Deeper Than Skin

About a month ago, my six-year-old daughter crawled onto the couch next to me to enjoy her afternoon snack. I had turned on the news to digest the latest coronavirus happenings while her younger sisters took their nap. My sweet girl didn’t pay much attention to the information the anchors reported, but gleefully proclaimed, “He looks like Granddad!” I asked what of the man’s features reminded her most of my father and she identified his short hair and mustache. I saw it, too. That man did look like my dad, but I hadn’t observed the resemblance before.

You see, there was a distinct difference between the news anchor and my dad: their skin color. The man my daughter saw on the television screen—the one who made her swell with joy and love for her granddad—is a black man, but those six-year-old eyes didn’t notice that. She could see more clearly at the person and what physical characteristics uniquely define him, but skin color was of little importance to her and she never once mentioned it. I am so grateful I allowed my daughter the opportunity to share with me her thoughts because it granted me a glimpse of how our world should be.

This isn’t the first time our girl revealed to her daddy and me the kind of heart God knitted into her little body and the way it looks deeper than skin. A couple Christmases ago, she begged Santa for a Disney Princess Tiana doll. There was zero chance she would’ve accepted anything else; no Cinderella, Belle, or Ariel doll would’ve sufficed. Her gleeful eruption on Christmas morning engraved that sweet moment in my memory forever.

The thing is, buying a black Disney princess doll for my white daughter shouldn’t be a conversation-starter, but some people think it is.

“Why would she want Tiana?”

“Does she know what color her skin is?”

My head spins and my train of thought derails trying to piece together my answers. Most children will identify a person by the color of their shirt before recognizing a difference in the color of their skin. Why is it not normal for my daughter to want a Tiana doll? I’m sure there are plenty of little black girls whose favorite characters are Cinderella, Belle, or Ariel, but I can’t imagine people asking them the same above questions.

My daughter’s stories don’t disprove that racial discrimination doesn’t exist right outside our front door. But I hope they serve as a reminder that racism is a learned behavior. That hatred is a learned behavior. Choosing to hate a human being is the symptom of a deeper, life-poisoning heart illness. Refusing to see a person—of any skin color—as one deserving compassion and justice is depriving humanity of the very message Christ walked the earth to convey.

Two weeks have passed since our nation began spiraling into a cyclone of destruction and divide. Emotions of fear and anger have sewn into our communities a deeper division. People arguing over which lives matter most or who’s to blame for societal oppression and injustice. It breaks my heart. But I know it breaks Jesus’s heart more.

I’ve spent countless hours dissecting my emotions and evaluating how my upbringing and my childhood experiences molded who I became and how I continue to grow as an adult. Most notably, I cling fondly to the memories I have of my childhood neighbor—the man who lived next door to my parents long before I was even born and who still lives there now. He oozes kindness and compassion and tenderness and lives out his love for Jesus every single day. He is a black man and he calls my white father his brother in Christ. He calls my white mother and my white siblings and me his family. Because he knows and we know the Lord created us all to be united in our faith and our love for one another. That we are created uniquely and equally in His image.

He and I exchanged letters over the past week and both my words and his brought me to tears. Each correspondence affirmed our families’ special connection that has prospered for roughly four decades already. His presence in my life, through many birthday celebrations and special milestones, has left a lasting impression on me. Now my children have begun creating similar memories of their own with him. My daughters and the black man who considers them his family enjoy each other’s company and conversation every time we return to my childhood home. They can see more clearly at the person and what physical characteristics uniquely define him, but skin color is of little importance to them and they’ve never once mentioned it.

I so fervently wish the relationship my daughters share with my old neighbor was a representation of the societal norm. That it existed so commonly and genuinely there’d be no need to mention its occurrence. But news stories and friend’s stories confirm the naivety of that hope. It breaks my heart. But I know it breaks Jesus’s heart more.

I’ve spent the last two weeks toggling between many emotions; confusion, sadness, and anger rank the highest of them all. I think of my old neighbor and wholly understand that buying my daughter a Princess Tiana doll isn’t a sufficient solution. Kindness and compassion and tenderness and Jesus’s love—the words I use to describe the black man who calls my white father his brother—are what is needed to cure the life-poisoning illness of hatred so many live with embedded in their hearts.

"Anyone who claims to be in the light but hates a brother or sister is still in the darkness. Anyone who loves their brother and sister lives in the light, and there is nothing in them to make them stumble. But anyone who hates a brother or sister is in the darkness and walks around in the darkness. They do not know where they are going, because the darkness has blinded them.”
1 John 2:9-11 (NIV)