (whether any of the non-black girls would date us black guys). We talked about sports and religion (I was a Christian; Rik and Barry were agnostics). We talked about our classes and the charges that a black person with a book was “acting white.” We talked about the social issues of the day and whether we would see a black U.S. President in our lifetime.

In my 1976 high school yearbook, I was given 1/3 of a page to express whatever I wanted to, to accompany my senior picture. I included this quote from Martin Luther King, Jr.: “I have a dream that one day…the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave-owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.” The quote has been a part of my life ever since.

Despite my hopes, by the time I was old enough to vote, my political cynicism was beginning to grow. Few Presidential candidates got my attention. Republican/Independent John Anderson got my attention in 1980. Democrat Jesse Jackson got my attention in 1984. Neither one prevailed, but they both interested me because their platforms were decidedly Christian and not particularly partisan. By 1988 Jesse Jackson had become a partisan Democrat, Anderson had faded from the picture, and my cynicism was completed. I continued to vote for Presidents, but today I can’t remember with assurance who I voted for each time. There was no excitement, no conviction; and as the culture wars ratcheted up, my Christian convictions were torn between party platforms.

When I read the memoir Dreams From My Father, which my brother Keith discovered in a remainder bin of a Boulder, Colorado, bookstore in the late 90’s, I was pleased by Barack’s transformation from an agnostic to a Christian. Despite my surprise, his account of coming to faith rang true to his thoughtful, fair-minded nature and his ability to continually grow.

Then I, like most of the country was taken aback by the soaring rhetoric first displayed nationally at the 2004 Democratic Convention. For me the voice sounded very familiar, like the conversations we had in high school. Still I was astounded by the audacious courage of saying in the Democratic keynote speech, “there is not a liberal America and a conservative America; there’s the United States of America!”

Then I heard the speech about the place of his Christian faith and politics at the Call to Renewal event in July 2006. After that speech, I began hoping that my high school friend would audaciously dare to run to be President of the United States. Over Christmas 2006, I heard that he was pondering such a run. I actually prayed for his decision during those days.

He announced, and then he ran a campaign that continued to stretch my pride. And my political cynicism began to melt. Barack Obama's Christian values showed through the nature of the campaign. He demonstrated how we can “disagree without being disagreeable.” Again I felt echoes of our days together. Barry and I have had in common a lifetime of learning to navigate different worlds. In our culturally rich state at a particularly cosmopolitan school and from each of our uniquely multicultural backgrounds, we were used to bridging communities.

And as he spoke with hope and inspiration, I never asked whether he had the “stuff” to back it up. I knew. I wasn’t saying, like most of America (some people for WAY too long), “Well, we don’t really know anything about him.” I knew. In Barack Obama I see a man who puts his God-inspired judgment above politics. He puts America above party.

That message of hope resonated with everyone in my family, and none of us had paid much attention to politics before. I was privileged to watch the debates with my white wife, white children, and white grandsons (ages 9, 13 and 17!). We met together to early vote, taking the younger grandbabies with us. On election night we all gathered around anticipating and cheering the inevitable.

So these days are partial fulfillment of many of my dreams. I am certainly proud at this moment because Barack Obama is a black man, like me. I am proud because he is “Hawaiian,” like me. I am proud because he was shaped by Punahou, like me. I am proud because he is a Jesus Follower, like me. And I am proud that long ago we actually discussed the possibility of a day like this.


I don’t believe this is a messianic new age. I don’t believe the new President will be a Savior or even a king. I stopped believing a long time ago that the President is God. But I do believe that character, intelligence, and ability matter. And I believe we will all reap the benefits and blessings of those values.

For the first time since I was 5, I can find excitement about the possibilities of the political process. And I am thrilled that when my almost 5 year old white grandson, Damon, hears "President," he pictures someone who looks like Peepaw and he knows it's Barack Obama. And when my granddaughter, Chelsea, is 5 years old (and Damon is 9), her only Presidential memory will be someone with the character of Barack Obama.

Mr. and Mrs. Thomas McBride

More Baby Chelsea

I fixed the links below and added more of Chelsea with her Daddy, her brothers, and her Peepaw (that's me).

Announcing... Chelsea Renay McBride!

I know: It's been over a year. Computer problems, life issues and laziness have all contributed to my lack of posts. Maybe I'm back, maybe not.

But the great news Chelsea's here! So I had to alert anyone out there. She was born Tuesday, August 14, 2007 at 12:49 pm. She was 7 lbs. 6 oz., 19 inches. Big brother Damon doesn't know what to think. The other brothers: Christian, Dylan, and Michael are thrilled. For more pix see my Facebook page here, here, and here.