Why I'm white, and other discussions of race with 6 year olds

This summer I made my foray into the world of TSS (therapeutic support staff) work as a summer job between my first and second years of grad school. Ideally, TSS workers are present in the classrooms of youth with mental health/emotional problems, offering therapeutic interventions that allow them to be successful in mainstream classrooms. In practice, they often sit bored in the back of the classroom as sort of glorified babysitters, offering the occasional interjection of "hey, sit down" or "stop doing that". As you might infer, I don't plan to pursue a career in TSS work after graduation.

Anyway. Our social work program ends early so I was able to start as a TSS during the end of the school year for Philadelphia public schools, where I worked with a 7th grader for about a month. Then the school year and my work ended, until the summer camp season began, and again I was working, this time with an 8 year old client.

Due to packed camp groups, my client had the poor fate of being placed in a class with 6 year olds. However, this meant that I got to hang out with 6 year olds, and they are awesome.

Up until this summer, I hadn't hung out with little kids in a really long time -- these days my work brings me into contact more with the troubled adolescent type. Well, it was a marvelous change of pace. Little kids are so straightforward, so unashamed, so full of curiosity! They...want to know why I'm white?

Which brings me to another interesting tidbit about my summer as a TSS: it placed me, for probably the first time in my life, into a situation where I was a complete minority**. At the middle school earlier this summer I was the only white TSS on staff, but I did pass the occasional white face in the hall -- the librarian, a couple of teachers (though no students). Now, working at a summer camp located just 5 minutes south of my home in West Philly, I was the only white adult present, and there was only one child among the 50 or so present who might be considered white, though I think she was actually Latina.

Due to being white, my working as a TSS proved very interesting for the kids, most of whom I'm guessing have very little interaction with white people in their lives. White people don't live in these kids' neighborhoods -- no, they live a couple minutes north, in my neighborhood. They don't teach them, work at their stores, or go to their schools or churches. This makes white people in general--and me specifically--quite exotic.

Little girls looked at the hair on my arms and told me, "You hairy." I had my hair petted, was told it's soft, was asked how I grow my hair so long, was told I have hair like a Puerto Rican**, and received countless requests to braid my hair. Plenty of times I just felt my hairclip being undone followed by a pair of little hands working with my hair. One day after tugging out my ponytail, my braider announced, "Your hair is nappy, you need to brush it. Don't you have a comb at home?"

Sometimes my hair's popularity got old, particularly since my would-be stylists generally yanked out a good amount of it in the grooming process, but overall I enjoyed the conversations my totally weirdo hair led to. Working at the middle school the students had been quite aware of my race and my presence, but none openly discussed it with me. There were awkward moments where kids there made comments about hating white people, followed by furtive glances in my direction, an oh, crap, forgot she was here kind of thing. There was also one occasion where a kid in a bad mood sitting behind me began chanting Cracker, c-r-a-c-k-e-r, cracker in a stage whisper. These incidents made me want to have a discussion with the kids about race, but I didn't have much of a relationship with any of them, and so I never addressed it.

But as I said, 6 year olds are full of wonder at the mysteries of the world, and haven't yet learned to edit their questions according to the taboos followed by adults. One day a little girl who had grown particularly fond of me (she came by each mealtime to hand me a squished bit of whatever it was she was eating, unappetizing but endearing offerings from Hostess pies, sandwich crusts, bubble gum) wanted to get my attention to come along with the group.

"C'mon whitey!" she said cheerfully.
"Whitey?"
"You white ain't you?"
"Yeah, but I don't know if you should be calling me whitey..."

There was a pause as she seemed to ponder this a moment.

"Why are you white, anyway?"

Hmm, what a question.

"Well, my mom and dad are both this color, so when I was born, I was this color too."

She thought a moment, apparently found my answer acceptable, and was ready to go play.

A similar question came up when I was goofing around with one of the boys and he brought his face up close to mine, at which point he noticed my eye color.

"Why are your eyes all greenish?" he asked.
"That's just the color they are."
"What color are my eyes?"
"Dark brown."
"Aww, I want eyes like yours!"

Another incident involved my client. I really struggled to establish a rapport with him initially, though once I did, we got along great. We were on a field trip one day, sitting together on the bus, when he mused, "I hate white people."

"But what about me?" I asked.
"But you're nice."
"Well, maybe you should say you hate mean white people...Or better yet, just mean people in general."

He thought this over for a bit.

"I hate white people because they put us in cages and sold us."

Hoo boy, wasn't expecting that one. Unfortunately the conversation pretty much ended there, though of course at home later that night I thought of all sorts of things I could have said to further our discussion of race and oppression, and all in an ingenious way accessible to an 8 year old of course. Isn't that the way it always goes.

Another incident was amusing in that it showed me that white people have no special claim on some of the ignorant behavior out there regarding race. An older white woman from a nonprofit had come to give the kids a presentation on ecology. Her presence upped the white count to a grand total of 2, including me of course.

The kids looked at her, then at me.

"Is that your grandma?" several asked.
"No, she's a lady here to teach a class for you."

They were astounded.

"Wow," they told me, "you two look so much alike!"

Aside from getting me to ponder race and segregation and the potential for improved race relations in the U.S., this experience was also full of simply amusing moments. For as popular as my hair was among the little girls I saw each day, for example, almost as popular was asking me two questions: "Do you have any kids?" and, "Are you married?"

One of my last days at the job I was asked this question yet again by two of my favorite girls. I do wear a ring on my ring finger, though it's made out of a spoon, generally a dead giveaway I'm not hitched. 6 year olds don't yet make the distinction between multiple carats set in platinum and bent cutlery, however.

"Are you married?" they asked.
"No."
"When?"
"When what?"
"When are you gonna get married?"
"I don't know, I don't have anybody to marry. Don't I need a guy first?"
"October."
"I need to get married in October?"
"Yeah!"
"Where will I find a guy?"
"Just go find one."
"A white guy, so you guys will match your color."
"Okay. So I can just walk up to a guy on the street and say Hey, I'm supposed to get married in October, and he'll go for that?"
"Uh-huh."
"Okay then."

Like I said, 6 year olds are awesome.

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**Sticklers on the issue of race/racism in the U.S. might have me distinguish that I mean a numerical minority, as minority refers to power and as a white person I have greater power in the U.S. even when underrepresented in a group, just as women in fact make up a larger portion of the U.S. (and world) population yet are considered a minority due to their lesser power, etc.

**The comment that my hair is "like a Puerto Rican's" requires some explanation to those of you not in the Philly area, because it is a reflection of the ethnic/racial makeup of the city. Puerto Ricans are a sizeable minority here, and represent an interesting case as far as race goes due to the history mingling of native, Spanish and African influences (check out this article). A Puerto Rican may look Latino yet have typically "Black" hair, or look Black yet have long wavy hair, or any other combination you can think of; I was thrown off more than a few times when I first came to the city when I passed someone I took for African American only to hear them speaking Spanish. When the kid described my hair this way, I took it as evidence that in their world, white people/characteristics were so absent that the closest approximation the kid could come up with to understand my exotic feature of long, smooth hair was to think I must be Puerto Rican -- a group that, unlike whites, the child did come into contact with in their community.