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My Son is the Only Brown Toddler in His Classroom
Drop-off and pick-up time are like scenes from the ‘Twilight Zone’ Monday through Friday. A few blocks from daycare, I slowly wind down the volume to our quickly aging Kia. If you pulled up next to me just a few minutes prior, you would’ve caught a glimpse of me matching the lyrical flow of several 90’s rappers. I’m likely to park near a matching his/her Audi or Tesla on any given day. I remind myself, “your family deserves to experience the same privileges they do.”
Who are “they”?
They are marketing agents, consultants, lawyers, and associate professors. They are predominantly white, in their mid-30’s — 40’s, and likely, able to walk to and from home if they please. They are not like us in most aspects.
Who are we?
I am a Seattle Transplant, with just under three years in the Emerald City. More immediately, I am a Latino teacher and marathon runner. My extended family is brown to the core. Picture this: (pre-Covid 19 days) when someone has a birthday, it warrants a full-blown backyard party with Tejano and Country music blaring; being brown doesn’t restrict us from loving George Strait. All thirteen nieces/nephews, three older sisters, stepfather, and mother visit each other most days. You pretty much have to force people to go home.
