HOW YOUNG IS TOO YOUNG TO LEARN ABOUT RACISM?
QUESTIONS ARISE ON EDUCATION ON RACISM IN THE WAKE OF DEBATE ON CRITICAL RACE THEORY How young is too young to learn about racism? I came across this tweet the other day, to which someone replied, “How young is ‘too young’ to experience it?” This particular Twitter interaction was spurred by the recent attack on critical race theory. As I have listened to white moms and even some Black parents argue against an academic movement they know nothing about, this tweet was the first rebuttal that put into words what I’d been subconsciously feeling as I watched the news. Really, how young is too young to experience racism? Flashbacks immediately flood my mind of the racist trauma I have experienced firsthand, my entire life, but there’s one particular incident I immediately recall when seeing the word “young.” My family and I had recently moved into our first house in a nearly all-white suburb within a predominantly white city: Calera, Alabama.
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December 2021
We were the first black family on our street, and no this was not “hundreds of years ago,” which is where most people try to place racism. This was over 15 years ago, in 2005. My single, Black mother moved to this all-white area against all odds because she wanted to give us kids a yard. My two younger brothers and I loved playing outside, and this didn’t change when we moved to Calera, even though the culture did. My mother did her best to shield us from as much of the hate as she could. We would play with kids in our neighborhood, without realizing those same families were spreading rumors about my mother as they tried to incite fear in her to move. All of this because of their own fear: the fear that Black people are bad, that we don’t belong in their spaces, and we don’t deserve to be there. Personally, I believe the fear white people have of Black Americans stems from their angst that Black people will one day want revenge for the horrific injustices we’ve
suffered at the hands of white Americans. Really though… most of us just want to be left the hell alone, at the very least. And that’s just what my family was trying to do: live. One day after school, it was an ordinary day for all the kids playing in our street including my middle brother and 4-year-old youngest brother. This day though, I did not join them and chose to stay in my room. It was typical in our neighborhood for families to leave their doors open and take this village approach at watching the kids. My mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Then all of a sudden, there’s a violent knock at the door. From my room I hear muffled squabbling, then I hear, “you need to get your N- word son out of the street.” My mother saw red and the arguing grew louder. What happened is, my white neighbor was pulling into the street. My baby brother,
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