When I heard about Nelson Mandela’s death
last week, my mind was flooded with memories.
I remembered being about 8 years old, standing in a sea of adults
gathered in my home during the 1986 Toronto Arts Against Apartheid
Festival. I remembered seeing my father
throw a South African apple in the fruit section of the supermarket, declaring
that as long as the supermarket supported South African apartheid, he would not
shop there. I remembered seeing Mandela
at Queens Park in 1991 and exactly where I was sitting in my grade nine history
class when I heard that apartheid had ended.
I remembered sitting, as a teacher, with my grade one and two students
in the gymnasium of Nelson Mandela Park P.S when Mandela danced into the gym
for the school’s renaming.
The struggles of black South Africans and
the life of Nelson Mandela was my first introduction to social justice,
activism and most importantly the idea that we (all of us) belong to each other. My parents were the first people to teach me
that my voice could be powerful and that my actions can make a difference. Mandela’s death and reflecting on my own
development has caused me to question what kind of example, if any, I am setting
for my own children.
Before I had kids, and I was an S.P.W.C (Superior
Parent Without Child). I imagined taking my children to protests and marches
and singing freedom songs instead of lullabies.
Stop laughing. I really thought
it would be like this. I wanted to raise baby activists. I thought their first words would be
“solidarity forever!” I thought they
would chant “What do we want? Justice. When do want it? Now!” with great enthusiasm and true
understanding. In reality, it’s more
like “What do we want? Snacks! When do we want them? Five minutes ago!”
I started strong with little Z. He was a chill little guy and we had ‘lots of
time to just be together and talk. When
he was a toddler Obama was elected.
Little Z was obsessed with him. In
his toddler-way, he knew why his winning the US election was so
significant. In toddler-eeze we
explained racism and change. I believed
we were raising a baby activist.
With the arrival of our twin girls, my
focus went from raising compassionate children who have a sense of justice for
all and the ability to recognize their own struggles and the struggles of
others, to my own struggle to get through the day! I became less concerned with what was in
their heads and hearts and more concerned with the head count at the end of day
when they were, God-willing, asleep!
I realize that most people don’t formally
teach their children to be good, caring people, but they demonstrate goodness
and talk about our place within our smaller and larger communities and how well,
we belong to each other. I’m pretty sure
that I mostly demonstrate frustration and in all honesty, I spend very little
time actually talking to my kids. I
spend a lot of time corralling, directing, redirecting, and yelling at my
kids. Sure there’s a lot of playing,
tickling, reading, but not much talking.
Z had a different kind of mommy from the mommy the younger kids
have.
Z still asks a lot of questions and shares
ideas. His world is much bigger than his
siblings so he has greater opportunity to be exposed to and learn from
others. He also has unique identities in
most situations. Our boy is often the
only adopted child, the only child with two moms, the only dark skinned black
child, the only gender fluid child, and the only capital Q, drama Queen! I think, although he couldn't say it yet, he
knows that just being who he is, is a political act. He is always looking for acknowledgement
that while who he is may be unique and can be hard, his individual identities
are not unique to this world. Right now he’s as self-absorbed and sometimes
unkind as any other 6 year old, but I feel (hope) he’ll grow to speak up and to
seek answers. When he’s not focusing on
styling his new faux hawk (Why on earth did I agree to it?!) or practicing his
dance moves or planning for the school talent show in June, I think he is
beginning to get what’s going on in the world.
As for the rest of our kiddos, I don’t know
yet. Maybe the next time they are
staging a protest at the kitchen table because I am not producing the right
food at the right speed, I will explain to them that their collective anger and
determination, although totally
insignificant in comparison (ahem, Kanye), reminds me of the collective
determination of black South Africans during the 50+ years of apartheid. Maybe this is a stretch. I
trust they’ll figure it out eventually.
For now, I stand on guard, by the snack cupboard, watching them grow and
hopefully, incidentally, discover that we belong to each other. Who
knows, maybe their big brother will teach them.
xo Ajike
